Mount'Erice

Can somebody say romantic? Towering above Trapani, Erice is this remote, medieval mountaintop village that overlooks most of western Sicily. 

With a new Tram to take you from the base of the mountain to the top of this steep, touristic village, it is easier than ever to visit. The tram runs all day, with the last tram around 2am after the pizzerias close.

***Traveler Beware*** Being an in-tact medieval village, all the streets are steep and made with small, slippery stones. Don't make the mistake I did--wear flat shoes, preferably with rubber soles--or you'll spend the whole time barefoot.


Cheers to That!

Tonight I had the most amazing discovery! I discovered the way to enjoy Italian television...it goes by many names, but the one I prefer the most is: cocktails! I don't know why I never thought of it before, but now that I spent the evening laughing (dare I say enjoying?) at the usual, banal, substance-less variety show with aged men vying for the attention of 7 foot tall buxom beauties...I feel like I have made the discovery of the decade!

Now, I didn't make this discovery sooner because I am not one that drinks much. I love wine, an occasional martini...but my body just can't handle more than that. I get sick faster than I can get tipsy. But since I have been diligent with taking my liver support herbs and eating a fairly healthy diet...I think I can get away with a drink or two now and then.

All our meals with my husband's family involve sitting around the television. I would even go so far as to describe the T.V. as the fifth person at the table. So even though I don't watch much television myself (especially here in Italy because I find it rather offensive), with them,  I am subject to some of the most "popular" shows on tv.

For lunch, there are the daytime shows, with a target audience of housewives, so there is a soap opera called "Cento Vetrine" which is really just a series of close ups of characters giving their best shot at looking perplexed and upset. Then there is the jewel of the Italian nation, "Uomini e Donne" which is like mixing "The Dating Game", "Blind date" and "Jerry Springer" into one show, with a blond diva in a gaudy throne and feather boa as the head mistress (she is a lot like a real version of Miss Piggy). Then there are the "People's Court" type shows, which I cannot bear and is the only one that I insist on changing. It is popular here because it gives people a reason to argue and make a lot of noise about someone else's problems--it's a national pastime. Well, that about covers our lunchtime programming, as we are usually done by the time "Walker Texas Ranger" reruns come on. Grazie a Dio.

  

Prima serata, which is Italian prime time, is all about the variety shows, reality shows and game shows. There are about four hosts across the networks, and they take their turns hosting all these shows. These are the ones with the scantly clad women dancing around purposefully jiggling in front of the camera (yes, prime time--meaning while we are eating dinner). Even the occasional serious show will still have these ballerinas to bring us to and from commercial break. Maybe they think they can't get anyone's attention without some T&A? And so passes our dinner with bright lights, shaking booties and overflowing cleavage.   

 

After almost a year of quietly enduring these spectacles, trying to ignore my inner voice protesting the objectification of women--tonight, with a delicious lychee martini that I made in hand, I didn't mind so much and I was even enjoying the program! Brilliant!

Do I regret that Sicily has driven me to drink?
The only thing I regret is that it took me this long to figure it out!

Wild Capers!

  

My husband and I went out for a passeggiata after lunch today. In Italy, the passeggiata, or evening stroll, is an integral part of life. If you live in the city, you do it downtown and look at the shops; if you live by the sea, you do it along the lungomare, which is a promenade that stretches along the coast. After getting a gelato and enjoying the sun reflecting off the water, we went back to the car to take a drive. We live in a small city that is pretty much surrounded by agricultural countryside, so taking a drive is more of an adventure into nature than a ride through town.

Going on a Pilgrimage

Every year, during the last week of May, the small Sicilian town of Petrosino is a buzz with pilgrims. Yes, pilgrims. There is something about the word "pilgrimage" that conjures up ideas of walking for hours, enduring some kind of pain or discomfort and waiting in line with the sick and ailing. But this Pelligrinaggio di Santo Padre had none of it. In fact, everyone seemed to be pretty comfortable--what with the huge parking lot in-front of the entrance, the numerous food carts selling snack food and the abundance of plump, well-fed Sicilians crowding the shaded benches. 

 
Like most things in Italy, this has become more of a thing to do in company than an actual act of spiritual sacrifice. But there was a full mass in the adjoining church and lots of singing of hymns and plenty of spiritual pride. Pride, of course, is never lacking in Sicily. 

So the story goes that the miners of tufo (the porous stone that most of Sicily is built with, soft to cut out of the ground, but hardens to stone as it dries in the sun.) were working in a cave when one of them came across a piece of tufo naturally shaped like a man. They were so moved and impressed by this discovery that they brought the statue to the church to be displayed. The next day, however, they returned to the mine to discover the very same statue exactly where they found it. Again, they brought it to the church, but alas, the same thing repeated again the next day. It had to be a miracle! What other explanation could there possibly be? 

Although I did not find the story terribly interesting, I was curious to see this naturally man-shaped statue that was so revered. So off I went on my very first pilgrimage! "Goin' on a pilgramage...gonna catch a big one..." Oh wait--wrong song!

We arrived by car, a fairly new means of arriving, as the tradition is to go on foot. So the 35 minute car ride was spent telling me all about how the whole town used to walk together in a three hour procession down the road. This seems like a crazy idea to me considering how fast the cars go down this barely two-lane highway, but Italians are crazy when it comes to the road. "Unfortunately", it was explained to me, people are no longer allowed to do the pilgrimage by foot because too many people had been injured by cars. Wow, I didn't see that coming! But just as well, because I really wasn't up for a three hour hike in the blazing Sicilian heat.
  

The entrance was very nice, a lovely respite in the middle of a dry town. It was packed with people dressed in their Sunday best--thankfully no line of self-flagellating devotees. We headed through the wooded courtyard to the sanctuary, where the miraculous statue is kept.

 
I was so curious to see this naturally shaped stone that spawned such devotion. And curious as to how it would it be displayed. I have seen many different religious relics and altars and strange displays in my travels. I have been to a church in Austria that claims to have a vial of Jesus' blood, a church in Germany that claims to have a splinter from THE cross, a church in France that displays a jeweled robe of Mary (which is displayed on a pint-sized doll--I don't think she was that small) and all these places have enormous churches built around these small relics, all because they brought the oldest form of tourist--pilgrims. And the more tourism, the more cash flow. So what kind of naturally man-shaped stone could compete with these biblical relics?

We headed into the sanctuary...
 

 
It took a minute for my eyes to adjust, but was that paint I saw on the 'natural' statue? There was a glare from the door that obscured his face. And...wait a minute...there is something glowing... I slowly shuffle along with the line of people, watching the women kiss their hand and place it on the plexiglass covering the statue. Yeah, there was something glowing alright--a neon blue halo. I am confused--I think maybe this is not the statue--that maybe it is a pre-statue, because this shiny, shellacked statue could not be the real deal. This thing is carved and painted and sitting with a freaking neon blue halo. In a state of suspended belief, I continued around the bend expecting to see the real statue. But there was nothing else. I asked my mother-in-law if this was it and she affirmed that I just walked by the statue. Really? REALLY?? I swung back around for another look, hoping to feel awed and amazed.

And well, I did. I felt awed and amazed that this whole story of a naturally man-shaped statue was found looking like this. Awed and amazed that all these people believed this BS story and awed and amazed that people used to risk their lives to walk three hours to see such a kitsch display. Am I just too cynical or realistic for this kind of thing? No, I have a lot of respect for traditions and history and I have studied and seen things that are much more of a stretch to believe. But I'm sorry, this is just ridiculous. They totally lost me with the neon halo.

But my true lesson was yet to come. Shortly after exiting the 'sanctuary', we ran into a bunch of relatives. After several minutes of hellos and cheek kissing, they were all anxious to hear what the American thought of their pilgrimage. Still in a completely appalled state of mind, I momentarily forgot that I was with Sicilians. And no matter what they say about something, even if they seemed to agree with me that the statue was silly, Sicilians are geloso--they have fierce pride for anything that is theirs. So when asked what I thought, I told them that I was really disappointed that it wasn't really a natural statue and found it over the top to have a neon halo.

Oops, I just insulted the family. The funny thing I have learned about Sicilians is that when they ask you if you like their town, or their food, or their stuff, or their idea...they don't want to hear whether you really like it or not--they just want to hear that you do. It doesn't matter if they complain 24/7 about the same thing, you need to like it. So the moral of my pilgrimage story is: if you ever find yourself asked whether you like something in Sicily, just say: "yes, it's great!" and all will be right with the world.

Until next time...

A River Runs Through Me

This comes from a collection of writings I did while at University in Wisconsin.
These are "Tales From the Tundra, circa 2000:

During my last semester of college, I needed to fill two missing PE credits. So I registered for a weekend fly-fishing course that took place out in the woods of central Wisconsin, and in the Wisconsin River.

  

I was excited! Fly-fishing had appealed to me for several years. I have always known it to be one of those pastimes that requires a significant amount of devotion in both time and energy to be good.

Growing up, I went fishing with my father fairly often (by a city-girl’s standards), but always with the classic fishing pole.

Okay, so I have to admit, most of my knowledge and romance with fly-fishing came from watching Brad Pitt in “A River Runs Through It”. I still remember those scenes because they were so gorgeous--the scenery, I mean. Anyway, just the idea of being out in the middle of a river so stunningly beautiful, alone with only yourself and your thoughts is very romantic. But those majestic images of a serene river at the base of the gigantic Montana mountains were quite different than the experience I was about to have.

On the first evening, we had classroom time were we learned the mechanics of the rod and tying the different knots. I enjoyed the discussion about fly-fishing: the history of it, the tradition of it and how it can become a way of life for some people. I also learned how much scientific information fly-fishermen have in their head. These guys learn all the different larvae, invertebrates and other bugs and memorize them not only by size, shape and classification, but also by the hatching season. It blew me away. The fact that they know what time of year each insect is out, and which fish prefer which type is very impressive. I’m sure all that information makes catching fish more successful. Personally, I think it's a bit extreme, and so much technical information takes away from the visceral experience.

Yeah, well, actually standing in the middle of a frigid river with swamper overalls up to my chest wasn't really the visceral experience I was expecting.

Unfortunately, it was early March, the water had just thawed and it was raining. Did I mention I don't handle cold very well? It was utterly miserable. I really wish we had nice weather that weekend, as I might actually have enjoyed myself.

I did love being out in nature and learning the proper techniques like keeping my wrist straight and “watching my back cast”. But by Sunday, I was so cold and wet and my silly plastic pancho was not keeping me dry.  I had finally had enough of being a good sport. It is hard to stay positive when after several hours, the only thing I caught was a head cold. But that's just as well, because I'm not interested in tricking fish into biting a sharp, metal hook only to rip it out their mouth and throw them back in. I'm sorry--I don't care how much we were told it's the humane way to fish--I don't agree. Therefore, I was not really wanting to catch anything, anyway.

All suffering aside, I do have to admit, there was one brief moment when I experienced that thing--that moment of complete Zen. There was a point when the wind died down, I was watching the movement of the water and hearing it ripple around the rocks...as I cast my line, it made that little thwip sound and it flew out so smoothly and glided down, as if in slow motion, right to the spot I was aiming for. It was as if in that very moment everyone else disappeared and I felt so present and focused on what I was doing. It was fantastic--that serene moment I had romanticized for so long (minus Brad Pitt, of course). But, shortly after it started, my serene moment was rudely interrupted by the chattering of my teeth and pieces of my wet hair slapping me in the face. So much for my moment of zen.
  

Overall, I did have a great experience. Fly-fishing didn't sweep me off my feet, but I can understand the attraction. I know that I would love it for the peace and tranquility of being enveloped by nature, hearing nothing but the sound of the water rushing past me and the birds singing in the trees...

But for that matter, I could just randomly stand in the middle of a river without the fishing pole.

Do you have any fly-fishing stories?

The Italian Police Turns 150!

Today was the official 150^th anniversary of the Polizia di Stato (Italian state police). Which is also ringing in the 150^th anniversary of Italy as a state in general. You may not know this, but Italy, as a unified country, is younger than the United States of America. Those of you have been to Italy have seen or heard of Piazza Garibaldi. Every city has one—Garibaldi was the unifier of Italy, conquering numerous principalities, reigning monarchs and an overly powerful church, bringing it all under one united state in 1861. So, in celebration of the anniversary of the state police, all across Italy each city had a ceremony with the pomp and circumstance you would expect from the descendants of Romans. Mazara del Vallo was of no exception and my husband and I were lucky enough to stumble upon it.

Such an important occasion brings out all sorts of people. There were those dressed to the hilt for the occasion, the presenters, the passers-by and the unknowing tourists curious of what spectacle they stumbled upon.

   

My favorite part of the whole thing was watching the interaction between the townspeople. Little things like this give a glimpse into a culture. I quickly moved passed the long line of blue and white police cars and motorcycles and focused on the much more interesting local color. I was able to get a great Sicilian street shot. Men standing around chatting it up, a short round priest, talking to a cop and a random gesture from some guy we can't see. It's got it all--even a trumpet!

  

These men leaning against the wall are totally classic Sicilian men, just hanging out, waiting for something gossip-worthy to happen. And no, their freshly ironed button shirts, crisp pants, polished shoes and perfect hair is not for this special occasion—it’s everyday attire. You won’t see t-shirts and crocs around here. And hello, the short little priest? Was I on the set of a movie? No…just life imitating art…imitating life. And I love that gesture that snuck its way in. Classic.

   

But, instead of seeing the ceremony through, we continued on with our main reason for being out that day. GELATO!! It was the first hot day of the year and gelato al melone (cantaloupe) was calling my name. So much for awards and patting each other on the back; it was time for some ice cream.

  

A Shared Lover

My Italian had only been back in Italy for two weeks when I spoke to him on the phone from the adorable shabby-chic apartment I was visiting in L.A.

He asked me: “How is my lover?” and I knew he wasn't asking about me.
I replied: “sexier than ever”.

In truth, his lover is also my lover and neither of us can get her out of our minds--and we're not the only ones. Our lover has inspired songs, films, novels and poems. She can be your most influential muse or the cause of your own destruction.

More songs have been written about her than anyone else--more movies have been filmed about her than anyone else. She attracts all kinds, from the destitute dreamers to the rich and famous; from low-life gangsters to Hindu gurus. She is Bold & Beautiful, famous and infamous--but also coy and secretive. Not everyone who meets her will know her--she doesn’t give it all up at once. You have to get to know her really well before she shares her real glory with you.

So who is this enigmatic diva?? 

She has been called many things, from "La La Land" to "Tinsel Town"; from "The City of Angels" to "The City of Broken Dreams". But perhaps she is best known by just her initials:

  

 
I had only left her a few months ago, but seeing her again makes me wonder why I ever left. She’s so beautiful and so much fun to hang out with--how could we have been so stupid???

I think of all the great times we could have if we got back together again. But this time, I would do it right--I would appreciate her more and take more advantage of all she has to offer. More evenings at great restaurants; more nights at the Hollywood Bowl; more lazy afternoons on cafe patios; more sunsets at the Getty; more hiking spots, more live shows, more days at the beach, more drinks by rooftop pools, more Sunday mornings at the farmer's markets...

Her allure is intoxicating and her food tantalizes my senses.

In our few short days together, I slowly checked off my list of favorites: late night coffee and cake at Urth Cafe; the special rolls at Boss Sushi on La Cienega; Thai spicy eggplant at Pink Pepper on La Brea, the BEST brunch at the Alcove on Hilhurst, the BEST veggie burger, "The Big Macro", and at M Cafe, freshly mashed guacamole and L.A. Lemonade at El Cholo. Oh, my list could go on forever...

   

But what is it about L.A.? 

What is that voodoo that she do?

Is it all the shiny, beautiful people? 

No. For me, it is much more than that. For me, it is all her beautiful neighborhoods with quiet, tree-lined streets and the only the sound of chirping birds. It is hearing at least five languages every time I leave the house. It is knowing that I am surrounded by artists actively being artistic at all hours of the day and night. It is laying on the couch, in the afternoon sun with all the windows open, feeling the cool, ocean breeze and hearing nothing but the song of birds--okay, maybe also helicopters, but after a while, you don't notice them anymore.

It is sitting in Susina Bakery on Beverly, surrounded by the glowing apples of MacBook Pros quietly writing scripts that just might get green-lighted; watching the Hacids walk by with little boys’ curls bouncing abruptly as they try to keep up with their dad’s stride; smiling to myself as a group of incredibly muscular West Hollywood bike cops come in for croissants and cappuccinos.

It is having more health food stores and holistic clinics per square mile than anywhere else in the world. It is Sunday afternoons on Urth Cafe’s patio on Melrose, sipping a matcha latte and watching the Aston Martins, Ferraris and Lamborghinis drive by. It is feeling giddy as I stand in line behind Billy Crystal to order ice cream at Milk on Beverly. It is running to the store to pick something up and getting caught in the middle of Oscar preparations.
  

It is the moment I stop and take in the incredible silence amongst the tall trees on Sycamore Ave. before going to a yoga class just one street over on busy La Brea Blvd. It is driving up Mullholland at dawn to watch the sunrise over downtown and color the hills and the Hollywood sign the most amazing pinkish-orange color. It is being able to eat everything organic and healthy, no matter where I go in the city and not being forced to eat at corporate chains. It is the deep, moving sound and vibration of the third OM at the beginning of my yoga class when you can feel that we are all in-tune and aligned.
   

Los Angeles is my lover, and I have to share her with about 18 million other people. She made her way deep into my heart and I will always think fondly of the good times we shared.

Sure, we had our ups and downs...the traffic, the parking tickets, the $45 breakfasts...but I still love her...and I always will.

♫ Los Angeleeeeez, I’m yours.......... ♫

 

Forza Palermo!

 
Palermo is the largest city in Sicily, and one of the oldest cities in Europe. These days, Palermo is not on the top lists of most desirable cities to see, but it used to be the hottest destination of ancient times (I mean really ancient). Palermo is still an incredible city though, as long as you can get past the chaos and the grime, it is actually a center for fashion, theater, and dining.



Sicily has a remarkable history of occupation from the Greeks, to the Romans, to the Arabs (who turned the island into it's agricultural splendor of today), to the Normans, the Bourbons and the Spanish. All these cultures have left their own mark, culminating into the unique Sicilian culture. Even the language, Sicilian dialect, is a mix of words rooted to all of these cultures.  It is even possible to see remnants of all these cultures along a one mile strip on "Corso Calatafini". This street includes a Baroque church, like those found all over Sicily, but also a Norman palace, Roman homes and a Phoenician cemetery. Tell me where else in the world you can find that!


And for the Americans with Sicilian ancestors, the port of Palermo is where they would have set sail for the New World. It was very touching to drive past the port while my great aunt was telling me about the day her father set sail for America to visit my great-grandmother. Now that is retracing your  roots!

At the turn of the 20th century, thousands of families left Sicily for hopes of a better life...and giant food. Yes, giant food. At the time, postcards of recent immigrants holding carrots or some fruit that was bigger than their whole body were being passed around all over Italy!

See? See how great America is? Everything is bigger in America!

And still to this day, we have carried on the tradition of ‘everything is bigger in America’! A great film to see about the exodus from Sicily to America is “Nuovomondo” (New World). It follows a family’s voyage from a small mountain village, where they had never seen fish, nor knew what it was, to the overwhelming city of New York. It won 6 awards at the Venice Film Festival.

Ok, enough about history, because I could write pages about it. Let's move on to food, shall we? Palermo has many great restaurants, but also lots of great street food, markets and pizzerias. Then there's the pastries! Sicily is known worldwide for their dolci, or sweets. You all know cannoli, but there is so much more: In the winter time, no family meal is complete without a Cassata Siciliana (pictured here, made with a thin layer of cake, sweet ricotta cheese and draped with a light green sheet of marzipan with candied cherries on top) or a platter filled with pasticini (bought by the kilo) which are mini sweets filled with sweet ricotta cheese, like mini cannoli and cassatine (mini cassata, also pictured to the left), rum baba', profiteroles, and spinge (little doughnuts with cinnamon and sugar). In the summer, it's too hot for ricotta desserts, so they switch to ice cream filled desserts.  Instead of a platter of pasticini, they get platters of mini ice cream cones sealed in a light chocolate shell, and when you go to a gelateria (ice cream shop) you get granita (an ice-slushy with fresh fruit flavors), and, of course, gelato. Okay, I could write pages about the desserts too, so I'll stop here.



Fabulous shopping is also to be had in Palermo, with lots of streets filled with great stores throughout the city. Via della Liberta’ is the main drag that will take you by all the stores and down to Teatro Massimo, the opera house. Not only is it a functioning opera, but it is home to a yearly haute couture fashion show. The swankiest spot, likened to Piazza di Spagna in Rome, is Via Belmonte. And here you are totally safe to get lost in your shopping because it is closed to traffic. So you have less of a chance of getting killed by all those crazy drivers! (it's insane--the streets are total chaos)

Palermo is an amazing city. It is loud, congested, hectic, delicious, mysterious, ancient, secretive, dangerous, endearing and absolutely gorgeous. Residents love it and hate it, but describe themselves as addicted to it.

Forza Palermo!

A Day of Remembrance

Today was definitely a new experience for me. We all went to mass at the church in Petrosino for a service for Leo’s uncle that passed away a year ago tomorrow. We (Leo, myself, his parents, one of his aunts, cousin, cousin’s wife and their 2 kids) all got to the church at the same time and missed out on all the seats. Leo’s parents went to squeeze in next to his aunt Maria (the widow) and the rest of us stood in the alcove behind the pews.

The church was ornate with several chandeliers made for candles, but modernized to use bulbs. This church wasn’t as ornately decorated as I’m used to seeing, but it was lovely inside. The priest’s voice boomed through the expansive interior, aided by several speakers along the ceiling. I couldn’t understand the service, but I never can when there is an echo. So I decided to people watch.

There was a couple sitting right in front of us and the wife was holding an adorable little baby girl. After a while, as the husband took the baby, I observed their interactions with each other and found them to be very sweet. He was also sitting next to his mom, who was the next in line to hold the baby. It was interesting to watch their dynamic--he was loving and playful with his wife, devoted and attentive to his daughter...but totally attached to his mother. It was funny to watch their body language; he sat closer to his mom, nearly arm in arm in her, yet there was a good amount of space between he and his wife. So typical, it is one of those cultural things. I see it in nearly every couple here. The bond is between the mother and the son, and the wife seems secondary. Of course, there are plenty of exceptions to this (like mine, thankfully), but from what I have seen in this town, it is more often than not. And who spends more time raising the kids? La Nonna (grandma)!

Viola di Mare

Here in Sicily, Sunday is the day you have lunch with your family. It doesn’t matter what is going on or how busy you may be--you always go home for Sunday lunch (not lunch by US standards, though. This lunch lasts a good 4 hours). So in that fashion, another Sunday has passed, filling our bellies with pasta al forno (baked pasta), carne impanata (thin slices of steak, breaded and pan-fried), salad and pasticini (little Sicilian pastries usually filled with ricotta cheese). I brought a kilo of chestnuts to roast with wine, but there was no way--we were too full!

As usual, after all the eating, chatting and washing dishes, we got home around six. And as usual, we didn’t feel like doing anything else for the rest of the day. In the US, you don’t feel like doing anything on Sunday because it’s the day to be lazy. But here, you don’t want to do anything because you’re so full you can’t move. So Leo and I spent the rest of our evening either watching TV or surfing the internet.

We had been wanting to see a film called “Viola di Mare” (Purple Sea) that had just opened. Not only is it one of those beautiful, artistic, independent films, but it also is a completely female production. Written, produced and directed by women (no small feat, especially in Italy). Even the two protagonists are women, in love with each other in a time when that was punishable by death. Plus, it was a period film shot locally, so we had to see it! Around 10:00, we dragged ourselves out the door, stopped at a local bakery for some arancini (a typical Sicilian finger food, they are saffron rice balls, filled with ragú, coated in breadcrumbs and fried--sounds weird, but they’re so good) and headed to the theater.

I hadn’t been to an Italian movie theater in few a years, so I was curious if they were going to stop the movie half way through for intermission like they used to do. I always hated that because it interrupted the flow of the film. I am a very particular person when it comes to watching movies. I don’t watch a movie as just a member of the audience--I like to get completely engrossed and lose myself in a good story. My physical reality falls away and I become a witness or a voyeur in an alternate reality. For that reason, I hate interruptions like that--even talking, the blue glow of cell phones lighting up, bad acting, incessant pausing (you know who you are)--anything that severs me from the story and brings my attention back to my surroundings. So, fortunately, the movie played all the way through without the intermission.

I really enjoyed the film. It was visually beautiful, the story was engaging and moving and I was completely absorbed in it.  When it ended, I had tears streaming down my face, and this is the most important part for me--the few minutes at the end, when I linger, in the dark, watching the credits roll. I let my psyche digest what I just saw, I come back to reality and discreetly compose myself (as I’m usually crying). Unfortunately, I didn’t get that digestive pause. As soon as the credits started rolling, the full house lights turned on, flooding the theater with harsh, fluorescent light. I felt shocked and exposed. Everyone was jumping up and leaving, and slightly disoriented, I too, jumped up to leave as if the theater was being evacuated. Then I thought, wait, where’s the fire? I want to see the credits. So my husband and I sat back down to finish watching the credits, as we normally do. But just then, as the credits got half-way through the cast, they turned off the projector!! And there we sat, in front of a dark screen--shocked, confused and feeling a little robbed.

Okay, I understand that we’re not in Los Angeles anymore, and it’s not The Arclight theater... Seeing a movie in Los Angeles is serious business. The picture and sound have to be perfect, interruptions are taken care of and everyone stays to watch the credits. Why? Because these are the people that actually make the movies. And if not, then they know how much work goes into it and they are interested in who made it, or know someone who did. Of course, I don’t expect the same here, but seriously, turning off the credits before it’s half way over? That’s not right--and maybe not even legal.

We looked at each other, shaking our heads, and got up again to leave. We walked out through the heavy curtains, and I was still feeling out of sorts. Without those precious moments for my brain to re-file my experience from reality to fiction, I was in a sort of fog. As we exited the theater, which basically dumps you in the middle of a busy street, a loud scooter zoomed by in front me, as if to yell “HEY! SNAP OUT OF IT!!”.  But I couldn’t--I was so caught up in the story it was like I was still there. What a great film.

Cinema Purgatorio

  
Tonight, as I sat senza marito (without husband) at my in-law’s table during a visit from my husband’s aunt and uncle, my eyes began glazing over.

Years ago, in the same situations, I used to be so eager to keep up with their conversations; listening to every word, trying to understand, translating in my mind from Sicilian dialect to Italian and then to English. But I don’t have that eagerness anymore. I have since learned the utter futility of it and I no longer find the point of stressing myself to understand their rhetoric.

For years, I would work so hard to understand their conversations or some long story or joke (seriously long--like a ten minute joke), and I would get most of it up to the end, proud of myself for keeping up and anticipating the grand finale...and then the punch line would always be some super-fast zinger of half words that I couldn’t understand if my life depended on it! Then everyone would burst out laughing and I would sit there, not laughing, disappointed and frustrated. God I hated that.

I have since learned that it’s not worth my energy, because in the end, I will still be lost. So these days, I just sit as a quiet bystander, amused by my own thoughts, pulled in only when I hear “eh, Nicole?” (their way of checking I'm still breathing). Then I give my mother-in-law a blank look and wait for her to explain the discourse to me in Italian.

But tonight, as I sat there silently, I saw myself as if in a Fellini film, with his larger than life characters, the humor of the odd noises and shrill voices coming out of the mouths around me. Hmm, was it a scene from "Armacord"?...Totally.

But I didn't like it...it was just a bit too crazy for me.  

Cut!--Scene change--I prefer the cool, smart, Roman fashionistas of Fellini's "8 1/2". Plus, everything looks cooler in black and white, anyway. Yeah, that's more like it...a perfect scene for drifting into a dream sequence...

My memories of glamorous dinner parties in my sister’s grand dining room inserted themselves into the scene...place settings perfect, crystal glasses for each type of wine, classical music playing in the background... All of us are dressed well, the conversation is mind expanding and we discuss dreams and ideals, politics and current events and make plans for future travel. It is all so civilized and wonderful...all I need to do is give everyone black frame glasses, sharp haircuts, black clothes and cigarettes...yeah, now that looks perfect...

“Eh, Nicole?”

Damn, my Fellini dream sequence is interrupted like a record screeching to a halt. I am abruptly grabbed back to reality as my mother-in-law tries to bring me up to date on her story. She starts off in Italian to make sure I don’t get lost again and describes:

“When I was at the hairdresser, the woman told me about the wife of Mr. Lupino, who’s all ‘tu-tu’ (insert gesture), who lives in the square, next door to ‘so & so’ (I’m not leaving out names, she really said ‘so & so’), who’s next door to Maria Nigura (that’s a nickname) who lives on the corner.”

“NO!” cries the aunt, abruptly. With the conviction of an attorney fighting for the rights of her client, she insists in a shrill voice:

“LUPINO lives down the street that slopes!! (insert gesture of sloping street) Where ‘so & so’ lives (I assume this is a different 'so & so'). You know where ‘so & so’ lives? ACROSS!!! (insert gesture for across the street) Directly across from ‘so & so’.”

Confused? Yeah, me too. I try to follow, try to figure out where I come in in this story, until I realize that I don’t. She just noticed that I was not listening and had to call my attention back to their conversation.

As usual, their tongues quickly slip back into dialect and their pace quickens to furious speeds. Somewhere between the “quidrus” and “quidras”, my eyes glaze over and I drift back to my dream sequence, far away from insidious town gossip...

---

I have often found myself in the observer seat here, watching them speak, watching them interact.  I know these people very well--they have been my in-laws for many years. But sometimes I feel so foreign--so out of place. There are worlds between our worlds and they have no clue. None of them ever came to visit us in the U.S. Some have never even left the shores of Sicily. I think about the simplicity of their lives: entire families all living on the same block, the husband that works 9-5 and the wife whose sole purpose in life is to take care of said husband. The grandparents that take care of their kids...and pizza on the weekends. It’s a nice and simple existence, and it works very well for them. But it’s just not my cup of caffé.

Speaking of which, it came time for making caffé (espresso), so I jumped up to do it--anything to break my time sitting in complete silence (god forbid anyone talked to me about my life or my thoughts). With my back turned to the room of animated chatter, I assembled the cafféteria (stove-top espresso pot). I hear my mother-in-law inform her guests that I am very helpful and the aunt agrees that it is much better to have a helpful nuora (daughter-in-law)--which is also a very skilled way to comment about her nuora not being helpful. Sicilians are champions of double meaning or back-handed compliments.

The espresso furiously spurts into the pot. I assemble the tray and run through the proper service:

Espresso cups? Check. Saucers? Check. Little spoons? Check. Sugar jar? Check. Napkins? Check. Perfect.

I bring the loaded tray to the table and try to get a word in to ask how they prefer their caffé. No one hears me over the sheer volume of their voices and the rambling of their chatter--even though I'm standing right in front of them. I stand there uncomfortably for a few moments, waiting for a break in their incredibly important conversation about what the neighbor has been up to.

Finally, I look at the aunt and forcefully ask:

“Amaro (without sugar)"?

“Sí”.

Then I ask the same to her husband and he replies: “with a little bit of sugar”.

I pick up the sugar jar to pass to him, but hesitate for just a moment, thinking that if he told me the quantity of sugar, it was for me to know how much to add for him. So I start towards his cup with the sugar in hand, when all of a sudden, my father-in-law stops me with a brisk lesson in serving caffé:

“Nicole, FIRST, put the espresso in the cup. THEN give him the cup, the sugar jar and a spoon and let HIM put the sugar in.”

Wow. Ok. Now I am officially trained in the technical skill of serving espresso. I clearly missed a course in Sicilian domestic arts. But hey, another item for the CV, right?

After serving everyone their caffé, I sat back down, feeling slightly wounded by my brisk, public lesson, and I wondered how they would fare in someone else’s culture. As I sipped my bitter caffé, I slipped away again, back into my Fellini dream sequence, back to my 'happy place'.