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May 27, 2015 Off to market I go. I need lemons, lettuce, leeks. But I get distracted by the T-shirts. Where’s the one for me?  I had plenty of those, but do I really want to celebrate them on a T-shirt?  Do I want to be a walking ad for Starbucks and bad grammar?  Wouldn’t this mark me as the most obnoxious person on the planet?  The people have not perfect English. All made in China, of course.  Dim idea writ large.  Cute car; dumb text.  Found it! ******** Click to subscribe to BaroqueSicily.
May 12, 2015 In the half light of evening, a white Range Rover stuffed with white flowers stands ready at the bottom of the church steps. The bride smiles relentlessly for the videographer while her hip friends hang out. Look ma, no socks! The look is huge with formal wear. (You have to be a tall bony boy to pull it off, though.)
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May 6, 2015 So I’m at the fruttivendolo, greengrocer’s, a charming hole-in-the wall. I’m cooling my heels waiting my turn while the vendor and a customer with a nest of snow-white hair lament Italy’s problemi. Every so often the snow-white customer points to a cucumber or a pile of chicory, which the vendor oh-so-carefully picks up and weighs. Ten minutes pass. The two men are pretty riled up–hands flail all over the place–about the fact that Prime Minister Renzi got his electoral reform law (Italicum) passed. Will the right to strike be affected, they fret? Because Italy is a striking culture: teachers & pilots & baggage handlers & bus drivers & train operators & truck drivers & museum workers & taxi drivers walk off the job on a regular basis. You cannot take that away from the Italian 99%-ers, can you??? Anyway, the snow-white man finally shouts a hearty parting to one and all (Buona giornata e buon pranzo! Good day and good lunch!) and steps out the door, trailing a bag chock-full of chicory. I’m still being served when in waltz two americani. They do not say buongiorno. No greeting at all! Strike 1. Then they head for the tomatoes, and–horror of horrors!!–fondle the juicy red orbs with their own filthy fingers, scooping up the ones they want themselves! I suppress a gasp. Strike 2. And, yes, it gets worse: they march up to the cash register, pull out their euro bills and push them at the vendor. AND I’M STILL IN THE MIDDLE OF MY TURN!!!! Strike 3. The vendor is gracious, as am I. But the episode makes me see how easy it is for innocents abroad to commit faux pas, and in these innocents, I see myself. And yes, there is a strike 4. They waltz out the door with nary a word, wishing us neither a good day nor a good lunch.
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May 1, 2015 May Day. National holiday. Andiamo alla campagna! One and all to the countryside! Heading for the hills on May Day is one of those unwritten Sicilian rules, like the one that requires you, when hanging out your wash, to clip each sock at the toe and hang it neatly next to its mate. So off we go. And there we find: bygone lanes, farmhouses with braying dogs, fields of ripe artichokes.
This goes on for hours.
 Lassini–you have to pick these stems before they flower. It’s already too late to eat this particular plant but we find lassini plants in the shade that have not yet flowered.  Malva–you eat the leaves, not the flowers. It’s such an ancient food that Horace mentions it: Me pascunt olivae, me cichorea levesque malvae (As for me, olives, chickory and malva provide sustenance.) When hunger hits, we pull down green almonds and pop the whole fuzzy thing in our mouths. I make a sour face and am admonished for my timidity.
jann *** April 27, 2015 Poppies spring from the old stone steps.
The piano teacher shuffles by and asks where is il marito, the husband? A constant concern of his. Now all that remains in my cup is foam. I take the tiny spoon and scrape and scrape. I cannot bear for this moment to end. Along comes Salvatore, 96.
He tells me stories, this time about how he helped to plant the towering palm trees on the piazza as a kid. I love(d) these palms with a mad passion; four of the six have just been chopped down. (Big brown bugs.) My happiness quotient drops to 90%, fretting about it (again). There’s the clanking of glass as the barista with rock-like biceps plunks an ashtray on every single table. A pigeon swoops by, too close. Three tourists labor up the hill toward the cathedral. “No! Go away!” I don’t actually yell this, though I want to. Out come the purple iPads, raised high overhead like golf trophies. My happiness quotient drops to 85%. Here comes long-lost chain-smoking Giorgio, with his long grey ponytail. He helped plaster my old wine cantina. We kiss hello; talk 15 seconds; kiss goodbye–lots of kissing with a few cliches thrown in for good measure. Happiness quotient bounces back up. Do I have a right to be happy? People are dying in earthquakes, sinking in rickety boats in the Mediterranean. Joy brings guilt. I get up to visit Suleiman, a refugee from Ghana being housed in the village. For five months he’s been lost in the Italian legal system. Will he ever find happiness?
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