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April 16, 2012 Herewith a few of my fave Italian icons:  Scooters That Smile  Bitters That Bite  Things That Quiver on Lines  Flags That Wave Where Lions Ate Men  Bars That Smell of Sugar and Foam  Cars That Squeeze Where Cars Should Not Go What’s your Italian icon of choice? April 10, 2012 Man bags are everywhere in Sicily, as common as women’s purses.
And so I bought a borsello for my American husband, who gave it the evil eye for about six months. But he broke down one day in Italy, put it on, and soon became so attached to it that he never takes it off. (Perfect fit for the iPad.) A few weeks ago we ventured into Texas, land of oversized flags, massive vehicles, and cities strangled and mangled by highways. Serious culture shock ensued. For lovers of robust Italianate coffees, being in Texas is like being in the desert with no water. Desperate, we stood in line at McDonald’s–seemingly the only place in the Lone Star state that you can get anything darker than dishwater (yes, McDonald’s now serves espresso). My husband visited the loo, Italian borsello over his shoulder. As he was washing his hands, a beefy Texan in worn Wranglers sauntered in. Spying my husband, the Texan jumped back. “Shoot!” he exclaimed, “Ya scared me fer a minute there! When Ah saw yer purse Ah thought Ah was in the ladies’ room!”  Himself in line at McDonald's in Texas
April 6, 2012 Happy Easter!  Candles outside a church during Holy Week Read about an Easter morning celebration in Southeast Sicily here. March 29, 2012 ‘Tis the season of la zagara, orange blossoms on the breeze. Is there a sweeter scent in all Creation?
Orange. Aranciu. (Sicilian) Arancia. (Italian) Naranja. (Spanish) Naranča. (Croatian) Orange. (French) Oranġjo. (Maltese) Oranĝo. (Esperanto) Overripe oranges hang heavy on the trees; they roll around in the street ripe, juicy, crimson.
You want fresh-squeezed OJ? Ask for a spremuta, pronounced spray-moo-tah. Nothing can compare.
Try not thinking of peeling an orange. Try not imagining the juice running down your fingers, the soft inner part of the peel. The smell. Try and you can’t… Doug Coupeland
March 24, 2012 “Do you speak English?” a man asks. We’re waiting in line at a fishmonger’s shop in Militello Val di Catania, Sicily. “Yes!” I get happy when I can speak my native language. “I am Mario. I grew up here, but lived and worked in Brooklyn for so many years.” I stare at his gorgeous pearly teeth. They make him look so American, setting him apart from all the other old-timers.
“Look!” Mario suddenly yanks at his sweater, pulling it down to expose a scar that divides his chest into east and west.
“Bypass surgery. My doctor told me to get away from the stress of American life. So here I am. I feel wonderful!” He throws up his hands in victory.
Do you see why Sicily has hooked me? This is normal behavior, the way that complete strangers interact with you in a fishmonger’s shop in a town you’ve never set foot in before. People are connected. They are where they are, not in some virtual world, not plugged into ipods or emailing and texting while they wait for their fish. They’re talking and laughing with each other. Un bacione (a big kiss) to you, Mario. XXXXX And to you. XXXXXX *** Click to subscribe to BaroqueSicily. *** Note: WordPress has altered its requirements for comments. Will you let me know if you have any trouble commenting? (Write me by clicking the “Contact” button under “My Pages” in the right-hand column.) Grazie! |
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