Dear FO° Reader,
A few months ago, I embarked on one of my usual trips to my hometown, Nante, a hamlet of Airolo, nestled in the serene Swiss mountains. What could have been an ordinary visit to my aging parents became a wandering journey through stories and time. As I strolled through the streets of my village, memories of childhood stirred up timidly. The crisp mountain air carried a whiff of the tales I was told long ago, stories of resilience, unity and the indomitable spirit of this mountain community that survived avalanches and a fire that burned down more than 70% of the homes.
Airolo, with it’s bell-tower pointing to the hamlet of Nante – Shutterstock
There’s a legend about the mayor of this village disputing with the mayor of neighboring Andermatt over the boundaries of their respective lands. Airolo sits at the southern side of the Gotthard Pass, while Andermatt sits on the north side. Each side wanted to control this valuable mountain route.
The mayors agreed to walk from their respective villages and set the border where they met. So, each mayor planned to wake up early so he could walk farther than the other. The mayor of Andermatt believed that he had to feed his rooster well so that it would crow before the other, while the mayor of Airolo believed that, if he starved his rooster, it would wake up before dawn. The latter mayor got it right. He woke up early and made it well beyond the pass by the time he met his colleague. So, Airolo is now much larger than Andermatt and controls the pass and the hospice within.
Saint Gotthard Pass, Hospice.
Upon reaching my parents’ familiar home, after a pretty long drive from Geneva, I was greeted with warm hugs and the aroma of a freshly cooked meal. My daughter and I relished the slow-cooked brasato and polenta, which for me is not a culinary novelty, but a family tradition. We don’t call it “slow-cooked;” eight to ten hours of braising is simply how it is made.
Our family history is pretty typical, except for a migration. In 1961, my mother relocated on her own from the Italian region of Emilia-Romagna to the Swiss canton of Ticino to become a school teacher. She met my father at a dance event in Nante. He had also migrated a few years earlier from Emilia. One of the stories he tells over and over is that he knew how to cook when he met my mother, but she didn’t know her way around the kitchen. That surprised him, as he came from a farming family where everyone knows the basics of survival. She instead came from a bourgeois family. Her aunt would even ship dresses from London so she could have the latest fashion.
Here in the mountains, if you want to spend an hour chatting with friends at a café, you need to drive to it. My parents are too old for that luxury, so I drive them to the main village, and there we spend some time sipping coffee. I rarely speak of politics with my parents, but we talked a lot about cooking. Like in much of Europe, here, a cafe or a bakery is more than just a place to buy coffee or bread; it is a sanctuary of camaraderie and conversation. It is where neighbors and friends take the pulse of the community, and share news about the ill, the hospitalized, those who passed and those who simply went on vacation or who bought a new pair of skis on sale.
Telling my parents’ story and the feeling of inclusion in at least three cultures — the Italian, the Swiss Alpine and the cosmopolitan one at Fair Observer — brings me to the film Ciao Ciao Bourbine which I saw a while ago. This surprise of a film portrays Switzerland on the brink of civil war due to a misguided popular initiative. Is this meant to be a stark reminder of the delicate balance between democracy and dissent? Or did this comedy take advantage of this tiny nation’s quirks?
Looking back at that film even today, I reflect on the significance of popular initiatives in Switzerland and the importance of civic engagement in any society. In Switzerland, the land my parents made home, less than 10% of federal popular initiatives win public support but they trigger debate and discussion, and give people a sense of participation in the destiny of the nation. In Italy, where my grandparents lived and relatives live, there are no popular initiatives and people are less invested in the Italian state.
Ciao Ciao Bourbine is a very enjoyable comedy in three languages, where all the main characters have to speak a language that is not their own at various moments. It creates quite literally a fantasy scenario on real premises. The film has familiar landscapes and old trains on which I spent many hours commuting to school. Nostalgia inevitably hits me each time I see or even think of the film.
So, as I say ciao ciao to my beloved parents and hometown once again, I carry with me not only cherished memories but also a renewed appreciation for the simple joys of life. In a world filled with uncertainty, these moments of connection and camaraderie anchor us, reminding us of the beauty of human experience. My parents may live in a small village in the middle of the Alps, but I am fully aware that even here people from around the world have passed through and sometimes stayed on to make it their home.
So, to all who may question the value of a visit to their hometown or a quiet moment shared with loved ones — let us raise our metaphorical spritz in a toast to the beauty of human connection. For in the end, it is such moments that make life truly worth living.
Warm regards,
Roberta Campani
Communications and Outreach
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