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January 16, 2011 If icicles dangle from your lashes and hoarfrost coats your lips, I’m sorry. Really, I am. Here in Sicily the sun warms my limbs as I work on my tiny balcony. And reflected in my computer screen is an image that makes my heart burble:
You know how some people have a zillion photos of their dog, or their kid? I’m obsessive that way about my cupola.
What would you like reflected in YOUR computer screen? *** Click to subscribe to BaroqueSicily.
January 4, 2011 Throw your dreams into space like a kite, and you do not know what it will bring back, a new life, a new friend, a new love, a new country. Anaïs Nin May you have the courage to toss your dreams into space like a kite in 2011, dear Reader, and may it bring back all you wish for. *** You can tell it’s the new year here in Sicily. Christmas tablecloths have been hung out to dry.
Aprons have been washed.
Houses are being scrubbed. Duvets flap in a mild Mediterranean breeze (sort of like kites). A new start for a new year.
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December 7, 2010 A while back I groused about driving in Sicilian hill towns—about the narrowness of lanes and the stone walls that jump out to smack your side-view mirrors. Could you squeeze through these streets? I asked. Now I’m going to show you what I mean. I’m piloting; my husband’s holding the Flip out the window. Put your seat back into full upright position and store your tray table. (click here for video)
By the way, this is the “road” I drive to reach my house. *** You have till the end of tomorrow, December 8, to enter the random drawing to win Robert Camuto’s Palmento: A Sicilian Wine Odyssey. Just post a comment on any of my blog posts. Click here for more information. I’ll name the winner in my next blogpost. Thank you all for playing! **** July 12, 2010 The street sweepers here wear suits bright as orange rind and dance with twig brooms. I see them in the early morning as I stumble across the piazza in the direction of a latte macchiato. They clear the streets of bougainvillea petals and the debris of summer weddings: hearts of confetti, bottles of Asti, handfuls of rice.
And every morning I pray, “Please Signor Sweeper, hold tight! Hold fast to those twigs. Don’t go all plasticky on me.” I want to weep when I see the changes sweeping Sicily, her Americanization: the new shopping malls plunked down among the olives, the SUVs, the McDonald’s in Upper Ragusa (though grazie a Dio the one in nearby Modica went belly-up). So I savor the twigs. Because someday soon they’ll disappear, never to return.
May 20, 2010 Shoes wear out fast in Sicily, and so do feet.
I buy every Dr. Scholl’s pain relief product on the market. I slather callus goop onto the soles of my feet. I wrap them in moleskin. I’m gellin’.
But I gladly suffer the pain. Because nothing can beat the sheer romance of old cobbles.
When your heels hit these medieval stones, they sing! (The stones that is, not so much the heels.)
I love the texture of cobbles under my toes, and the shine rubbed in by generations of hooves, wheels, and feet.
*** Readers, can you help me? Will you consider voting for my Sicily photograph in the Islands poll? Here’s the link. The link will bring you to a photo I shot of a Sicilian woman in Capo Passero (in the extreme southeast corner of Sicily). You can vote by clicking on *My Favorite* underneath the photo. (I could win a photography course and you could win a camera!) GRAZIE MILLE! (To see thumbnails of all 22 photos in the competition, click this link.) ***
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