July 3, 2012
They call it the caldo africano, the torpor that has overtaken us. “The sun,” writes Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa, “[is] the true ruler of Sicily; the crude, brash sun, the drugging sun, which annul[s] every will . . .”
I sit at the beach trying to write, but every time I look at my laptop, I get sleepy. Caffeine doesn’t help. I stare out in the direction of Malta.
 I am like this boat, too listless to do its job. I’ve developed a passion for the nap, n’abbiamu in Sicilian—literally, “the throwing of oneself upon the bed”—and cannot wait till afternoon when I will fall into a comatose sleep thick as honey.
Why is this woman not seeking shade? Has she fallen asleep over her book?
This fellow still has the energy to languidly rub olive oil over his muscles. Because he is not bronzed enough.
But the only one on the beach who seems to be wholly awake is the sister rushing out to sea.
Is that a bikini rolled up in her hand?
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Happy Fourth of July!!!
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March 29, 2012
‘Tis the season of la zagara, orange blossoms on the breeze.
Is there a sweeter scent in all Creation?
Orange.
Aranciu. (Sicilian)
Arancia. (Italian)
Naranja. (Spanish)
Naranča. (Croatian)
Orange. (French)
Oranġjo. (Maltese)
Oranĝo. (Esperanto)
Overripe oranges hang heavy on the trees; they roll around in the street ripe, juicy, crimson.
You want fresh-squeezed OJ? Ask for a spremuta, pronounced spray-moo-tah. Nothing can compare.
Try not thinking of peeling an orange. Try not imagining the juice running down your fingers, the soft inner part of the peel. The smell. Try and you can’t…
Doug Coupeland
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July 3, 2011
Summer is in full swing.
The wind blows up from the Sahara.
The sun burns; the Ionian cools.
We’re sitting at a kiosk at the “Aziz” beach, 2 kilometers east of Donnalucata in Southeast Sicily.
“Three hours on the beach, the best coffee money can buy, two fresh brioches, and a turquoise view of the Mediterranean that extends to Africa,” Kim says, “All for five euro.”
Happy Fourth! Are you on the beach?
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Directions: From Donnalucata, drive 2 kms east (following signs to Marina di Modica and Siracusa). When you see a (faded ) sign that says “Aziz” and “Pizzeria,” turn right and go all the way to the water, where you’ll see a white “kiosk.” Ask locals for help: everyone knows Aziz. Go early to get good parking: the bar opens at 9am and is peaceful until about 11:00.
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March 14, 2011
 
Thanks to all of you for your comments on the last post. Congratulations to Natalie, WINNER of the COOKBOOK giveaway! Check out Natalie’s charming blog, anamericaninrome.
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Click here for 7 simple ways to help Japan.
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December 20, 2010
Well, I never. My first Christmas in Sicily, and so many surprises! I found this pair wandering an empty piazza. They stopped so I could shoot them, but I didn’t dare interrupt the music to ask Who in blazes are you?
 The Great God Google says they’re Zampognari. The instrument on the right is a zampogna, or Italian bagpipe, made of reeds and a sheep’s hide, and dating back to the time of Nero.
In Sicily, bagpipe-blowing shepherds traditionally come down from Mount Etna at Christmastime to play in the villages–sort of the Sicilian equivalent of Christmas carolers.
Are these Zampognari real shepherds dressed up as Santa? Or faux shepherds trying to revive what many fear is a dying art? I’m not sure, but they blow a mean Christmas carol.
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All photos and text on BaroqueSicily are Copyright of Jann Huizenga ©2009-2015, unless otherwise noted. Material may not be copied or re-published without written permission. All rights reserved.
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I am like this boat, too listless to do its job. I’ve developed a passion for the nap, n’abbiamu in Sicilian—literally, “the throwing of oneself upon the bed”—and cannot wait till afternoon when I will fall into a comatose sleep thick as honey.
