Porta Banana, Made in Italy

September 21, 2011

I can’t find in Sicilian stores what I really want: plastic baggies, Twizzlers, Gorilla tape, almond butter, skim milk, a simple T-shirt without mangled English, ant traps.

Ants march into my living room in the evening as if they’re out–like every good Sicilian–for a passeggiata. I scour the hardware store and then ask my GoogleTranslate-prepared question: Ci sono trappoli per formiche? Are there traps for ants?

The shop assistant looks at me and laughs. We have traps for mice, Signora, but they are too big for your ants. Ha ha. 

Anyway, while I’m rifling through the anti-pest section of the store, I come upon this mean-looking anti-pigeon device. I get four. Pigeons mate and roost and coo and poop on my balcony–of all the milllions of places they could’ve chosen!  They’re not at all scared of a banging broom. Will these torture devices work?

Italian Anti-pigeon Devices, copyright Jann Huizenga

Another weird thing I buy that day is a porta banana, a banana-carrier. Made in Italy, by the way.

“Why?” I ask the salesclerk.

“So that your banana does not get crushed in your bag,” she explains.

Porta Banana in Italy, copyright Jann Huizenga

Italian Banana carrier, copyright Jann Huizenga

 

Leave a comment on this post (or a previous one) and you’ll be entered in a raffle to win the porta banana! (You must have an address in North America–not to leave a comment, but to win the weird green thing.) You could put a string through it and carry it as a banana-purse.

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Have you bought something odd recently?

 

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Tre: Sicilian Trios

September 15, 201

We’re the Three Best Friends

That Anyone Could Have

We’re the Three Best Friends

That Anyone Could Have…

Stoop sitters in Sicily, copyright Jann HuizengaSicilian Children Sitting on Stoop, copyright Jann Huizenga

Three young Sicilian Men, copyright Jann Huizenga

Three old Sicilian Men, copyright Jann HuizengaSicilians Sweeping the Street, copyright Jann HuizengaThree Sicilian Men by the Sea, copyright Jann HuizengaThree Sicilians in Doorway, copyright Jann HuizengaClick to subscribe to BaroqueSicily.

Due: Sicilian Duos

September 9, 2011

It takes two, baby

It takes two, baby

To make a dream come true, just takes two.

Sicilian Pair, copyright Jann HuizengaSicilian Pair, copyright Jann Huizenga

Sicilian Pair, copyright Jann HuizengaSicilian Pair, copyright Jann Huizenga

Sicilian Angels, copyright Jann Huizenga

Sicilian Pair, copyright Jann HuizengaSicilian Pair, copyright Jann Huizenga

Sicilian Pair, copyright Jann HuizengaSicilian Pair, copyright Jann Huizenga

Sicilian Pair, copyright Jann HuizengaClick to subscribe to BaroqueSicily.

Patience, Pastry, Paradiso

September 3, 2011

Pazienza. A Sicilian mantra.

For one full year, I had the patience of a saint.

My favorite al fresco coffee bar sat at the foot of this scaffolding.

Each morning the sandblasted stone let loose an angry flurry of grit, turning my laptop a dusty gray.

Eyes stung, ears hurt.

Paradiso lost.

Scaffolding on Church in Ragusa Ibla, copyright Jann Huizenga

But now the church of San Giuseppe has been unveiled. Life is back to normal. Splendor in the morning sun.
Church of San Giuseppe in Ragusa Ibla, copyright Jann Huizenga

Dustless coffee. Noiseless pastry.

Paradiso regained.Pistachio Brioche in Sicily, copyright Jann Huizenga

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The Man in the Pink Coppola, Part 2

August 28, 2011

Bella Figura in Sicily, copyright Jann Huizenga

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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.

 

 

Bella Figura in Sicily, copyright Jann Huizenga

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.

Sicilian balcony, copyright Jann Huizenga

Out steps a man from a doorway. That manStill 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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