ndrisiòme

I have used ndrisiòme as a nickname for quite some time. Every now and then, someone asks what it means. It means Mendrisio — the small town in southern Switzerland where I grew up. But it's more than that. It hides a language and a story. About people — and, why not, about economics. 

Ndrisiòme means Mendrisio. Not in Italian, not in the local Lombard dialect. It's Larpa iudre, a historic local jargon that secretly plays with the dialect. The name itself comes from parlà indré — “to speak backwards”. Words are formed by inverting syllables: the end comes first, the beginning later. Mendrisio becomes Ndrisio|me, Zurich becomes Chi|r|zü. Cavàl (horse) becomes val|ca, vàca (cow) becomes ca|va. 

Larpa iudre was never meant for full conversations. It lived in short expressions, ironic remarks, quick observations. Because of the syllable swap, it’s hard to understand unless you’re familiar with the system. Its exact origins are unknown, but local scholars believe it arose among cattle traders, who used it during negotiations so competitors would not understand them. Today it barely survives — informally, at the bar, over a game of cards.

As a secret trading jargon, Larpa iudre embodies principles of asymmetric information and in-group dynamics. I remember my fascination with economics truly beginning when I read a newspaper summary of Akerlof’s The Market for Lemons. And so ndrisiòme became a fitting economist’s nickname — a reminder that language itself can be a tool: to manage information, to protect advantage, to shape exchange.