Pictures and commentary about Italy and Sicily and the travels and homelife of a retired ex-pat couple.
Monday, December 21, 2009
Circus
Everytime a circus comes to town (about three or four times a year) I start having Bob Dylan's Desolation Row go through my head.
"They're selling postcards of the hanging 'They're painting the passports brown 'The beauty shop is filled with sailors 'The circus is in town."
For whatever reason, I had never been to a circus until now. I remember once having an opportunity to see Ringling Brothers Barnum and Bailey Circus at Madison Square Garden, but I opted to search the shelves of the Strand for interesting used books instead. Fran used to go to the travelling circus in Tupper Lake when the kids were young. She would laugh and say that if they advertised 80 animals, you could be that there were 79 birds and one horse. Anyway, I convinced my friend Maria to go to the circus with me, along with her two children, Claudia and Alberto. I had hoped that her husband Mimmo would also come, but he claimed that he was tired so did not come over to the field near the stadium to see the second, or maybe third greatest show on earth. This circus was certainly not Ringling Brothers, or even one of the Ringlings, nor was it Barnum nor Bailey. But it was fun. The circus did not have any birds, but they did have three camels, four horses, four snakes, four donkeys, and a zebra. The performers each had a variety of roles, and it seemed that some of them were working their way down from circus life, while others were trying to learn the trade, and move up to better circuses.
Not including the roustabouts, there were about ten people who worked for the circus, with one young man, who had probably trained as a gymnast, also working as a juggler and at one point putting the horses through their paces as they pranced around the single ring.
The clown came out on several occasions to do cute little, silent jokes, and then led kids selected from the audience in a game of musical chairs. Claudia did participate in that, and came in second. For me, it was most amusing when one of the women brought around a large snake for people to pet, and I watched Claudia and Alberto climb over each other to get out of the way.
It was certainly a beat circus, but it was also a fun circus, and the next time a circus comes to town, I will be there. Besides, with only about thirty people in the audience, I was able to get front row seats.
My December project was putting a half wall up on part of my terrace. I thought it would make a good place to sit, a good place to put things when I have people over to eat on the terrace, and a nice frame for the view to the sea. My friend Maria recommended two brothers who were muratore, or wall builders. In the seven plus years I have lived in Sciacca, I have had to employ muratore to redo our bathroom, put in a wall safe, build a little storage area behind the apartment, fix the kitchen floor, and maybe one or two other projects. The good muratore are always busy, and the not so good muratore are always not so good.
This time I really lucked out. Not only were Maria's friends good, they were available, they did a nice job, and did the work quickly. I was able to use some of the left over tiles from the bathroom for the inner wall, and it dressed it up very nicely.
The condominium would not allow me to make a glassed in room in the area with the wall, or I would consider doing that. As it stands, the wall adds something very nice to the apartment, and I am glad I did it.
As I loose Hypnos' grip Hemera opening my eyes I reach to grasp one more time A fix to end my pain Like a junkie trying to kick I need one more kiss From the lips of Morpheus
The empty pillow next to me clears my head No head or hair to hold and smell Your body not next to mine again The topography of the spread Unchanged from the night of sleep Escaping
I stumble to make coffee Stuck on the first of twelve steps After on morning at a time No tomorrows loom for me Yesterdays and yesteryears before Give little comfort I face one day at a time I know my problem well
Friends tell me Through recovery That the Twelfth Step Is finding faith, a God of some sort It is Hemera and Noyx The gods of day and night Who have moved in I live with them One day at a time One night at a time Yet the habit of you Is too hard to break The loss of you A break of faith Which I affirm One day at a time
My recovery program Twelve halting steps Each one taking me Into one day at a time
Each sunrise wakes me Gives me one more day To find out what will happen And imagine what would have happened Had you been here
I have not recovered missing you Nor do I seem to be recovering The suddenness of your death Not allowing detoxification From the love we held.
Like the addicts I saw kicking in hospital wards Tossing feverishly and begging I stir and feel your pillow Search for your smile resting there Make my one pleading for just one more day Before facing the one I have been given.
I noticed something strange on the sand the other day when I was driving by the beach. There were several people stopped looking at it. I think it was a dolphin, or an ex-dolphin. It made me wonder if there is any market for tuna-free canned dolphin. This guy may have died of natural causes. Clearly, he did not just beach himself (or she did not just beach herself, I am not sure.) Anyway, the feral cats in the area had a field day for two days until the dolphin was picked up and taken to the local dolphin cemetary.
Last year I watched and chronicled Sergio Ricotta joining the ranks of referees for soccer here in Sicily. Sergio is 17 years old now, in his senior year at the ClassicalHigh School in town (a full academic high school, including Greek and Latin for all students) and will be headed to University next year to become a lawyer.He will be a good lawyer.From watching him as a referee, he will be a good judge as well.He is also the son of Fabri Ricotta, Fran’s cousin, and his wife Gabri.
This year, Sergio has moved up from refereeing kids league games to what is called Series Three.Allow me to digress for a moment now and let you know that this will be full of digressions, to help you understand my mind set, and if possible, Italian Soccer.Series Three is the lowest level of league soccer in Italy.Below that there are just pick up games.Each year, the top two teams of any league (there are loads of leagues in Series Three) have an opportunity to move to Series Two, which is called Excellence, and the same deal moving from Excellence to Series One, and then into the truly professional ranks of Series D, Series C, Series B, and finally the big leagues, Series A, which currently has 18 teams in Italy.
As Fabri said, Series Three players are split between older men who have seen better soccer playing days, but are still good enough to play a little soccer (shall we say 35-50 years old) and young players who are just starting out, hoping against hope that Zampirini, the owner of the Palermo Series A squad, will for whatever reason come to a jerk water town and offer them a contract after seeing how well they play.After several lousy seasons, Sciacca is still holding on to its team in the Excellence category.
On the Saturday before Thanksgiving, Sergio, Fabri and I piled into Fabri’s car and drove over to Ribera to see a match, and watch Sergio work as referee.The setting was perfect.The stadium had a pitch that was all brown dirt.We were allowed to enter at the players entrance, just before they closed and locked the gate, thereby securing the cars that the players drove to the game.It was to be a match between Ribera and Jopolo, another nearby town.
There were two bars just outside the stadium, and they were doing a very good business considering it was Sunday afternoon, when most folks would be eating pranzo in Sicily.In the states, I would expect they would be selling a lot of beer, with the occasional shots thrown in.Not here.Here it was coffee.And there were no rules about bringing food or drink into the stadium, but unlike the US, only a few people brought anything in to eat or drink during the game, and then it was only water bottles or soda.
We found seats near a small group of people who had driven down from Jopolo, and we were soon surrounded by folks from Ribera who came to see the match.Of course there was no admission, and the only thing that really separated this from a lot of slow pitch soft ball games I have seen in the states is that the players all had uniforms, all the uniforms (except the goalies, of course) matched, and the fans were made up of girl friends and buddies of the younger players, wifes and children of the older players, and a scattering of old men who had nothing better to do on a Saturday afternoon.I sat next to a twenty something guy who I think should have been a poster boy for motor scooter safety.He was wearing a horse collar, and his left arm was braced to keep it away from his body.Two fingers on his left hand were also bandaged.
The friends would call out to the players they knew, who would look up and wave.That not only happened before the game, but occasionally during the game.In fact sometimes a player would be smiling up at his girl friend as the ball zoomed past him.
Within a few minutes of the opening kick, Sergio had to call a foul.Of course the person who had fouled was innocent.Of course the team awarded the kick tried to move the ball ten yards down the field before they kicked it.Fortunately, most of the fouls were not serious (read painful), so the arguing was not that strident.And I did say most of the fouls.
Digression:I really do not know how hard it hurts to be tripped when you are standing still on a soccer field, nor do I know how much it hurts to be kicked in the shin guard.I do know that all soccer players, especially Italian soccer players, make it seem like they have been given a root canal using a black and decker industrial power drill with no pain killers.I also know that usually getting the referee to see things your way and give you a free kick eases the pain tremendously.
So occasionally, there would be a body rolling in the dirt like a dog trying to pick up dead cow smell, and then the player would be able to leap up and play immediately.
I did see one player block a free kick with his face and drop like a stone to the ground, with his hands to his face.I was sure his nose would be broken, as it was the largest part of his face.Sergio called for first aide, and a guy came running on the field with cold water to pour on the injury.Of course his team mates, wanting to be as helpful as possible, stopped the guy and took a drink of the water as it was on its way to the injured player.Fortunately, the ball had hit the side of the man’s head, and he was able to continue playing.Being as it was a player from his team who had kicked the ball, the other team was given the ball to put into play.Of course there were arguments.
Later there was a hand ball in the penalty area by a defender, and Sergio rightly awarded a penalty kick.The defending team, while they did not deny that there had been a hand ball, were furious enough for Sergio to give one of them a yellow card as a warning.
The second half became more serious.Mid field collisions would result in staredowns between the two players.Both coaches started to ride Sergio.Several times Sergio had to step in between two players to keep them from fighting.Usually other players would also intervene, but Sergio had to be there first.After one such incident, a player kept being antagonistic, and Sergio gave him a yellow card.He then proceeded to express all of the thoughts he was capable of in flowery Sicilian Dialect and standard Italian.He was awarded a second yellow card and a red card, which means expulsion from the game (as well as ineligibility for the game after).His team mates took him off the field, and a two liter bottle of water flew over the fence from the stands onto the pitch.A few people started to climb the fence.I was thinking of running in the other direction, but no one got over the fence, and things calmed down.
Later one of the coaches was expelled for his flowery language and failure to heed Sergio’s warnings.He did a perfect perp walk down the side of the field and out of the stadium
There were more scuffles, more penalties, and more complaining, but basically, the game was over with the only goal being on the penalty kick in the first half.After the final whistle, the players shook hands with each other and with Sergio.
It was all in a game in Series Three.An interesting brand of soccer, and I look forward to Fabri calling me for another Series Three excursion.
I posted the three shots of Fran as a Thanksgiving Turkey on facebook, and have decided to put them here as well, along with two of me that I found (when a double crown had fallen out, so that I could look old time contadino Sicilian without trying). The shots of Fran were taken at Thanksgiving that we shared with her son Jon, Stephanie his (now) wife (or is he her husband??) and their friend John Camera. Fran was feeling tired during the trip, however none of us had a thought that within fifteen days she would be dead. We had a good time in Amsterdam with the young ones, and even the Turkey liked it, because for Thanksgiving Dinner we had pancakes!!
Rocco Forte, both a person and a high end golf resort chain, has built a 45 hole golf resort across the Sciacca Bay from me. In fact, I can see the old plague tower (a tower used to look for ships that might be carrying the plague during the 1500's) and some of the hotel buildings from my terrace.
I was pretty interested in the building of the place, partly because I was a golfer for a while in the states, and partly because I like to see some nice development come to Sciacca. I did have some misgivings about the project. Particularly, it seems that it may get too hot here in the summer with too little water to have a good golf course. The proximity of the course to the sea could create some problems with course fertilizer leaching into the sea, hurting the fishing industry locally. Finally, I hoped that the resort would not be gated, making it difficult for guests to come in to Sciacca and see some of the sites, shop for ceramics, and have wonderful fresh fish dinners.
My friend Lutz and I went on a tour of the facility. It seems nice. That may sound like I am damning it with faint praise, but in fact, that is what I mean to do. It is nice. It is not wonderful. It is not (to my way of thinking) worth 810 Euro a night (1200 dollars a night) for a room, breakfast, and one round of golf (cart or caddy not included). They do have a beautiful view of Capo San Marco (and my apartment), as well as a view inland of an old Castle that may have been used by royalty fleeing the incursions of Garibaldi in 1860 (see the classic movie Il Gattopardo, or The Leopard, which won a few Oscars and starred Claudia Cardinale). However, having a course brown out after very little play, and during a relatively cool summer, makes me think that I did just about right in leaving my clubs in the states. If you want to come here, and you insist on golfing while you are here, check out their website first, and bring your wallet. Even though I toured the facility after a few rain storms, parts of the course were browned out, and parts still were unable to grow anything.
I was pleased to have a few guests this fall. Well, actually I did not host them. In the top picture on the left is Chris and Ni, who have a boat tied up in port, sitting at the table on my terrace with Klaus, one of my friends from Germany. Klaus is replaced in the second photo by Lutz, who is another friend from Germany. I made Cincinnati style chili for everyone for pranzo.
Chris and Ni are from California, where Ni was in the development development business, before he got smart and retired to spend his life between his place in Stockton, a place in Hawaii, and a beautiful catamaran on which they live about six month a year when they come to Italy to visit their daughter and grandchildren.
Unfortunately I will miss them when I am in California in February, however, they have found the port facilities here to be good for their boat, and I look forward to their return in April. I also had some guests that I was not quite as happy about having come here. I went outside one morning. The early sun had warmed the terrace up nicely, and the floor of the terrace was full of little flies. Because I do spray for insects around the house, they were all in various stages of ill health, and I swept them off the porch. I looked into the garden, and saw dark spots that were caused by them slowly coming out of what must have been their nests. Many were already dead there. I could not help but think of the movies of the plague years, when people would go through the streets with carts, calling 'Bring Out Your Dead'. Initially I thought I had hundreds of these little flies, but later I revised the estimate up to thousands, and tens of thousands. I am not sure, the true number might be millions. The last picture is a shot of some of the dead insect bodies piled up near the steps to my house.
Later, I saw a wild dog come by and eat most of them.
Every summer, boats appear in Baia Ranella, the beach that I live above, tied to anchors. They are brought in by folks who will be spending the summer here, and are used for leisure boating, fishing, and to a certain extent showing people that they own a boat. They are usually tied up in the bay before the people arrive, and are usually moved to safer ground after most folks have moved themselves back to their winter home. Sometimes they are left tied up a little too long, and a little too loosely. We had a huge storm here in September, which is early, and just as in years past, some boats were lost. Fran used to call them sand boats, because often they would sit on the beach and slowly fill with sand, break apart, and finally be removed the next spring. Usually there is one sand boat a year. This year, we had a bumper crop. 4 boats were lost. While it is sad to see the boats destroyed, we wondered what was wrong with the people who knew that this might happen, as they simply left their boats there too long. I have known two people who lost boats this way, and they were both philosophical about it. They also had their new boats out of the water when the storm came. This year, as I was taking some of the pictures, a man came over and complained that no one had saved his boat. In fact, he said, no one had told him the weather would turn bad. I am so sorry, but I had little sympathy. I do, however, salute Sr. Licata, who keeps his boat in the bay all year, and everyday he comes and make sure that it is tied to its anchors and to a post on shore, so that the sea will not batter it or move it onto the beach. It is good to see someone take good care of his boat, and I wish him good fishing as he takes his boat out two or three days a week.
A new film is out, named Baarià, which is the old Sicilian for the current town of Bagharia. And that is an important change.
During the days of Mussolini, which corresponded with the early days of (Italian invented) radio, one of Il Duce's initiatives was to bring Italy more closely united culturally, by promoting a single language for all of what is now Italy. All radio programming had to be in Italian, which is based on Florentine as spoken in Rome. The many dialects of Latin that were also spoken in modern Italy were to become extinct. All place names that were in local dialect were changed, either to Italian equivalents (as in Bagharia from Baarià, or Sciacca from the Arabic Xacca) or changed entirely (as in Porto Empodecles from Vigata). In addition, people could be fined for speaking dialect in public, so people taking their passagiata in the village square had to be careful about who was listening, or had to speak Italian. Hereabouts, speaking Sicilian was done only at home, behind the closed doors where Pranzo was served each day. Now, even though some of the adolescents I know consider those who speak Sicilian as a first language, and Italian as a second language as ignorant, the schools of Sicily are starting to teach Sicilian at the elementary level.
But (of course) I digress. The film is about a young boy, poor, as were most people in the mezzogiorno, and what it was like to grow up in Baarià. It shows how he is pushed to the Communist party by the excesses of Mussolini's brown shirts, and the excesses of the land lords, and of the mafia. It captures very well what I imagine to be the culture of the time, a culture I still get hints of when I talk with old men in the plaza and in the countryside.
I will not talk about the story, except to say that it holds together very well, and could very well be a real biography. The cinematography is excellent. The scenery brought tears to my eyes as I saw inimitable shots of the Sicilian countryside. The acting was superb, from the main characters to the pen seller at the corner. Even Salvo Piccone was able to take a non-comedic role and handle it well, and he is one of the best physical comedy actors on the scene in Italy these days. And the female lead - she is to die for.
If ever it gets to American theaters, it is a must see. Whether it is dubbed, subtitled, or only in the original Sicilian-Italian mix, it is worth seeing, and understandable. It may be nominated for an Oscar this year in the foreign film category, and perhaps should just go on to best film of the year. It is that good.
Well, the summer seemed gone a few days ago. While it had not rained since mid May, suddenly it rained. The sky was as light as noon from three in the morning to four in the morning. The lightning was (almost) unbelievable. Hail came down, hurting the grapes that had not yet been harvested in neighboring Ribera, as well as the developing citrus crop. We lost power with the frequency of a Banana Republic Governor in the bad old days.
The next day, the waves came in, covering the beach with white water, and leaving piles of seaweed on what had been a sandy expanse before. Gone were the summer people, safely back in Palermo, where they had to deal with flooded streets, underpasses turned to swimming pools, and driving conditions more impossible than usual. In other words, it was winter at its worst. It even cooled down enough to use a blanket on the bed, when the thunder did not keep me awake. The wind was bad enough so that I could not even sit out on the terrace to watch the magical light show without getting wet.
Two days later, it is summer again. The views are from Vega de Mullo in the San Michele district of Sciacca. Yes, that is indeed Capo San Marco in the distance, including the apartments in which I live. The beach is still covered with seaweed, but I can live with that, and the beauty.
It reminds me that one of the great things about Sciacca is that it is off the beaten path. There is no autostrade to Sciacca, nor is there a train (now). It keeps easy travelling tourists at a bit of a distance, and that is fine with me.
I also can not help but thinking of Waiting for Godot when I see it, with two characters standing at this crossing, having their conversation, waiting for Godot, waiting for a train, is it the same? Does it matter?
It is easy to find old, unused train stations around, some still having the signage. But to find a crossing, where there are neither rails nor a cross street, somehow that is special to me.
So this is indeed one of my favorite places. If you want to see it, it is right where it has always been.
