March 4, 2012
What is she thinking, she of the Blue Curlers?
And where are his thoughts, he of the White Undershirt?
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February 25, 2012 I love peeping into windows in Sicily, a tendency some might call nosy, prying, voyeuristic.
Bay windows, picture windows, French windows, jalousie windows. They all set me to dreaming.
Of other lives. Secret lives.
I wonder: What sort of people are behind that window? What are they craving, creating, suffering?
I’d like to try on their story, if only for a little while. *** 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. *** February 13, 2012
February 9, 2012 He was sitting in the piazza in quaint little Monterosso Almo, Southeast Sicily, out in front of a bar. I like your beret. Did you get that in France? He pulled it off his head to study it, revealing a thick mop of hair the color of sheep’s wool. No, no. It is from Siena. Siena? Si. Siena, Siena, he muttered. Tanti anni fa. So long ago. Ah! (I could think of nothing better to say.) The man got very quiet and a faraway look came into his eye. I slipped into the bar for a coffee. When I came out, his eyes were still on the horizon and his cigarette unlit.
*** Click to subscribe to BaroqueSicily. ***  Monterosso Almo (the lower part of town)
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