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August 8, 2012 There was a whole lot of amore goin’ on in my hot Sicilian village a few Saturday nights ago.
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April 10, 2012 Man bags are everywhere in Sicily, as common as women’s purses.
And so I bought a borsello for my American husband, who gave it the evil eye for about six months. But he broke down one day in Italy, put it on, and soon became so attached to it that he never takes it off. (Perfect fit for the iPad.) A few weeks ago we ventured into Texas, land of oversized flags, massive vehicles, and cities strangled and mangled by highways. Serious culture shock ensued. For lovers of robust Italianate coffees, being in Texas is like being in the desert with no water. Desperate, we stood in line at McDonald’s–seemingly the only place in the Lone Star state that you can get anything darker than dishwater (yes, McDonald’s now serves espresso). My husband visited the loo, Italian borsello over his shoulder. As he was washing his hands, a beefy Texan in worn Wranglers sauntered in. Spying my husband, the Texan jumped back. “Shoot!” he exclaimed, “Ya scared me fer a minute there! When Ah saw yer purse Ah thought Ah was in the ladies’ room!”  Himself in line at McDonald's in Texas
February 19, 2012 I do my utmost to hide my roots (read: American-ness) in Italy. Off with the ratty T-shirts. Off with the jean jacket. Off with the comfy duds. On with the crisp clothes and killing shoes. (I’ve written about this battle here.) Il marito has been forbidden to wear his normal Paul Bunyon getup–no muck boots or plaid flannel shirts or baggy-butt Levis. Poor guy has to outfit hisself in a man-purse and taut Italian shirts (but they have no pockets! he wails) if he wants to chaperone me around the piazza. And so this troika at the Catania airport caught my eye. No hiding for them. Look at those big Texas grins. Stetsons a mile wide. Old Glory purse. Rodeo belt buckles weighty enough to pull you to your knees.
I struck up a conversation as the barista whacked espresso grounds into the sink. Turns out they’re not from Dallas after all. Nope. Nor Amarillo or Waco. They don’t even speak English because… …they are born-and-bred Sicilians! They run a Country Western Line Dance school (Etna Country Style) based in Catania, and are on their way to a dance competition in northern Italy.
And off they run to catch their plane, doing the Texas two-step.
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Watch these Sicilians dance the tush-push here. *** October 25, 2011 Beautiful young people are accidents of nature, but beautiful old people are works of art. August 28, 2011
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So after obliging me with a mini photo-shoot, the signore in the pink cap takes off. I walk up and down hills to another part of town.
 Note the wrist and waist decor. I find a house dripping with flowers–some real, some plastic. I start poking around, trying to separate reality from illusion. It’s still early morning; the light is gold.
Out steps a man from a doorway. That man. Still in his pink cap. Ciao, he says. Do you like this building? Yes? Wanna have a look inside? I hesitate for a split second then follow him in. The first room is dark, lit only by an enormous psychedelic fish tank–a swirl of purple lights and brilliant tropical creatures. A few chairs line one wall. Salla d’attesa, he says. Waiting room. Waiting for what, in God’s name? We enter another room. It is festooned with masses of plastic red roses, vines dangling from the vaulted ceiling and curling over the walls. In the center of the room stands an examination table. A stethoscope hangs from a hook. “Are you a doctor?” “Sí, internal medicine.” I try to hide my surprise. “You’re an interesting man!” is about all I can muster. Then I’m back on the street, regretting that I haven’t even asked his name. *** |
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