Circoli & Cooperativas: Cards, Soccer, and the Quiet Work of Belonging
- Isola Chambers
- 4 hours ago
- 5 min read
Editor’s Note
Writer Isola Chambers examines the Italian circolo as both a social and cultural tradition — a legacy of cooperative life that still anchors towns in ordinary togetherness. What began as a workers’ initiative has become a framework for belonging, where community is sustained not by events or ideals, but by simple continuity.
It’s a damp autumn evening in Bereguardo, Pavia, and the circolo isn’t trying to impress anyone. The building is plain and rather ugly; the paint faded and yellow, the door propped open by a folding chair. A few plastic tables are scattered outside under hopelessly unflattering fluorescent lights. Inside, the furniture is slightly more dignified: wooden tables, heavy chairs, a modest bar. Posters hang on the walls like old repeated stories, sun-bleached and with the corners torn.
Tonight there is a soccer match, and the place is full. Those uninterested in the game have drifted outside, or to the corners of the room, where scopa games unfold in a familiar rhythm. Someone is drinking wine, another a small beer. Most are just sitting; some alone, some in twos or threes. They occupy the space without hurry or expectation. A beer costs two and a half euros. No one seems to be counting.
A group of kids moves between inside and out, orbiting around the adults like small planets, never resting anywhere for too long. It’s unclear which group they “belong” to, but they receive comments — corrections, compliments, jokes — or affectionate pats, from nearly everyone they pass. Men and women, in their twenties, fifties, eighties. Fit, frail, quick, slow. They are here — not because of shared hobbies, not because someone planned it, but because it’s Thursday and this is what happens on Thursday.
I think this might be what belonging looks like when it isn’t curated.
What Are Circoli and Cooperativas?
Across Italy, circoli and cooperativas function as informal neighbourhood clubs. Some are secular, others tied to Catholic or political associations. Many were once (and in some cases still are) cooperative ventures owned collectively by members.
They are inexpensive, open, and remarkably unpretentious. A few euros gets you a drink; conversation costs nothing. It’s not the kind of intense, deliberate conversation you have at a dinner table, but a softer form: ambient, habitual. A nod at the bar. A comment tossed over a card table. The game is of supreme importance. Even so, the company is the point.
Circoli thrive in small towns and working-class neighbourhoods. But they also exist in the corners of big cities, tucked between apartment blocks and often invisible to anyone who isn’t looking for them.
From Workers’ Cooperatives to Circoli, A Brief History
The circoli and cooperativas that dot Italy’s towns have deep roots in the country’s social fabric. Their story begins in the late 19th century, in a period of political ferment and economic hardship. Early cooperatives were born out of labor struggles, rural mutual aid associations, and socialist and Catholic movements that sought to give workers collective power over their lives.
One of the most widespread forms was the cooperativa di consumo, or consumption cooperative, owned and managed by local residents themselves. These were collective grocery or supply stores, founded so working families could access affordable goods without relying on private merchants. Each member held a share and a vote, and profits were reinvested into the community rather than distributed to outside owners. Over time, many evolved beyond commerce into community gathering points, spaces for cards, meals, and conversation, keeping their cooperative spirit even as their daily activities changed.
The Cooperativa di Consumo fra Lavoratori del Comune di Bereguardo, founded in 1945, grew out of this same tradition and began as a postwar workers’ cooperative providing basic goods to local families. Decades later, as small-scale retail faded and social needs shifted, it adapted into what it is today: a circolo that serves as Bereguardo’s communal living room. Officially, it’s still classified as a “bar without a kitchen.” Unofficially, it’s much more than that.
Rituals, Resilience, and the Act of Showing Up
A circolo isn’t really about activity. It’s about rhythm. There’s scopa and briscola, a small TV above the door playing the match, and the seemingly endless clinking of espresso cups. These rituals matter precisely because they are ordinary.
Games provide structure: someone shuffles the deck, someone else complains, someone else deals again. It’s the same every night. It’s this sameness that allows people to keep showing up.
Piero is one of the loudest of the regular bunch. He doesn’t talk; he shouts. But always with a smile. He teases and he lets himself be teased back. His wife has been sick for years, and during the day he is at home caring for her. He spends his evenings at the circolo, and tonight he tells me, “Qui mi sento a casa, non penso alle cose brutte. Mi fa sentire come se tutto fosse più leggero.” Here I feel at home. I don’t think about the bad things. This place makes me feel like everything is lighter.
The sense of belonging here isn’t loud or sentimental. It’s built on repetition, on chairs pulled up without asking. People argue over politics, over who’s cheating at cards, over the team lineup. The next day, they sit down at the same table.
Sometimes, the gestures of care are quieter still. On big match nights like tonight, someone will cook; a huge pot of risotto, stirred slowly in the back and ladled into plastic bowls for anyone who wants it. Forks and napkins are passed around. I turn to my partner and ask how we pay for this. The elderly woman next to us overhears and jumps in: “Si paga con la voglia di mangiare.” You pay with the desire to eat. The food isn’t for sale. It’s just there, as everything else here is: shared freely and without ceremony.
These spaces endure not because of their history or their function, but because of these habits of generosity. These are the small gestures that keep a community stitched together. This offering is increasingly rare in contemporary urban life: casual, unearned belonging.
Adapting to a Changing World
Like many communal third spaces, circoli are vulnerable. Rising rents, shifting leisure habits, and an aging membership threaten their continuity. In some towns, circoli have closed. In others, they’ve adapted.
Some host cultural programming such as music nights, language exchanges, political discussions, or book readings. Others manage to remain resolutely the same: cards, coffee, soccer. Their strength lies in their ability to hold both tradition and change at once. A new generation might not come as automatically as before, but those who do often find an unexpected refuge. They endure not because they’re extraordinary, but because they offer the quiet, dependable togetherness that the rest of the world seems to be forgetting.
The Uncurated Circle
The night has worn on. Someone notices that I am leaning against the wall and wordlessly pulls a chair across the room and sets it in front of me. She makes eye contact only for a moment, with no seeming desire or expectation of gratitude or reciprocation.
Someone else stands to smoke, prompting his neighbour to shout “Bravo, vai fouri a fumare che se vai fouri segniamo!” Good, go outside for a smoke. If you go outside we’ll manage to score.
More ritual.
The match reaches its final minutes. A palm slaps a table in frustration. A goal that could have been. Others roll their eyes and return to their game. The kids have migrated to the edge of the parking lot.
It isn’t dramatic. It isn’t orchestrated. But it is community: messy, habitual, and quietly vital.
About the author: Isola Chambers is a writer and editor based in Milan, working at the intersections of memory, culture, decolonization, and resistance.
