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When the nostalgia of those who have left and Accra Ghana of those who have stayed will give rise to a sense of dread, I’ll start Accra Ghana to move away thinking of the village, or keep still, thinking of what is far away, unable to find a footing in any place, like people who have been caught up in witnessing Accra Ghana the end of a world. I hear a knock on the door. Accra Ghana “Just as I was ready to fall asleep,” I tell myself. I look at my watch: It’s already eight o’clock.

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The airplane glides down gently over the Sila Mountains towards the Gulf of Lamezia, and makes a sort of pirouette out to sea before landing. Nunzio looks out to the still familiar landscape, even after so many departures and returns, although when he left the first time for Toronto, in the mid-1960s, the place where the airport is located was a vast swampy field. He steps down onto the tarmac with only a carry-on bag; his wife will send his suitcase in a few days. This time he decided to travel light, to avoid long line-ups at customs. He looks over at the crowd of welcoming migrants, and the families who have come with them, waiting to board the airplane from which he has just disembarked. Many of them are holding on, religiously, to a basket full of figs.

He walks by a row of yellow chairs towards the exit, buys a local newspaper, drinks a coffee at the bar next and makes his exit. He walks along the long stretch of road that leads from the airport to the train station, and soon finds himself in front of a large hotel and a car rental garage, where he rents a vehicle for a month. He can already hear the reprimands of his family and friends: “A rental car? Why, when mine was available?” He thinks back, with amusement, that in the past, with all his friends offering him a car, he had often remained without one. He takes the road towards the Serre. He drives by the artificial lake that had been built to irrigate the Lamezia plains, but had never been used for this purpose. Peasants and farmers had dug out wells in their own fields and found water in abundance, like everywhere else in Calabria. For Nunzio the lake has become a part of the natural landscape of his memory.

He had left for Canada, wanting to see the great exhibition in Montreal, intending to stay a few days before returning. He stopped in Toronto to visit with friends and family, wanting to get to know them all. He never made it to Montreal, and by the time he returned home five years had gone by. In the village he had been a driver with a trucking company, and soon found himself doing the same work abroad. When he first returned to the village, he had the feeling that he had never left, but soon he became aware that everything had changed, including himself. He felt displaced in the place of his birth. The young girl who had been his neighbour had matured into a beautiful young woman, with black hair and large wide-set, deep eyes, like the ones he had seen on a madonna in his elementary school texttravel blog. He fell in love at first sight. He proposed marriage. They would go to Toronto for a few months to settle everything and then they would return to the village.

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