Where Calabria takes root

I have spent a lifetime at the Calabria Club. I have watched young couples arrive with nothing but hope, and I have watched their children grow into adults who still come back for a wedding, a christening, a festival, or simply to sit with an old friend and speak the language of home. A club, to me, has never been just a building. It is a promise: that what our parents carried across the ocean would not be lost.

That is why the Eco-Park della Calabria matters so much to me. At my age, you begin to think less about what you have done, and more about what you will leave behind. This project is my legacy—not only for Calabresi, but for Italians and Australians of every background who believe that culture is something you live, not something you store in a museum.

Our Calabria Club sits on 17 acres on the edge of Melbourne—between the airport flight paths and the “green wedge” landscapes of Hume. Some people see those open paddocks and think “empty land.” I see opportunity. I see a place where the old values of respect, family, faith, work, and hospitality can be expressed in a modern way—through design that protects the environment and strengthens community life.

The site already holds many of our community’s most meaningful spaces: the sanctuary dedicated to San Francesco di Paola and Madonna del Carmine; the event hall and reception areas where so many of our milestones have been celebrated; the restaurant where stories are shared as easily as plates of food. And now, with the Centre of Excellence emerging, we are preparing a new kind of welcome—an open door to Calabria, here in Victoria.

But the Eco-Park is not simply “more facilities.” It is a different way of thinking about what a community place can be. It brings buildings, open land, gardens and pathways into one walkable, welcoming landscape—something that feels rural Calabrian and distinctly Australian at the same time. It is where heritage meets ecology, and where sustainability is not a slogan, but a daily habit: producing energy, growing food, saving water, creating shade, inviting people outdoors, and encouraging children to learn with their hands.

One of the first steps is the Centre of Excellence, created from an existing building on our main frontage. I wanted it to feel contemporary, but warm—like the best kind of Calabrian home: simple, honest, full of life. There will be gallery walls and shelves holding hundreds of books about Calabria, art, history, migration and food culture. There will be a bar that functions like a small piazza—an easy meeting place where people can talk, read, plan, and connect.

In the hall there are screens offering virtual journeys through Tropea, Reggio, Gerace and the inland towns many of us still carry in our hearts. The purpose is not to impress people. The purpose is to invite them in—and to make Calabria accessible to a new generation that lives with technology in their pockets.

From there, the Eco-Park will grow outward into the land itself. The ecological design choices we are planning are practical, but they are also symbolic. Solar panels and battery storage are not only about lowering costs; they are a statement that our community is ready to lead by example. Water tanks and careful planting are not just infrastructure; they represent respect for the Australian climate and a commitment to stewardship. When you build a legacy, you build responsibly for those who will inherit both the land and the obligations that come with it.

Then there is the produce landscape—olive trees, fruit trees, and a vegetable garden designed as much for education as for harvest. I smile when I imagine school groups walking through the gardens and learning where food comes from, or older members explaining how their parents preserved olives, made passata, or grew vegetables with patience and pride.

A small animal area—chickens, goats, rabbits—might sound simple, but it is powerful. In a city where many children have never touched the earth or seen a farm animal up close, these experiences become lasting memories. And if those memories are formed in a place that also carries our language, music, stories and faith, then culture becomes natural again—part of growing up.

The best design is design that serves people. The Eco-Park is being shaped to support the way families actually live: spaces that reflect Calabrian cortili where food preparation is shared and joyful; paths wide enough for grandparents to stroll comfortably; places where children can run safely while parents talk; and seating that encourages people to stop, watch, listen, and stay. Sustainability is not only technological—it is social. A community survives when people keep coming back.

I often think about what our migrants built with very little—how they created institutions, churches, clubs and associations so their children would not lose themselves. The Eco-Park della Calabria continues that tradition, but speaks the language of the present: environmental responsibility, inclusive public space, cultural education, and a stronger connection between heritage and wellbeing.

If we do this properly, the Eco-Park will become a destination—not only for Calabresi, but for anyone curious about how a culture can take root in a new land without losing its soul. It will be a place where you can attend a festival, visit a sanctuary, taste authentic products, learn a recipe, read a story, and walk through a living landscape that produces energy and food. It will be a place where Calabrian culture is not performed once a year, but practised every weekend.

For me, the real measure of success is simple: I want children to come here and feel that this place belongs to them. I want them to remember feeding a goat, picking fruit, learning a dance step, tasting something made with care—and to understand, quietly and naturally, that heritage is not an old word. It is the future we choose to build.

To donate to the Eco-Park project, visit: https://gofund.me/e764bf7e8