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(c) Mikita Lo |
It’s another morning shrouded in deep fog. Mel has mentioned that the Milanese mist is a well-known regional characteristic. I have researched an itinerary on Google Maps that should get me to Garibaldi with a good chunk of time to locate the coach station. I leave at least five minutes earlier than recommended to allow time to purchase my train ticket. I don’t want a repeat of the missed tour on New Year’s Eve.
So far, so good. Except when I arrive at Garbagnate, I learn that Google has misled me. The suggested itinerary doesn’t exist, at least not that morning. The next train to Garibaldi will only get me there two minutes before my coach departs. I don’t know the locality at all. It’ll take a miracle to catch the bus. I try to rebook my outbound for a later departure. No wifi. The situation is complicated further
when the train terminates at Cardona. A helpful passenger explains Garibaldi is a 20 minute walk by foot. I don’t have that time, I explain. As I frantically look for an alternative, I notice that there’s a train directly to Lago di Como leaving in a quarter hour. Moreover, it’s cheap as chips- roughly the same price I’d have paid for a replacement coach ticket - and would get me to Como at more or less the same time. It means switching up my itinerary a little but it’s a positive resolution all the same.
Pulling into Como Nord Borghi station the fog finally begins to lift, revealing a breathtaking vista of Como’s magnificent hills and surrounding habitations.
At Como Nord Largo, the San Giuliano church catches my eye. Outside is a cardboard cut out nativity scene with (yet another) Aryan Mary and baby Jesus. It’s the same for every representation I come across. I scowl slightly and enter the tranquil church building.
During my trip, I consider how faithful a custodian Italy has been of cultural Eurocentrism (albeit exported around the world by various more powerful European colonial forces). Be it the Roman Empire and the Latin language, Christopher Colombus’ imperialist expeditions, the Renaissance or being the HQ of the Holy Roman Catholic church, there’s a narrative that puts this part of Europe as the erstwhile centre of Western civilisation and thus, as imperial arrogance would have it, the centre of the world. Like other colonial powers, there’s a tendency to cling to this past distorted form of glory. It should therefore come as no surprise (although hella frustrating) that these modern Italian artists stubbornly depict a young Middle-Eastern family, based in what would now be known as Palestine, in their own image. I find it somewhat ironic that Italians are so often (mis)treated by their Nordic siblings like the ‘blacks’ of Europe, as I like to joke. Historically, of course, in contexts like the US, Italians weren't always racialised as white. Maybe that partly explains this Eurocentric emphasis, reaching a nadir in the country's penchant to lurch to the extreme right. It's a way of asserting membership of the lilywhite club.
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| Lago di Como (Como Lake) (c) Jef Willemyns |
It’s a punishing one and a half hour-long queue to purchase a ticket for the climb and to eventually board the car. My MP3 battery dies during the wait. I hope it’s worth it. The long-awaited ascent suggests it will be. I tap a boy in early adolescence, preoccupied with his phone, and point at the window.
When we reach the mountain top village of Brunate, a safe distance from any sheer drop, I am stunned by the view of Lago Como, the homesteads sprinkled around, and the mountains in the distance. The haze that floats around the Alpine peaks, thickening the nearer we draw to sunset, lends the scene an eerie, interplanetary beauty.
I pause at a café for some transgressively thick, pudding-like hot chocolate and to recharge my MP3. I plan to do a little circuit around Brunate to justify such indulgence.
The wait for the cable ride, although not a wasted endeavour, eats into my one-day itinerary. Dreams of a sunset cruise across the lake might have to be jettisoned if I’m to catch the other sights, have some lunch and make it back to San Giovanni station in time for my coach.
I prioritise two attractions in Brunate; the nearby Sant'Andrea church and chasing what I believe to be a waterfall, Pissarotino. After getting lost once along the away and finally locating the water feature, imagine my disappointment to discover that the ‘Fonte’ really is just a small alcove with spurting water. It's probably only significant because of some Catholic superstition associated with it. The accompanying paraphernalia appears to support my theory. If I’d known, I’d have better spent the time walking to the local lighthouse.
In the environs of Pissarotino is another incredible, if vertiginous view, with fewer guardrails. It’s certainly one of the most picturesque detours I’ve taken.
Although my original plans included lunch in the main city, time is fast spent. I find a trattoria on the hill, if nothing else to wait out the crowds clambering to return on the cable car. If the food is as mouthwatering as the view from the restaurant - and better than the head waitress’ customer service - it will be money worth spent. (In the end, the sea bass is tasty but overpriced for the stingy portions). The head waitress might be unwelcoming but her younger colleague is friendlier, smiling at me diffidently. I discover we have shared Ghanaian heritage.
After a late lunch, I try to make peace with having to truncate my itinerary even further. If I can take a peek at the Cathedral and the Piazza Cavour en route to San Giovanni, I’ll be pleased.
Unfortunately, the queue for the return cable car is still discouragingly long. The service runs every 15 minutes. However, the volume of people means that it’s not possible to get that many passengers on to the small-medium sized vehicle. Thus, the wait significantly exceeds a quarter hour. My itinerary rapidly shrinks with each passing minute. By the time I make it down to the station entrance, I only have time to hurry to San Giovanni. I’m told that it’s an estimated 10-15 minutes but that’s conservative. Como’s nocturnal iteration has its own strong appeal. I try to drink it in as I rush, looking with regret at the distant dome of the cathedral and the piazzas that I've run out of time to enjoy. The Lago di Como area at night reminds me of different places; aspects of the Dalmatian coast, the Nice/Monaco rivieras (without the obscene displays of wealth)...
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| Como at dusk (c) Marco Angelo |
It’s on approaching San Giovanni station that it occurs to me that the online tickets I bought were for the train and not the coach after all. I play with the idea of taking a later train so that I can appreciate more of twilight Como. The bad connections to my accommodation back in Milan are nevertheless a deterrent.
That evening I return to the same restaurant for some flavourful custom-made Gorgonzola and kebab pizza. Back at the villa, I discover that the male guest has gone and been replaced by a young woman. I’m relieved.
I’m catching an evening flight back to Brussels the following day. It’s a Sunday. Since I have most of the day to spare, Mel suggests that the family pick me up from the villa with my travel gear, and I accompany them to their bilingual church that morning. I'm game. I’d played with the idea of visiting a church whilst I was in town but didn’t know where to start. It didn’t occur to me that I could tag along with Mel and the gang.
That morning, en route by car to the service, Mel mentions the leadership is North American. She forewarns that the church has ‘zero’ interest in social justice. A familiar refrain. I’ve come to expect little from the mainstream church in that regard, especially those heavily influenced by US evangelicalism. It’s a tragic irony given how much the bible has to say about justice in both testaments. Mel and I feel strongly about these issues but in our own way, each reconciles herself to doing the best with what’s available.
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| (c) Keagan Henman |
Mel very much appreciates the diversity of the church, informing me of several Nigerians amongst many of African descent who attend. One of them, I’ll find out, is my exact namesake. He’s one of the volunteers who helps to interpret the service. Mel admits that she was won over when she saw a black man translating into Italian for the white pastors. The church also doesn’t impede women from leading or teaching.
Whilst I have not lost my faith in Christ, I find church spaces increasingly difficult. It’s partly a delayed reaction from past trauma - when I switched off critical engagement too readily and/or tolerated harmful theology in a misguided understanding of ‘obedience’. It’s also to do with the aforementioned deficiencies of mainstream charismatic/evangelical churches and the culture that engenders them. Mel’s family church, like so many others that boast of multiculturalism, is incredibly monocultural when it comes to musical worship, for example.
Regardless of how international their congregation is, for at least half an hour we’re subjected to bland imitations of soft rock. And because this so-called Christian Contemporary Music (CCM) is associated with white folk, it's considered more 'holy'. Racialised people who have not (yet?) disentangled their faith from colonial influences buy into this framing, usually without question.
All too rarely, if at all, do these supposedly international churches explore the sacred music traditions of African-Americans, let alone the Global South. These days I mostly sit it out. Anything else feels like 'playing church' and people-pleasing. If God sees my internal conflict, there’s no point hiding it simply to impress other mere mortals. I believe God would prefer my musical worship to be muted rather than inauthentic.
Before and after the service, I spend a significant period of time speaking to my namesake and his wife, Loveleen. My namesake and I discuss how uncommon it is to meet someone else with the exact appellation. It’s not especially popular even amongst Yorubas. Nigerians and non-Nigerians alike often mistakenly call me the more common ‘Tolu’.
I learn that my namesake came to Italy and threw himself into years of intense language learning for the love of his now wife. They met at the airport whilst Loveleen was dressing down a queue-jumping oaf in Italian. My namesake was intrigued and they swapped numbers. Fast forward some lapses and long-distance dating later, Italy-based Loveleen gave him an ultimatum; he would have to relocate if they were going to make it work. My namesake made the jump. I’m impressed, both by Loveleen’s refusal to upend her world for a man - as is so often the case - as well as his willingness to make the sacrifice. It’s rare for a man of his generation, all the more so given the cultural expectations.
After the service, we head for lunch. The majority vote for Indian. It wouldn’t be my instinctive choice but it’s better for gluten-free Mel. It’s an especially tough dietary requirement to have in a country like Italy. Eating out can be a challenge, albeit less so these days, observes Melissa. We eat well and relatively healthily at a cosily-sized café/restaurant with a reassuringly open view of the kitchen. Moreover, it’s popular with other South Asians, which is a positive sign. Another group from the church will eventually overlap with us.
It’ll be my main meal of the day and stands me in very good stead. My flight will be delayed and I’ll be returning to a snowy Brussels much later than planned. Hunger pangs are one less worry.
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| (c) Lama Roscu |
After lunch, the family has plans with other friends. We part company and exchange hugs. It’s been a truly special trip, made up of simple pleasures. Always the best kind. Poor sleep hygiene notwithstanding, I feel more rested, emotionally at least. (I'll need it for what awaits me back in Brussels). I couldn’t have asked for better.
Mel instructs me how to walk to the nearest station to catch a metro directly to Linate airport. I surprise myself by not getting lost, having a dodgy sense of direction and only being guided by memory. It’s another brisk but bright day. I stop off at a gelataria for the first time during the whole trip and awkwardly make my way through the streets with an ice cream in one hand, a suitcase in the other and great music streaming through my ears.
I eventually find myself in what is by now the familiar territory of the high-end shopping district approaching San Babali station. I’m so focused on not losing my way that I don’t properly soak in the surroundings. Waiting on the platform for my train to the airport, I attempt to freeze frame the memory in retrospect.
Soundtrack: Best of...2023 mix Part I & Part II (personal selection)
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