November 12, 2010
The bras on the line are symbolic.
Moving to a Sicilian village means exposing yourself to public scrutiny, undies and all. You’re watched, eyeballed.
One morning, a tall villager spots my husband Kim—who has just returned from the US—in the piazza. “So,” he says, winking, “the sheep is back in the pen, is he?”
How did he even know Kim was gone?
For two weeks, I leave the house early, before 7am, to work on a project with a friend. I finally get a day to sleep in, but the buzzer squeals violently, over and over. I throw on a robe and open the door. “Oh, sorry signora,” say my neighbors, “to disturb you so early, but we know you will leave the house soon and we need to talk to you.”
They’ve been tracking my movements?
I smell what neighbors are cooking for lunch. I hear them singing, bickering. Living life here is like reading a tell-all, and being shocked to see you’re one of the characters.
How will I fare, exchanging an anonymous life for an examined one?
Time will tell.
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