La Gata

 One of the many things that makes Pizzeria TUSA such a great place to eat is the cat who clearly runs the show. On an early visit I noticed a cat sitting on a chair just inside the restaurant, and it seemed so out of place that I initially thought it was a bunched-up sweater thrown casually onto the chair. As it turns out, it was a cat. I thought that maybe he was just passing through, but then he was there on every following visit. Once Janet got up to leave the cat jumped up and took her rightful place.

I don't know whether she goes home with the owner every night or just hangs around the restaurant and uses her talents as a championship mouser to earn her keep. Clearly, I need to track down her name.

La Befana Came Early

 We had another success the other day, and this one was not middling: Janet's two boxes, full of some of her most beloved books, arrived. Unlike her husband, who relied upon the US postal service to start the process, Janet used a company called Send My Bags, whose job it is to deliver your treasures door to door. Whereas my boxes book two and then three weeks to arrive, hers made it in barely a week. True to their word, they did pick up the boxes at the door of the cabin in Calais and delivered them here to our apartment building in  Terrasini. It was not without incident, of course, because this is Italy. They picked up the boxes in Vermont on a Monday, a day earlier than they were supposed to (happily, my son was on top of things), and then on Saturday Janet received an email from the Italian customs folks telling her that we missing some shipping number. I encouraged her to pitch it back to the company, and they got involved, and we were told that it would take a week to play itself out. This is fine, of course, because international shipping, like travel, is never a seamless process. Fast forward to Monday morning, when I was out and about on my early walk and trip to the gym. I had not brought my Italian phone, because I wasn't expecting to get any arrivals, and the concomitant call, for a week. I open the door and see two Chewy boxes next to the elevator, and my first thought was, "Man, Janet is going to be so pissed that Chewy does actually deliver to Italy," and then I looked closer and realized that they were Janet's boxes, which had somehow arrived thirty-six hours after we were told that they'd be held up for a week. How that happened, and how they got into the building, is a mystery, much like every part of life in Sicily. The only non-win was me being left to push the boxes up four flights, two steps at a time, powered by my weakened legs. Still, just looking at Janet's face when she returned a day later made the pain completely worthwile.

It was much like opening a bunch of La Befana presents, and it made her very happy to be surrounded by actual, physical books again. She also purchased some books in Turin on her recent trip, so the place is beginning to feel a lot more like home. Now, we have to track down some bookcases.

Her beloved Crone tarot deck arrived as well, and I think you can see how happy this made her.

Il Mio Tavolo Per La Mia Colazione

 I walk by the Barinello almost every morning on my walk along the Lungomare. Normally, I pass it by, not because it's not a wonderful place to grab a cup of coffee, but often it's packed and also because of my loyalty to La Sirenetta (although they're usually packed as well, but it was the first place we ever stopped for coffee here in Terrasini - and it was our wireless safe haven in the first month in the initial apartment). Yesterday, however, I looked into the patio as I was passing by and saw that it was empty - and this meant that the prized window seat was open - so I made a quick change of plans. The patio was wide open because of the bitter cold snap (meaning that it was 67), and all the Sicilians were inside and layered up. For once, coming from Vermont benefitted me.

Not a bad place for your morning caffe e cornetto.

These Two

 My daughter-in-law Ali just sent me this lovely picture, of she and my son in front of the waterfall out behind our cabin in Calais. Not living in the cabin is really hard on us, certainly more so on Janet than on me, but knowing that these two are bringing so much life (and soon even more life) and love and joy to the place makes us very happy.

Little David Copperfield won't let his mom make this climb down to the base of the waterfall for too much longer.

Heel Turn

 As my friends will testify, one of my biggest talking points over the last few decades has been the merging, at least in the popular imagination, of politics and professional wrestling (although, considering that Linda McMahon serves in the Trump administration, I guess it's a lot more than mere metaphor). I think I noted all the way back in the 80s during the Reagan years, where you didn't know whether you were watching a GOP event or a Hulk Hogan match. To me, the most glaring and idiotic example was the chanting of "USA! USA!" at both. We've identified the foreign bad guy, usually a Muslim or some easily identifiable Middle Easterner (Iron Sheikh, anyone?), to which the witless crowd starts changing "USA! USA!" as part of cult-like uniform devotion. It's so clear now, with Ilhan Omar playing the role nicely for the xenophobic, misogynistic, racist cult-members: woman, check; woman of color, check; Muslim; check; immigrant, check - and mate. And this is no doubt why I found it so troubling that the Democrats in their last Convention started the dreadful "USA! USA!" chant, whereas they would (and we would have) been much better served by initiating a New Deal or Great Society program for this generation.

The other side of the unholy wrestling and politics merger - and what we're seeing in real time - is the classic Heel Turn. As fans of professional wrestling know, one of the standard tropes of the professional is the Heel Turn, where the good guy (Face) transitions into a bad guy (Heel) in some very public act of betrayal. One of Ric Flair's great talents was his ability to exist in that liminal space between the two worlds, Heel and Face, and slide back and forth between them. It's a skill, as anyone who saw John Cena's painful failed attempt at a Heel Turn can tell you. And this is where the misogyny that rests at the heart of professional wrestling becomes very apparent, as the Heel Turn is often made official by some act of violence, either physical or emotional, against a woman. And this brings us back to Ilhan Omar, because it's not simply that she's a person of color or a Muslim or an immigrant - it's also that she's a woman. 

Right now the US is in the midst of an extraordinary (and extraordinarily painful) Heel Turn, as the current administration and its Republican Senate and House enablers, turn their back on decades of domestic and international promises. When people, commenting on these Trumpian crimes, will point out, "The cruelty is the point," they're more accurate than they know. The cruelty and double-dealing lies at the heart of the Heel Turn. When commentators question why common Americans don't respond more passionately in opposition to this burgeoning Fascist state, they're essentially missing the point - and not simply because way too many of our fellow Americans are borderline sadists. Instead, these folks are existing (sort of) in the fantasy world that they've grown up watching in the wrestling world, and they've merely transferred it to the political (which was the dream of its architects in the first place). If you can't tell the difference - or don't care to tell the difference - between professional wrestling and real sport, then AI has some political material for you to consume. In professional wrestling the Hell Turn is never permanent, as the performer simply turns back to a Heel later. However, as we're discovering to our horror, in politics sometimes you don't the Heel Turn is permanent.

Two Excellent Gentlemen in Ottawa

 In the mad preparation for the move to Sicily I haven't written nearly enough about the various and sundry Canada and CFL adventures this summer. I promise to make up for that. I'll just post a couple pictures of my dear friends Kevin and Erik, that I snapped on our trip to Ottawa for the REDBLACKS game. The game was a bit of a dog, since, well, the REDBLACKS are sort of historically terrible - and may actually finish the season without a win. Still, Ottawa is a great town, and going to a CFL game, any CFL game, is still a wonderful time. And this is especially true when you're at the game with two of your best friends.

We stopped out a posh coffeeshop near the stadium, mainly to get out of the heat. It wasn't as miserably hell hot as the Winnipeg/Regina (especially the Saskatchewan game, which clearly prepared me for coming to Sicily in August).

We stopped for a more substantial meal right outside the stadium, which left us sitting outside, grabbing as much shade as possible (Kevin, as usual, the sensible one, was more successful in shade management). I had forgotten how much French you hear in Ottawa, which is in generally Anglophone Ontario, but is both close to the border with Quebec but also, I suspect more importantly, takes its position as the nation's capital very seriously, thus emphasizing English and French. Our waiter moved easily from English to French with every table.

Erik, either reflecting on life or sorting out the menu or making last minute changes to his CFL fantasy team.

The Glamorous Life in Italia

 There are the big differences when you're overseas, and then there are the small ones. If you've lived overseas you know that one of the smallest (but which has the biggest consequences) relates to washing your clothes. When I lived in Abu Dhabi one of the reasons why I insisted on moving from the hyper posh Radisson Blue to the long-term place next door was having my own washing machine, as compared to carefully counting out the number of free clothes that we were allowed each week (although it was awfully damn posh there - of course, having free access to all that we could drink every night at happy hour would have killed me eventually anyway). Here's a picture of our laundry rack on our balcony at our new place. What you learn very quickly when you live overseas is that owning an expansive and separate washer and dryer is very much an American phenomenon. Here we have a washer/dryer (much I had when I lived in Abu Dhabi or in the places I've rented in Portugal) in one machine. It's a dryer in the sense that a few more spins leaves the clothes "dryer" than simply coming out of the washer alone. You still need to hang them up, which is not a problem when you live in a place as hot and sunny as Sicily.

And this is so much better than what we dealt with at our first apartment in Terrasini, when we had to set up the rack on the sidewalk outside the front door, hoping that the wind or the motorcycles didn't knock it over. And that's not even mentioning the neighbors who would unplug our water pump - and even lock the door to the water pump - so that we couldn't do laundry if we wanted to. Here we have privacy, and you can freely hang out your underwear without inspiring community commentary.