62

My friends from Sigonella Naval Air Station, Rob and Jacque, who live in Nicolosi, invited me to come over for the weekend of July 27th. It was perfect timing. It was my birthday, and I had been a little afraid of spending my birthday all alone for the first time since Fran died. What perfect timing. I am embarrassed to say that I did take any new pictures of the two of them, but to the right you will see a picture I took of them in Erice when they visited me.

As you can see from the picture at the top, they live on the slopes of Mt. Etna. This is a view from their back yard. Nicolosi is the last town on the southern slopes of Etna, and most of the buildings are fairly new, as most of the older buildings are not there anymore, thanks to the mountain. The views were breath taking, and the air was much cooler than in the valley, although it was certainly hot enough.

We met on the base, where they took me in to go swimming with them in the pool. It was a cooling relief after driving over for three hours with the sun beating down on my little convertible in temperatures close to 100° F. And yes, I am still a pacifist, and yes, I am still pretty much anti-military; but I have to tell you, all the folks that I have met, whether they be educators at DOD schools, contract supervisors like Rob, or actual Navy personnel, like their friend Mike, are wonderful people, who think about what they are doing, and do the best they can.

Jacquew had asked me what I wanted for an 'American' dinner, and I was really not sure. I did ask if there was any way to get an American style cake, as I said I was tired of the torte Italiano. She told me that Rob was the baker in the family, and he would see what he could do. We got to the house they rent in Nicolosi, a beautiful home with a wonderful view of the mountain, and they started to work on dinner. Not only were the three of us going to be there, but also Mike and his wife Ann, who visited me in Sciacca, Matt and Christine, a wonderful young couple I had met the last time I visited Maryellen, and Rosa, a Sicilian American who has returned to her roots, and who teaches in the local schools.

I told folks that I was touched that they were all there, and told them it was my birthday, and how I had felt I might have to spend a lonely birthday. They were all pleased to be a part of it. We had a real American feast, except for the fact that all of the wine was Sicilian. But it was good Sicilian wine!! We had steak, barbecued chicken, barbecued pork, Hawaiin Rice, Philipino Pasta (Ann is from the Philipine Islands), salad, veggies, cheese, sausage, grilled veggies, grilled mushrooms, and on and on. Then it was cake time. Jacque had said that Rob was the baker. She did not say he was the MASTER baker. I have never, NEVER had a cake that good. I ended up so full that I could not even get up to take a picture. We finished the evening with a game of full contact Scrabble, which is always fun.

As you can see from this picture, we also had a full American breakfast the next morning. That is a slightly better picture of Jacque standing up, with Christine and Matt sitting next to her, and Rosa with her back to the camera, and finally Ann and Mike. But look at the middle of the picture. French toast, pancakes, three kinds of sausage, bacon from Smithfield Virginia, eggs, blueberry muffins, coffee cake, orange juice, maple syrup, coffee, and I still feel like I am leaving something out. What a wonderful gathering.

After taking a little while to digest breakfast, Jacque, Rob and I piled into the Punto convertible, and drove up Mount Etna with Mike and Anne in their car, right behind us. We got up to the refugio, the last semi-permanent buildings on the mountain, where there is a hotel, and a ski lift that takes people even closer to the top, where they can get a specialized bus to take them to the rim on days when the volcano is not active.


It was absolutely amazing, as all there was above us were the lava fields from the last eruption. Mike told us that when he went further up the last time, they were on three year old lava fields that had still not cooled, although in the winter there was enough snow to keep a snow cover over the hot lava. We were at 2500 meters, and Etna is a total of 3,000 meters high. On the ride down, we stopped and took some shots of a house that had been almost completely covered by lava from an eruption, and I picked up a large chunk of lava to put in Fran's garden. When I picked up the lava, I faced the mountain, and suddenly felt moved to address the Gods of the Volcano, telling them that I was not trying to steal a part of the volcano, or to diminish it in any way, but that I was going to put it in a garden far away, so that in the future volcanologists and geologists could wonder at the power of such a wonderful volcano, that could deposit large chunks of lava so far away. When we got back to Nicolosi, I found out that there is a legend that people who disrespect the mountain and take lava are followed by bad luck. In fact, the post office in Nicolosi often gets packages containing lava from people who took it and have been followed by bad luck. I hope that the Gods of Etna understand that I did not mean any disrespect, but if I am now followed by bad luck, perhaps I will have to return it to the mountain from which it came.

At another lay by, I saw some tired laying on top of the lava flow. I hope that they were not thrown there out of disrespect, and I wonder what future archaeologists will say when they find the car to which they were attached. I think there might be a lesson there for tourists who want to drive up when there is an eruption on the mountain.

That night we went to Trecastagni, a small town on the eastern slopes of Etna, to have dinner at a wonderful little restaurant that Rosa knew about. Trecastagni has a beautiful church, with three patron Saints, and was also having a Fiera Meditteraneo, with almost the same booths as Sciacca.

Sunday morning was a wonderful, laid back morning, and we ended up going back to the Base for another dip in the pool. Mike is getting out of the Navy soon, and hopes to find a place to live in the Philippines or some other part of Micronesia or Asia. I wish he and Ann good luck, God speed, and a wonderful life.

And most of all, I thank Jacque and Rob for a wonderful birthday celebration.

Cous Cous at the Tower of Babel

Pascale e Totò run a bed and breakfast, and sort of a green house/landscape architecture place here in town. Totò had given Fran some good advice regarding her garden, and Pascale had shared some of her excellent English Language library with us. Indeed, when we finished books, they often went to Verdi Tecnico to join the shelves of her English Library. Total is the man at the top, sitting between a man and a young woman. When I discovered that they were also fans of the blues, and had some CDs I did not have, and I had some CDs they did not have, I made several visits to make sure our collections were completer. Their son is learning blues guitar on his grandfather's old German made guitar, and although he has only had a guitar in his hands for less than a year, he can already play Chuck Berry's riffs for 'Johnny B. Goode'.

At any rate, Pascale called and invited me to their house for cena. Totò, who is a vegetarian, is an excellent cook, and Pascale said she was going to have a group of people over for seafood Couscous. I of course accepted, but then called back to warn them I might not eat the couscous because of my aversion to fish bones. Totè assured me it would be sensa spina. (I've heard that before!!).

Anyway, I got there, and it was like Babylon, after the tower had been destroyed. There was Totò, who speaks perfect English, French (probably perfect), Italian and Sicilian (he was born in Sciacca), Pascale, who studied languages at University in France, where she grew up, and who speaks perfect French, English, Italian, and probably perfect Sicilian (she does not admit to this) and a few other languages; two Sicilian men name Rino (short for Salvatorino, (little Salvatore) if I remember correctly, who were given the nick name Rino for Salvatore, rather than Totò, short for Salvatore, or 'Ridu' short for Turidu, which is Salvatore in Sicilian, both of whom spoke Italian, Sicilian, English, some and some French, another Sicilian named 'Ridu', who promotes Sicilian wine in Brazil, so he speaks Italian, Sicilian, French, English, Spanish, and Portuguese; A Libyan named Enrico who speaks Arabic, Italian, Sicilian, French, and English; three free lance documentary film makers from Paris who spoke Italian, French, and English; me, and I speak, at this time, English, Italian, a little French and a little Spanish, and an English couple who speak English and a little Italian. The kids of the various people were also all multi lingual, and man oh man was I impressed.

Trying to follow the conversations around the table was amazing. People would fall into the language they were most comfortable in with the person they were talking to, and everyone would help out when a word was needed by someone. Of course, Ridu, when he found out I knew the origin of his name, started speaking Sicilian with me, but of course I did not understand him, and then he tried to teach me some Sicilian words as the evening wore on.

And the food. Oh my oh my. There were several kinds of appetizers available, including garbonzo bean salads, both picante and not picante, some fresh fish appetizers with spina so small even I could eat them, a wonderful fresh salad, and enough wine to float home on. And then the couscous. Totò is indeed a master chef. I had never had couscous like it before. First of all, it was moister than I am used to, and as far as I am concerned, this is a good thing. The grain stayed fluffy, and soaked up the flavors of the sauce in a wonderful way. And the seafood in it was exquisite. Calamari, cozzi (mussels), gamberi (shrimp), and cozze (clams). I ate myself silly. And it was all healthy. Dinner was followed by fresh gelato made by one of the men who used to run a gelateria, as well as a wonderful fresh cherry in Marischino Liquer sauce, which was to die for. During the desert course, one of the Rino's started playing piano. It was classics with a boogie woogie flavor, and went with the evening perfectly. I leave you with a picute of Pascale, our hostess, listening to the maestro play.

Yellow Flag Cena

It is always party time when Angelo and Franci come to town. We first met Angelo in Turkey, where he and a friend (Marco, or 'Urdo') had been sold a tour with Italian speaking tour guides, and as the tour company only sold four seats, Fran and I ended up being the Italian speaking guides, as we were able to find a lot of folks who spoke English, but few spoke Italian. The only place Italian came in handy was at shops, and we could count on Angelo saying 'Yes, I speak Italain! Yes, I am from Sicily! Yes, I am from Palermo! Yes, I am Mafia! Now give me your best price!' He always got a good price, and whether he bought something or not, he always got a little gift as well. Of course, he is from Italy, and Sicily, and Palermo, but he is not mafia, at least we do not think so!!

Anyway, they came down to stay a Saturday night, and they had friends staying at another villagio touristico nearby. We all got together for cena (the evening meal, often pizza) at a new neighborhood restaurant named Baniera Giallo. I had visited there with Klaus, Petra, and Lutz when they were in town, and discovered it was run by my friend who used to run Desiderio, the best carne (meat) restuarant that we had found in town. He had also made super pizza's, and he still does.

At the new place, they have a fixed cena menu which includes the pizza of your choice, the beverage of your choice, after dinner coffee or lemoncello, and all the dancing to live music you want. Well, the live music is actually a sort of Karaoke with live keyboard and percussion, and very good live voices, and it was fun and filling.

The couple who owned an apartment below our complex were from Poggiareale, and they are the first people I have met who have lived through the earthquake there in 1969. Their town was completely destroyed then, and has since been rebuilt. They were amazed that I knew their town, and the wonderful small cantina there, but when I tried to talk to them about the time of the great terramota, they did not seem to want to talk about it very much.

So instead of talking about those sad times, we talked about good times instead. Angelo, of course, put me on the spot when he introduced me to one of the girls as NOT having a fidenzatto, or boy friend. She had already been told about Fran and I, and she became very embarrassed by this introduction, even refusing one of my rare offers to dance. Nonetheless, the pizza was excellent, I now have a great pizzeria nearby to replace Hallo Pizza, which used to deliver to me, but has not moved into town, and it is a good place to go and party if you can find a place to park.

The second night they were here, we went to La Vela, the wonderful fish restaurant near the port which has become almost a tradition for me and guests to go to. Afterwards, we attended the second night of the Sciacca Fiera Mediterranio, or Mediterranean Fair, which is a collection of booths for people who can not get enough shopping in at the weekly town market. It was hot, it was crowded, and there were one hundred booths selling just about everything that Ron Popiel ever sold, plus more. I doubt much of it was made in the Mediterranean basin, but that is OK, locals and tourists all seemed to have a good time. Angelo, true to his nature, bought gifts for many of his friends and families, and while the 'list price' was from one to two euros per item, and these folks do not bargain, he was able to get twenty two items for less than twenty euros. I do not know how he does it, but maybe it is because he said: 'Yes, I am Italian, Yes, I am Sicilian . . . '

German Ricotta Festival

If the title of this entry is not strange enough, then I will tell you that I am using an older picture of my dear friends Klaus, Petra, and Lutz, to open this with, as it is the best picture that I have. The title includes German because they are, indeed, German. Ricotta, well, of course because we went searching fresh ricotta, and everyone but Lutz had some to eat. Festival, well, it is a festival whenever these three, or only one or two of them come to town.

These three rent an apartment in this complex year round, and one or the other or all of them come for almost one week every month. It is always a celebration for me when they come, and I was able, in an earlier entry, where you will also see this picture, able to visit them in their home near Mannheim.

Anyway, this time we got to go to Caltabellotta together early on a Sunday morning to have a ricotta breakfast. It is almost the end of ricotta season, and luckily there were not many people there this morning, as there was not a lot of excess ricotta to be found. Indeed, it is increasingly difficult to find fresh ricotta in the usual places in town, as the goats are staring sullenly at the milkers bleating: 'Lay off, buddy, it is just too hot for that sort of stuff.' And with temperatures over 100° F. for the last few weeks, it is certainly understandable.

At any rate, we got Lutz to give up his favorite breakfast of Pizza, Arancini, or a prosciutto and fromagio panini at Bar Charlie in the port area to come up to the mountains for breakfast. Lutz hates ricotta, will not even taste it, no matter how fresh it is, but he had driven up the last time he was here just to see the remoteness of the place, and he agreed it would be a good adventure.

As usual, we ate more than we should, and waited for cena time to have a little snack before going to bed. The next morning, we were finally in shape to attack Bar Charlie again, and this, along with going out to pizza in the new pizza place in town, was the highlight of their visit. You can learn more about the new pizza place in a later post, right here at Sicilianmama.

Stampa? Si! Paga? Si? Panteloni? No, Permisso? No

You remember, perhaps, or you can look back to the entry: Stampa Stampa, Paga Paga. This is a continuation of the saga. As you may remember, I was trying to renew my permit to stay in Italy, and they had changed the procedure, so I had to do what I thought was everything at the post office. I surprised the clerk there by having everything ready. I thought I had clear sailing. They had reduced the paperwork by double, and to save people renewing their permisso money, they had also doubled the cost.

Sure enough, I got a letter in the mail from Rome. I was to go to the Questura's office here in Sciacca to get my permisso. I thought I had beaten the system. The letter said that I was to be there on Tuesday, July 19th at 9:36 A.M. I am not making this up. So I went there on Tuesday, but it was the 17th. I was wearing shorts. They told me to come back on Thursday, and to wear long pants. Men are supposed to wear long pants at the police station, or they will not be allowed in.

Some things it is not worth arguing with, especially when the person who told the officials that I should be wearing long pants was the lowest ranking person in the office, and had to exert his authority somehow. Besides, now I know that if I want to rob someone, I should just wear shorts, as I would not be allowed in the police station with shorts on. Sometimes it is good to know such things.

I went back on Thursday, with the four additional photographs requested, a copy of the letter with the disagreeing date and day, my original permisso, and my passport. Despite the 104 degree temperature at 9;36 AM, I was wearing long pants. First, I had to sit and wait until it was 10;24 AM. Then they looked through everything, gave me back my passport, made (another) copy of my original permisso, and then gave me back three of the four needed photos. The one photo they needed they scanned into the computer, along with a fresh signature from me, to go along with the three on the application, and then they digitally took my fingerprints, which were already on file and in the computer file. I guess they wanted to make sure that I had not filed the prints off my fingers in the last two years.

Now, I have to wait for my permisso request to again go through Agrigento to Rome, and then back to Agrigento, and finally to Sciacca. It may also have stops in Palermo. Who knows. The delay is caused by the new regulations, that were made to simplify the process. According to section 8901, Part II b, subsection 34, of the codice stranieri of 2006, ultimate rule, which is to supersede all previous rules, no application for renewal of a permisso de sojourno will be approved on the first time through. I am making that up.

Anyway, the guys at the police station are friendly, and I always get to see people going through the process the first time, and getting frustrated, so I can feel better. I will let you know when all the stamping and paying is done, and you can bet I will be wearing long pants when that happens.

So you think you can speak Italian?

Fran and I have often mentioned our friends in this blog, however we have not always run pictures of them. I am herewith going to try to do that. To the left is my friend, and summer neighbor, Angelo.

Angelo is kind of special to me, because he always tries to encourage me, in a discouraging sort of way, to speak better Italian. The first summer we were here, we were sitting around and folks burst into song. Angelo told me that if I wanted to learn Italian, I should sing a different Italian song each day as I walked to and from the beach. After listening to the gathering singing, I told him that I already knew the words. They went Io da tada tada tad, e lei da tada tada tada. He looked around, laughed, and told me I was probably right.

Anyway, he always corrects my verbs, and if I begin to understand everything he has said, he starts to speak faster. Now he is on a new kick. When he sees me, and we talk for a minute or two, he switches to Sicilian, and then checks my understanding. He wants me to learn Sicilian, and he is being my 'Dutch Uncle', in terms of investing his time by saying things first in Sicilian, then in Italian, but not telling me specific words, or making it any easier for me.

If I learn to speak Sicilian, and I do want to learn, and I am beginning to understand it when people speak it around me, it will be because of folks like Angelo.

Bravo, amico mio.

Fantasy

One nice thing about living in a foreign culture, or one foreign to me, is that when I see something I only partially understand, I can make up a fantasy explanation that sounds really good. So when I saw all of this grain spread on Paolo's parking area, I knew there had to be an explanation.

Poalo and I agree on one thing. When it comes to food, local is better. Sometimes Paolo may over stoke the fired box on his wood forno, and the bread may be a bit black on the bottom, but Ignatzia's bread is the best there is. Paolo is always proud of the things he grows, and he believes his oranges are better than Ribera's, and that his olive oil is better than the oil from Castelvetrano. I really understand that. Think globally, but eat locally.

It reminds me of once when we were in Taormina, sitting down to dinner at a restaurant we had just found. I asked the waiter/cook/owner what he would recommend, and he said his mother made a wonderful lasagna. I told him that I would like to try it. He said I was out of luck, because his mother lived forty kilometers away, but he would be glad to prepare anything that was on the menu. He assured me that he used the best local ingredients, and that while no one could cook as well as his mother, he was pretty good. It turns out that the meal was indeed delightful.

But excuse me, I have gotten off track here.

I saw the wonderful pile of grain, getting toasted just a bit more in the sun. It did not seem strange to me, as the wheat harvest is almost done, although I had not known that Paolo had been growing wheat. The next step in the process would be for Paolo to carefully sweep it all up,winnow it one more time in the wooden framed sieve, put it in bags, and take it to Mulino San Franciso in the St. Michele area, where he would unload it, carry it to the mill, and watch HIS wheat being milled by LOCAL men so that Ignatzia could make homemade bread with the very best of ingredients. He would be careful that no other local wheat got mixed with his, because if it did, then Ignatzia would be using the same flour as all of the panneficios in Sciacca, who only use locally grown wheat.

So went the fantasy. Actually, I found out that the grain was for the chickens, and because Paolo had not repaired a door, water had gotten into the storage area, and the grain had to be dried out before it could be ground in one of Paolo's two grinders to feed the chickens. Well, at least the chickens are getting food that was dried locally!!

Acidente

Fran loved the idea that acidente means damn in Italian, so whenever we visited Amsterdam, she would go around saying 'acidente' because she liked the dam so well. That, I hope, explains the title of this post.

I visited Amsterdam at the beginning of July, where I got together with our old friend Donna. You may remember her from a year ago last January, when she and her daughter met us in Tulum. This is a picture of them holding her twin six month old grand daughters, Olivia and Pearl. Actually, the twins were not there, but we have the pictures of the rolled up towels, so maybe when they are older they will think that they accompanied their mommy and grammy to Tulum. This time, I got the twins small drinking glasses filled with Nutella, with faux Mayan astrology signs on them, to convince them further that they really were there.



Anyway, we did not spend time on the beach, as we had in Tulum. Instead, we spent time in coffee shops, DRINKING COFFEE! Here is a shot of Donna at the 420, a coffee shop that seems popular with Americans, and thus perhaps should be avoided. We spent a lot of time wandering around, looking at the parks, visiting art museums, and trying to figure out the Tram system. The weather did not really cooperate, so we did not take a train out to one of the beaches as we had planned.


We took the same canal boat that Carl and I had taken a few months back,
and that was very relaxing, and the glass roof meant that the light rain did
not bother our experience at all. While on the tour, they explained that
the buildings seemed to lean toward the canals so that when things were
hauled up on the outside of the building, neither the goods nor the building
were damaged. We got to see some folks trying to move a couch into a
building using the block and tackle. It really worked well. Sort of.
When they finally got the couch up to the top area where they wanted
to bring it in through the window, they discovered that not only was
the couch too big for the inside stairs, but it was also too big for the window.
We are not sure what they finally decided, but perhaps it was simply
to leave it outside, and use it as a terrace.

After wandering through the flower market on the Singel canal, we came across one of Amsterdam's newer architectural feats. The old style pissoirs had room for only one person at a time, and the person had to walk behind a green wall before using it. Now they have a whole new style. The city was getting ready for a 'white party', where 20,000 to 30.000 people, all dressed in all white, have a party at the soccer stadium, so perhaps they needed extra facilities for the folks visiting the city for the party. We did not go to the white party, and we left before the next week was out, so we also missed the black party, where the same number of people crowd the same stadium, only this time dressed in black. In fact, we kind of figured that after a week, some of the folks in white, if they did not change their clothing, would end up with all black clothes that had started out as white.

All in all a good and relaxing trip, and now Donna seems ready to again face the wonderful world of off campus educational programming, and I am ready for the influx of summer people. Accidente.