baroquesicily.com - Sicily Stories and Travel Tips from Jann Huizenga

Safe in Sicily

July 21, 2012

I feel safer–far safer–in Sicily than in the USA.

I will never ever go into another movie theater in my country.

In my country, I can be randomly mowed down by a lunatic with an assault weapon–any time, any place. Movie theater. Political rally. Mall. Bar. University campus. High school.

So the NRA and gun lobbies want the freedom to bear arms, including assault rifles? What about my freedoms, such as the one to feel safe in public places?

Americans see themselves as “progressive leaders” of the free world.

And how does the free world see Americans? This morning I heard Sicilians refer to us as barbarians.

The NRA and the gun lobbies are holding us hostage.

Let’s stand up. Hold candlelight vigils. Raise our voices.

We can be inspired by Sicilians, who are raising their voices against their own mafiosi.

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The Yellow Bucket Brigade

July 16, 2012

“What are you doing, Mister?” (She wonders.)

Me too.

Not being quite as shy as she, I stick the camera in Tarzan’s face: “What are you doing, Mister (Signore)?”

“Digging for *+*&^%$#.”

I do not understand the word, and ask if he is looking for clams.

No, it is something else, though a bivalve of some sort (he shows me one). “For lunch,” he adds.

Sicilians are always foraging in the fields for something to eat, so why should it be any different at the beach?

This boy is on the hunt for crabs. How many do you need for pasta with crab?

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Wee Babes in Sicily

July 10, 2012

It’s taken me days to recover from the hyperbolic Festa di San Paolo in Palazzolo Acreide.

Sicily: Land of Immoderation.

The day was pizza-oven hot. You needed shorts, a cold beer, and your back against a cool blue wall as you waited for Saint Paul to parade out of the church amid pyrotechnics so intense it felt like the town was under bombardment.

My American Man wore shorts, too. (Folks, this is totally beside the point, but do you know how hard it has been to coax him out of his Paul Bunyon duds and into Italian-made clothes? And yet: he now wears embroidered floral shirts and carries lavender blessed by a priest.)

While the men stayed cool with beer, the women fanned themselves (Sicily’s Spanish heritage on full display).

The animals have been blessed by the priest…

though they don’t look too happy about it.

Waiting, waiting…

Come on. Hurry up, Saint Paul!!! We’re dying out here.

OK, the explosives are just about rigged up–all over the church, thousands of them.

Notices have been posted everywhere that it’s your own damn fault if you get blown to bits.

Sweet Jesus. What’s in store?

You run as far away from the piazza as you can. The locals have warned you that “there will be no air” there.

Then all hell breaks loose.

Even blocks away from the epicenter, kids have to plug their ears.

And run for cover.

Impossible. Completely impossible!

Imagine a war zone. Shock and Awe. Combine that with an earthquake and Etna exploding. That’s what it feels like.

Now here he comes, the hero of the day. Paparazzi move like Ferraris through the baked streets.

More heroes below. (And we think we’re cooking?)

Wee babes, all pink and dimpled, barely out of the womb, are passed up in the hot sun to be blessed by San Paolo.

And then it’s home for siesta.

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The Feast of San Paolo takes place in Palazzolo Acreide every year on June 27-29. The same town hosts the Feast of San Sebastiano in August (dates vary). Both festas are amazing, though I prefer the latter because the piazza where it is held is roomier so you get a better view even when you’re far away. Don’t miss the morning parade that winds all over town to collect bread.

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The Drugging Sun

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.