Calabrisella mia

On my way back from a fruitless attempt to find a parking space at the rue Lacan (there has been a totally predictable cock-up in our booking of the new underground carpark), I discovered the reason why Antibes was chock ablock with cars looking for a space. Apart from the wedding industry (positively Fordist in its cadenced Saturday intensity), today is the beginning of the local Calabrian festivities. Many of the 'Italians' here are southern, and most of them are Calabrian.

The thudding sounds of drums and the shamanistic rattle of massed tambourines, in the insistent rhythm of the tarantella, accompanied by almost trance inducing ostinato figures on the accordeon, announced the arrival of the contingent, which marched with extraordinary discipline and distinctly un-French precision. It was a stirring sight.

What is strange is that the toe of Italy, just about as far south as you can get in Europe, has traditions that look as if they come straight from Bavaria. Exquisite scarlet and white costumes for both men and women, knee-breeches and dirndls respectively, super-competent oompah bands, you name it. The similarities are uncanny. The only difference is in the skin colour, a healthy tan over that olive complexion you get in the deep South, instead of pasty faces and freckles. Maybe it's the preference for vino rosso over Bier that explains it.