Almost Home, Away I go

As I said two entries from now, I left Chicago in a blinding snow storm, and was headed eventually to Palermo. One would think I would be smart enough to just go home at that point, but oh no. Instead, I had my wonderful friend Angelo pick me up at the airport, and take me to his house. As I got in around noon, he was able to leave work early and take me to his apartment, where he made the most wonderful spaghetti with tomato and ricotta sauce. Oh, was it good. Then he quietly left the apartment, and let me sleep for a while. I was to go over to his parents shop, meet him there after work, and have dinner with him. The next morning he would take me to the train station, and I would take the train to the airport, and off on my next adventure.
Above is a picture of Angelo in his apartment. I caught up with Franci later, and took a picture of her along with Alessio, but he was busy playing soccer inside her tummy at the time, so I have decided not to publish that picture. At any rate, I got to spend some time with Angelo's parents, and then Angelo and Franci took me to her parent's house, where we had dinner, starting with the most incredible ceci bean soup in chicken broth I have ever had. Such good cooks these folks are, and I had really missed the authentic flavors of Sicily.

But as I said, off to the airport went I the next morning, taking a low cost flight to Cologne. I stayed overnight in the hotel there, and then took an early morning flight to Ben Gurion Airport in Israel, to see Fran and my blog buddy Joan. She had wanted us to come to Israel to see the country since we first were in touch with her, and continued the invitations after Fran died.

I should have gotten a hint of what I was to be in for when she gave me careful instructions as to what I should say at the passport control in Israel. I should have gotten another hint when, after checking in for the flight and going through security, stopping at a bar for a cup of coffee, and buying a bottle of water to drink on the flight, I had to go through another, special, more careful security to get into the guarded waiting room for the flight to Israel. They wanted to confiscate my water bottle, but I told them I had just bought it after going through the first security, and because it was still cold, they seemed to believe me and let me keep it. Not only did we go through the metal detector, but each of us was wanded, and about half of the bags were searched. What fun lay ahead.

Fix your car

Before, or as you read this, after I get on to the next part of my journey, I wanted to insert just a little bit about how impressed I was by car repair in America. I had forgotten. Wow. Carl had to take his cars in for servicing at two different dealerships - or rather the repair areas of two different dealerships. Both times, I followed him to the shops, one in Walnut Creek, the other in Oakland. In Oakland, I was floored by the size of the operation. Indeed, I was so floored that I took a couple of photos:









Carl was met by an auto service or customer service representative, who made notes of what was to be done with the car. All of the service was to be performed as part of the pre paid maintenance program that Carl had on his hybrid Prius. A really nice operation. Before we knew it, his car had been taken away and, we assumed, his car was being worked on. We got in the other car, did some errands, stopped by EKS Publishers, nosed around downtown Oakland, and four hours later, we returned to pick up the car. The work had been done, the cashier charged Carl a few dollars by mistake, the mistake was corrected, and we waited a little while, and his car appeared. Ready to go.

This is so different from where I get my car serviced. First of all, I use an average sized mechanic shop, or autofficino. There are some larger operations, but nothing like the scale I saw in California. Indeed, it is so different that I went by this morning to take some pictures. Of course the guys came out and looked over my car, including all the paper work, to make sure everything was working alright. It was, and I am not due for inspection until September, but they wanted to remind me early because once I missed my inspection by almost a year, and they did not want to me to be stopped and fined.









When I do have to have some work done, I can call them and they will come out and get my car, or I can drive over and they will take me back home. When they are done, they bring the car to me, and I drop them off back at the shop. As in America, I get to look at all the cruddy parts that they might have to take out. It is also my choice if I want to stay with them and look over their shoulder as they drain the oil from my car. In the time I have been there, I have never seen them drop one little drop on oil on their terrazzo floors. If I hang around, one or the other will go around the corner and get us all coffee. At most, it has taken them a day to get a part for a car (the windshield wiper mechanism for the 10 year old Mercedes), but fortunately I had the Punto to drive in the meantime.

I was impressed by the service in America, but I have to say, I love the personal touch I get here in Sciacca. One lift, no waiting.

Chicago and Beyond

Leaving the Bay area, I was scheduled for two nights in Chicago. I wanted to hear some music, and I wanted to make sure that fog and snow did not keep me in the US too long. So I had an early flight to the Windy Apple, and slept most of the way. I woke up to find out we were circling the airport for a bit, and then when we landed, we never dropped out of the clouds. The fog in Chicago was so thick that, had it not been for the red light at the end of the wing, one would not know where the wing ended. The landing was smooth, and as we taxied to the gate, the pilot came on and let us know that the approach and landing had all been handled by computer, and that he had nothing to do with the smoothness of it. I wonder if the oohs and ahs I heard would have been the same had he announced that before we landed.

So I had a few days in Chicago, but it was a Monday and Tuesday night, not the best for jazz or folk. Besides, my rib cage was painful, so I did not take a lot of advantage of the city. However I did have dinner with Eric Unger, the son of a friend from Oswego. He is attending Columbia College in Chicago, majoring in poetry. He gave me a copy of his chap book of poetry. It is sparse, and wonderful, and beautiful. We had a lengthy dinner talking about poetry. What a wonderful evening. What a wonderful young man. He gives me hope.

On Tuesday afternoon, I was standing outside the hotel, deciding if I wanted to go for a walk through the rain, which seemed to want to turn to snow. I looked down the street, and saw a police car approaching with its blue lights flashing. Behind it were two huge American style cars, really big suckers, and behind them, was another of Chicago's finest's vehicles, also with blue lights flashing. I stared at them as they passed, and waved and clapped my hands as I recognized the next US President in the back of one of the huge vehicles. Barak was on his way to cast his vote in the Chicago Primary. I later saw him being interviewed on television at his poling place, but he did not mention seeing me. oh well.

The next day, leaving Chicago for Milan, and then Palermo, it started snowing in Earnest, which is just a few miles from O'Hare Airport. By the time we took off, there was about five inches of snow at the airport, and I was glad to get out of there, and glad to almost be heading home. Well, not exactly home, but close. I was headed to Palermo, and another adventure. And if I get these finished soon, you will have read about that adventure before you read about this one. Ah, the wonders.

Sciacca in Berkeley

One of the things Carl and I did while we were wandering around the bay area was to try to find some hints of Sciacca, or indeed, Sicily, around the area. this is a picture of the olive oil sold by the Genoa Deli and Italian specialty shop near the border of Oakland and Sciacca. I was pleased to see Cucchiara Oil prominently displayed in one liter bottles, three liter tins, and five liter boxes. I was even more pleased to see that it was fresh oil, not last years. I had a nice conversation with one of the sons of the man who started the shop, and whose grandfather had come to the area from Trapani. He knew some of the language, and when I started waxing poetic about this year's oil, he seemed happy to have the information to pass on to his customers. He also made great panini, even though he did not have the best ciabatta I have ever tasted (that is made by my friend Calogero at Panificio Americana here in Sciacca!!) We also found folks anxious to speak Italian with me in a small restaurant in North Beach. That man was from Messina, and dreams of going back some day. Bravo.

Oakland Star Wars

I am sure you have seen the movies. I used to wonder where they came up with such marvelous creatures fighting in Star Wars (II?). Could this be the answer?

Carlifornia

On January 13, I left Sciacca for a trip to California, to visit my good high school friend Carl. Initially I had planned to fly out and spend a few days with him in December, but as he was going to be a bachelor for three weeks in his beautiful setting near Berkeley in January, and because I had air miles to make the trip for little cost, I decided to put off that trip until the kids left Europe, I had caught my breath, and then make it a longer stay.

I overnighted in Chicago, as I did not trust the Chicago weather or Alitalia for me to make a connecting flight on a different airline in the middle of winter. It was a good thing that I did for two reasons. First of all, a cousin of my friend Calogero Colletti at Paneficio Americana wanted some cheese forms, or cheese molds, from Sciacca so that he could make his own Ricotta. I was able to drop those off to him when I was in Chicago. It was fun going through customs, and then getting everyone worried as I had checked that I was indeed carrying molds with me, and then seeing them shake their heads when the molds were plastic, and not living things. That is one of the fun things about American Security. I also got a good night's sleep at the hotel, which was very nice indeed. I had cracked a rib in early January, and it was difficult to sleep on the plane, and not really easy to sleep at the hotel, but I managed.

The flight to California was without incident, and Carl and I had a grand time. Music. Poetry. Wine. Art. Who could ask for more.

Bassist Marcus Shelby had organized a Music and the Arts event at the beautiful new art museum in Golden Gate Park. The museum was well designed, and I wish that some of the displays had been better hung, or that they had better art work there. When the interface between live jazz and paintings started, about 300 people crowded around the entrance hall, more interested in talking with each other than the good music being played. It was a bit of a disappointment, but I did get to hear and see Marcus, whose music I have enjoyed for several years now, both in Sicily and in the states.

Other musical highlights included two open mic nights at the Freight and Salvage Coffee House in Berkeley. The first was for folk singers, and it was the sort of collection of folks that give open mic nights a bad name. There were a few good acts, and a lot of faces apparently familiar to the usual crowd. However some of the music was just plain bad, and other bits of music were worse. The second was an open mic for singer songwriters, and the quality was much higher, and the new folk songs quite good. So if you get a chance, go to the first for a laugh or two, and go to the second to hear some good music. We were tempted by some of their other singers, but never got back there for one of their name brand shows.

That did not stop us from going to an open mic poetry slam at the Plow and Stars, also in Berkeley. Again, the performances were mixed, with some of the folks doing a pretty good job, and some of the slam poetry also making some good poetry. At the end of the open mic, and before the quarter finals to see who won the slam, two invited slammers got up to do their shtick, and one of them was excellent. The other was better than okay.

And that did not end poetry for us. We also drove one Sunday afternoon to the far side of Walnut Creek, where there was a small poetry reading at a little coffee house in a shopping mall. I actually read a poem there. It was no worse, and I think no better, than the average poem of the afternoon. I think the best part of that experience was when six policemen came in, each ordering some sort of drink that required mixing and grinding, making it almost impossible to hear the poetry being read by soft voiced, gentle poets of the California hills.

And there was so much more. Of course we had to make our pilgrimage to City Lights Books (and of course I had to buy far too many books there), and Carl took me to see how a once great bookstore in Berkeley had gone down hill when bought by a conglomerate. So sad to see such things happen.

We also went to a wine tasting in Oakland, by the container port. The wine was good, and the place disorganized enough so that they doubled our order on one wine at no charge. Unfortunately, we had only ordered one bottle, but it tasted especially good to us. Then we got a call from a friend of Carl's about a Dry River winery that had just changed hands, and they were trying to get rid of some of their old stock - being the current years bottling. So we drove up there and got three cases of wine that used to be 15 to 20 dollars a bottle for three dollars a bottle. Again, the wine was good, and the prices sort of reminded us of our days in high school, and Les Dorner's liquor store at the corner of May Street and South Avenue (or Frost Liquors, on East Genesee Street).

There was also time with Carl's son Josh and his bride of nearly six months. Josh had finished the first draft of a pretty interesting novel, and Carl and I read it and critiqued it, and Josh said he would work on a revision, if his studies in early childhood education, and Jewish cultural studies did not get in the way.

Claudia and Kyla returned to California from a three week adventure in Australia (they said it was Australia, not Austria, because there were kangaroos), and we watched Kyla prepare for her third year at Long Beach State. We also managed to go to a jazz club in North Beach where David Fathead Newman was playing. If you have seen the movie Ray, he is the sax player that was with Ray Charles at the very beginning, when he was into only jazz, and he is the one who had such a bitter break up at one point. Newman has lost none of his chops, and is still going strong at 75 years old. Bravo.

And there was more that we did. The San Francisco Museum of Modern Art was wonderful, and the exhibits varied from interesting to breathtaking. The one thing that really bothered me was a photographic exhibit of war re-in actors. These folks were recreating parts of the Vietnam war in an area of Virginia. I can not imagine the folks who lived through that mess wanting to be a part of it again. Ah me.

Casa. Dolce Casa

Home sweet home. And sweet it is. Here it is almost the first day of Spring, and it seems like I almost missed winter. Well, except for my first tour of the US, which ended two days after winter began, but I had enough snow up to my knees and cold into my bones to not want anymore of what winter could offer.

And it is really little wonder that I feel like I missed winter, or certainly winter in beautiful Sciacca. I realized that in the four months from November 15 to March 15, I was home less than thirty days. First was the trip to the US culminating in a return to Sciacca with Jon and Jess, and that trip has already been chronicled here. Then another trip to the states, (the left coast this time), a trip to Israel, and a trip to Germany. All are now waiting for their turn in this space, and I have finally gotten the energy up to start writing about them. Before I get into that, and I realize these will be published backwards, so I guess after I get into that, as far as the reader is concerned, I will admit that I did not take as many pictures as I would like, so I will be spending more time with words for the next several posts than with pictures.

Before, (or for you, after) I get into all of that, one more factoid. In the last year, if my counting is correct, and if I did not forget any little trips, which I just might have done, I have logged 41 different flights. That is just too much travel. So now I am at home sweet home. My next travel, or at least the next travel I plan, will be to Amsterdam in late May, with a group of folks from Nicolosi and the Sigonella Naval Air Station.

In the meantime, well, you have read it already by getting to this one.