The Italian community in Ireland is joyfully resurrected and takes its place on top of the world

THIS generation of Italians abroad is very different from the stereotype we learnt from our parents or grandparents.

‘How bitter this bread tastes’, according to one of those emigrant songs. They used to eat bread and live miserably as they sent that extra dollar home where, hopefully, somebody would mind it or spend it sensibly.

Last Christmas I was in Frankfurt where the driver of the bus that brought us from the city centre to the airport, not surprisingly, was Italian.

He illustrated the difference between an emigrant and an economic migrant. He pointed out that the emigrant from the last generation did not enjoy life in the new country, but lived on almost nothing in order to send money home where he or she intended to return as soon as possible.

But the new migrant is in no hurry to go home unless Italy starts offering the same as the host country.

This generation not only enjoys life in the new country, but takes an active part in its life at different levels and becomes a proud element of it.

Cork is no different from other European cities that host Italians. Here the majority of my co-nationals are businessmen, doctors, managers in corporations, while others have chosen to set up their own businesses: all are successful at different levels, but very few have Italy in mind as their main objective. They enjoy the life they have earned for themselves. We live within the Irish culture that absorbs us without conflict and we meet every now and then, but do not connect.

Apart from a few close friends, there is no Little Italy and there are no ties that link us here.

The ‘Italian community’, as such, does not exist. It’s everybody for himself or herself, and if we do accidentally meet we repeat as a ritual, “we must catch up some day, give me a call” — both parties knowing very well that no phone number has been exchanged.

And then, suddenly, it is the World Cup final. Everybody is in the pub and you start recognising the faces, the Irish-Italian couples you met five years before, but who recognise you straight away because time does not pass in Ireland. They say “ciao, come stai?”, translating directly from the Anglo-Irish greeting “hi, how are you?”, which does not really mean “I want to know how you are”. Italy wins the match and, suddenly, the ‘Italian community’ is formed at the speed of light. All friends, all brothers, you hug and kiss strangers as if you have known them all your life.

Thousands of new faces reveal themselves to you as Italian and you ask yourself, “how many Italians have lived in Cork that I never knew of?” considering that Cork is not much bigger than a suburb of Rome.

The desire to party is great, and so is the sadistic desire to stroll in front of the bar where the French, who do seem to have a sense of community, had met to watch the match.

The group hits Patrick Street where one or two daring types jump on the roof of the bus stop to direct the chorus of the typical slogan, “The one that doesn’t jump is French!”

A naked Sicilian guy, wearing only his underpants and flip-flops holds the flag of his region.

As I expected, the gardaí did not delay. After all we have blocked Cork’s main artery and we are not even in Italy. How are they going to understand? Two gardaí arrive, and while one tries to direct the supporters onto the pavement, the other is grabbed and repeatedly lifted up in the air. Thank God, we are in Ireland and the gardaí are friendly and unarmed.

One of them laughs and then diverts the traffic. He must have realised the Italian crowd are neither drunk nor violent, which is a great difference from Irish crowds on Saturday night after closing time.

A man with a drum beats out a samba and we follow in an improvised march around the city. A significant number of Irish sympathisers join the group. All wear the Italian T-shirt or have the tricolour painted on their cheeks.

They are all Italian, all friends, all co-nationals. The Italian community is beautiful, full of colour, emotion and enthusiasm.

I am proud to be part of it and I am already waiting for the next World Cup again to be a part of it all and relive this emotion.

Sabrina Straventa

36 Ardcarrig

Carrigaline

Co Cork