December 12, 2009
Girls, would you let this fellow…?
Well, I did. Not only did I let him sell me a melon far bigger than I could ever eat, I let him feed me some. Its November flesh was pinky-orange, perfumed, and so overripe and juicy that I was dribbling like a love-struck fool.
The man could have sold me just about anything—rotten apples, stinking fish, whatever.
When my sister, an Angeleno, arrived in Sicily for the first time several years ago, she took a look around and said, “Very pretty men. We should be Hollywood scouts.”
They’re like stallions, Sicilian men—tossing thick manes and flashing wild black eyes, putting out cigarettes as if they’re pawing the ground with a hoof.
Not everyone is impressed. Seated at a cafe on a Sunday afternoon, while my sister and I murmured our approval of the preening Antonio Banderas-types trotting up and down the street, my Sicilian friends Giò and Rosaria, 30-something divorcees, pulled sour faces. “Horrid!” they cried. “Horrid!”
