Easy Rider

 It's an old chestnut (but there's a reason why old chestnuts become old chestnuts) that sometimes the most disconcerting things about your new home is the occasional scene that seems like it belongs in your old home. On one of my recent walks I was camped out on a bench on the Lungomare when suddenly a couple motorcycles drove by, and then a couple more, and then four more, and suddenly there was a small gang in front of the Barinello Cafe. As it turns out, they were all members of a local motorcycle club in the next town over, who were taking advantage of a lovely fall day for a drive.

There was no sign of Peter Fonda, Dennis Hopper, or Jack Nicholson.

Andrea Doria

 One of the nice things that Terrasini does is reserve almost every street name for a famous/influential Italian. In addition, there are also five benches, made to look like open books, that are reserved for famous/influential Sicilian artists, but more on that later. I suppose lots of cities in Europe do the same thing with their street names, but it's such a marked difference than the US. Maybe we haven't been around as long, but it may well be that we have a more superficial relationship with history. So, instead, we have an endless series of Mulberry Streets (including where I grew up in Rising Sun, Indiana) or Pine Streets or Cherry Streets, etc. (actually, we'd be lot healthier if we ate as much fruit as our streets names suggest). Anyway, I'm taking note of the street names here in Terrasini on my morning walks, and plan research them bit by bit - and in the process learn more about our new home. One of the streets that I tend to pass along quite a bit is Via Andrea Doria. Now, I always associated the name with the Italian ship that sank in 1956 off the coast of Nantucket when it was rammed by the Stockholm. Of the seventeen-hundred passengers on the Andrea Doria, forty-six died (including five more on the Stockholm). What I didn't know, was that the ship was named after the famous Genoese admiral, Andrea Doria (1466-1560), who was one of the most famous sailors of his age.

Truthfully, I knew precious little about the shipwreck and nothing about the sailor.

Il Gatto Capo

 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 - or rather, the Cat. I thought that maybe he was just passing through, but then he was there on every following visit. On a recent visit, once Janet got up to leave the cat jumped up and took his rightful place.

I don't know whether he goes home with the owner every night or just hangs around the restaurant and uses his talents as a championship mouser to earn his keep.

And I did track down his name: Charlie. He looks a little worse for wear, like he lived a tough life on the streets for a while, but he's clearly found his retirement gig.

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.

Italian G

 My son captured one of the pictures of me that Janet sent home, and labelled it in his phone, "Italian Dad."  It's not that picture, but another one that Janet snapped when I wasn't paying attention (I like to take the pictures, mainly to control the narrative, which is probably just the historian in me). 

This is a funny picture because it was right after I had accidentally shaved off my beard (I'll recount that misadventure some other time). Happily, the light behind my head helped hide the evidence. And I wasn't trying to cover up the crime, but instead was interrupted while trying to decide which pizza to order. 

Another Middling Success

 And the second box arrived. Again, up to this point we don't have a mailroom, so you just have to wait around for the blessed call to come. There just be some way to include a note on the order to just leave the package outside the door, although I can also understand why a delivery company wouldn't be too excited about that option. Of course, I could also learn the Sicilian (or maybe Italian) exchange for "thanks, could you just leave it outside the door?" Usually, midday, considering that "sono in pensione" and most things are closed during siesta anyway, I'm hanging around the apartment, it's not big of a deal, since our deliveries have tended to come early afternoon. 

If it made sense that the first item out of the other box was a cryptid t-shirt, it makes even more sense that CFL merch would pop out first with this one. This box included my Alouettes sweatshirt and a couple long sleeve t-shirts, so I guess I'm already ready for winter in Sicily. Now, on the other hand, flying back to Vermont for a winter visit . . .

One Year, Really?

 My oldest and dearest friend, Jack, just sent me this picture. He snapped it exactly one year ago, when Janet and I, taking advantage of the short holiday, had flown from Vermont down to Florida to see Jack and his wife Julie. Beyond how happy (and fat) I look, the thing that struck me about this picture is what a difference a year makes. In that one short year since the picture was snapped, Jack's company went bankrupt and he quickly found another job in Colorado, close to one daughter and his only grandson - and I retired, we moved to Sicily, and my grandson is due to arrive in late December. This is not a profound statement, but life is awfully strange.

Janet commented that I looked awfully happy, which I was. And why shouldn't I be happy, of course, sitting on a beach with my dear friend, and well-lubricated with adult scholarly beverages.

Poshification

 When Kevin and I head off for our CFL Trips of Excellent, the one common theme is that our choices are not posh. We did eat a really nice steak dinner in Calgary on the Summer of 2025 Elks/Roughriders trip, but it wasn't that posh of a place in the great scheme of things (although the steak was amazing). However, on the Winnipeg leg of this last summer's trip, we had to poshify the trip because our friend Cyndi was along for the first section of the trip. I don't hold it against her, mainly because of her patrician roots are hard to overcome. Here are a couple pictures I snapped at the crazy nice restaurant where we ate in Winnipeg (and I've completely forgotten the name, which speaks to my yellow clay Hoosier hillbilly roots).

Now, it was a seriously good steak.

I think this very un-Scudder drink was meant to be an homage to the excellent Debi Zale, who is a huge fan of artist formerly known as Prince.

An Occasional Middling Success

 I lament my consistent and embarrassing run of clumsy failures since moving to Sicily, but there have been a few marginal successes. Here's a picture of Janet holding up our first delivery to the new place. Once we were certain of our address (or fairly certain, which is actually true even today), and moved in, I asked Ali to send a couple small boxes of my clothes that we had left behind, with the goal of mailing them as an experiment. They were mailed the same day, and a couple weeks later the first one arrived. Inexplicably, the second one left the US a week after its sister, so it's still in transit. It's certainly not a seamless process here, since we don't have a mailbox and the buzzer is still not clearly linked to our apartment (although it's a sweat buzzer, with a camera). I taped a note below the buzzer with our names, what might be our apartment number, and my Italian phone number. We were walking back from the gym when we received a call on the Italian phone, and it was the very nice postal guy calling us from outside the apartment (I knew this because I handed the phone to my wife, who speaks much better Italian than me). We hurried back to the apartment and met the guy outside our door, and it was a beautiful handoff. Since then we have had a couple other deliveries, and we're getting into the swing of things. When I lived in Mumbai, part of the mailing address was "Next to the Overpass," which I thought was a joke at my expense, but it was actually a suggestion from the post office, and it helped immensely.

So, although the second box is still in transit, we'll consider this a success. For the moment, we're ignoring the fact that it cost $220 to mail two small boxes of my own possessions to me (thank God DOGE fixed the government . . .). The fact that it two (or three) weeks to get here, and was so expensive, was not the fault of the Italian postal service.

And, of course, the first shirt I pulled out was even more (as if I needed more) cryptid merch.

Potemkin Village

 Here's a great picture of Janet trying to will the elevator into working - or, more accurately starting to work. When we moved into our new place we knew that the elevator wasn't hooked up yet, although we did receive one of those classic Sicilian shrugs that said it would happen soon (the Sicilian equivalent of "bukrah inshallah"). It's been two and a half weeks, and we're still waiting. Actually, it's not that big a deal, and it's more of a source of amusement than anything else. The four floors up and down, several times a day, are a bit of a challenge for my aged and infirm legs, but, as I said to someone the other day, "I need the exercise," and, for that matter, since I walk a couple miles every day, I can honestly say that I couldn't have held up two months ago when we arrived. It's a small price to pay for an apartment that we absolutely love.

We've started referring to it as our own personal Potemkin Village (for those of you who remember your Russian history).

The Sunset Pictures Have to Go Somewhere

 My friends at home have long since grown tired of me sending beautiful sunset pictures from here in Terrasini (although I can't believe that I'll ever catch up on the number of stunning sunset pictures that I've sent from the Wadi Rum or Zanzibar). So, they have to go somewhere. One of the biggest selling points as we considered the new apartment was the view from our balcony. Oddly, we haven't watched the sunset from the widow's walk off the bedroom (one floor up), which has less to do with aesthetics than Janet being wigged out by heights. That said, I think it will become her go-to place for morning meditation.

We're definitely enjoying the addition of clouds to the Sicilian skies.

Now More Than Ever

 The other day we dropped our ballots in the mail, as this wasn't going to be my first election since 1980 that I didn't vote. The nice lady at the post office gave an appropriately Sicilian non-committal shrug when Janet asked if they would arrive in time to be counted, but we should be fine.

It would have been a pity to not vote in the last free (well, semi-free) election in US history. So, please, go vote!!!

Moon Over the Tyrrhenian Sea

 Here's a picture I snapped from the balcony of our new place the other morning. I'm an old man, and old men get up at 5:00 rather they want to or not. After six weeks behind frosted glass in the sensory deprivation experiment that was our first apartment, having access to natural light and a balcony has made all the difference in the world to our mood.

We'd enjoyed a beautiful full moon, and it was so lovely to see it still firmly in the sky early in the morning. Before I head out for my morning walk, I usually find myself reading on the balcony, drinking coffee, and waiting for the day to come into itself.

Worship Is of Three Kinds

 "Worship is of three kinds: some people worship God out of fear, and that is the worship of slaves; other people worship God seeking reward, and that is the worship of hirelings; and some people worship God out of love, and that is the worship of those who are free, and that is the most excellent worship."

Jafar al-Sadiq

Every time I reread this passage I am moved, and I've probably featured it on posts somewhere along the way. It is from Jafar al-Sadiq, a very important figure in the Shia branch of Islam. To me, if you're praying and you're only doing so because you're afraid - or simply because you want something from God - then I don't really understand the point of your faith (or any faith, for that matter). Why would you worship a God (no matter how you define the divine) whose relationship with you is either a glorified Stockholm syndrome or the equivalent of Amazon? We're only free when, well, we're free to determine our path. If we're not free in that most intimate moment with the divine, then the moment is stripped of its beauty and meaning.

Assettati Redux

 I wanted to toss up a few more pictures from the Assettati restaurant here in Terrasini. Salvatore definitely has a winner there. The other day we ran into our friends Gregg and Richard, and we immediately started talking about how great Assettati is. We're now about a twenty minute walk away, but it's time well spent.

OK, so they're not Maine lobsters, but the Mediterranean produces its own delicious varieties.

There are actually other things on the menu (the pizza is great - and I haven't even gotten around to the burgers yet), but I find it hard not to order seafood every time (and I'm never disappointed).

The other night we arrived around 7:30 (about an hour too early to eat in Sicily, unless you're going to Pizzeria TUSA) and we just about had the place to ourselves. By the time we rolled out at 9:00 the line stretched down the street. It does your heart good when someone who cares deeply about what they're doing is appreciated.

Help at the Gym

 One of the first things we did when we moved here a couple months was join a local gym, Le Club Active. At the time, it was about a twenty minute walk up the hill, at this was during our most broiling heat, so it was necessarily an early morning adventure. Now, however, the gym is a two minute walk, and the weather has broken, so this is a much easier chore. It's a pretty good gym. As it turns out there are a couple other gyms, practically one on top of each other, so we have other choices if we decide to swap. Most of the expat crew seems to belong to that one, so I suspect we'll stick with it for a while. Much as when I lived in Abu Dhabi and Mumbai, having a gym membership and a related schedule helped a lot.

The front desk staff does seem rather disinterested.

So I Got That Going For Me

 On one of my morning walks when we still lived down the hill, and after a blessed rain at night, I walked out on to the Longomare to discover, first off, a rainbow that stretched completely from end to the other - beginning in the sea and ending in the sea - and a few moments, later, when the original arc began to fade, a double rainbow. I'm assuming that's good luck.

My morning walks always seem to end up down by the sea, for the obvious reason,

You Never Know

 We don't make it to the Piazza Duomo as consistently as we did when we first arrived for all sorts of reasons, but it's still a beautiful place to walk through or hangout. Essentially, you don't know what you're going to see when you're there. A couple weeks ago, I think on an errand when I was carrying stuff up the hill from the old apartment to the new, I passed near the beautiful church and saw a wedding taking place. We've seen several wedding take place there, and what a beautiful spot, but I had never seen one that featured soldiers as part of the ceremony.

Pizzeria TUSA

 We're settling into our new place, and that, of course, means having our favorite local restaurant. It has quickly become the Pizzeria TUSA, which is a beloved institution here in Terrasini. It was founded in 1940, which is, beyond the 86 years in business, an amazing thing to consider when you think that it was founded in Mussolini's Italy in the shadow of World War II. It's still going strong. It's one of the few places where you can show up at 6:00 and get fed without a sad look of pity at you being such a rube for wanting to eat that early. The pizza is absolutely fantastic, and the atmosphere it amazing. Friendly folks and great food - it's easy to see why they've been serving pizza for so long. Highly recommended.

Janet is loving her pistachio pizza.

Spiaggia Cala Rossa

 Terrasini is sort of a glorified beach town (including the fair, which packed up for the season a couple weeks ago). Because of the nature of the rocky shore, there is not one long sandy beach, but rather a series of smaller beaches, carved out of the rocky shoreline. I'll be sure to include pictures of some of the others, but today I'll post a couple pictures of our newest discovery, the Spiaggia Cala Rossa. We're now living off of Via Cala Rossa, so I'm officially declaring Spiaggia Cala Rossa to be "our" beach. It's about a twenty minute walk to get there from our apartment, which means that after our walk all of the beaches are all equidistant. The biggest challenge to getting to the Spiaggia Cala Rossa is not the twenty minutes, but rather the climb down when you get there. Considering how beautiful it is, as well as generally peaceful and secluded, it's a worthy trek down and up.

It's not as horrible as it looks, made easier by the fact that it's shaded the entire way. I just tell myself that with every step I'm getting in better shape.

This is my go-to spot for peace and quiet, as there normally seems to be around five people there at any one time. However, on my last two trips I was joined by dozens of elementary school kids on a cleanup day (bless them for that) and on the next trip ten scuba divers.

Dove Vai

 As is very well-documented, I'm dreadful at learning new languages. The only bit of slack that I'll allow myself in this particular situation is that we need to learn Italian for when/if Janet gets her citizenship (or even more when/if I get my citizenship), but we're living in Sicily where folks speak Sicilian. It's tough, because we want to more fully immerse ourselves into the local community, but we have to put our effort into Italian at the beginning because the citizenship test will not be given in Sicilian. Our hope is that someday we'll come to Sicilian by way of Italian (it's two separate languages, obviously, but I still think that Sicilian will naturally make more sense coming by way of Italian than by way of English). It's frustrating, but it's not the Sicilians fault. Some day, inshallah. I do have my little victories, although they come by way of my brutish Italian and not any Sicilian so far. I had a small one the other day. I was leaving the apartment for my morning walk, and just as I reached the end of Via Giuseppe Verdi I saw two women pushing a baby carriage. I opened with "Buongiorno," which more people are greeting me with as we're here longer and it's becoming clear to them that we're not just quickly passing through. They didn't respond, but then I didn't really expect them to (why would anyone willingly respond to the strange, lurking old man with the cane?). Anyway, a couple blocks up the road they were looking at their phone, and clearly were a little turned around. One of the women backtracked and started talking to me, but I couldn't only respond, "So un po' di Italiano." Essentially, I was apologizing by saying that I only know a little Italian. The woman said, "Spanish?", and I could only respond, "English." I held my hand up as a plea to wait, and then, after pausing to think, said, "Dove vai? Supermercato?" It was close enough to "Where are you going? The supermarket?" She replied, "Cafe." "Ah," I said with a smile, "vamos." I figured she'd appreciate the Spanish. We walked up a block and I directed them to walk towards the Deco and then veer right. We were all reasonably happy, and the day was already proving to be a success.

Cryptozoology Bowl 2026

 One of the high points of the Twin Peaks Football League (and, really, the entire social season) is the annual Cryptozoology Bowl between the Shackleton Shockers (coached by the excellent Andy Burkhardt) and the woebegone Springfield Buffalo (coached by a very old and foolish man, could be anyone). Last weekend the SB took a fearful beating at the hands of the undefeated Shockers, and this meant that it was time to pay off the winner. As we've discussed previously here, that means that the loser gifts the winner some sort of cryptozoological merchandise. I was so certain of my impending doom that I handed Andy's gift in my Amazon queue before the game was ever played.

He's clearly loving the Scylla and Charybdis t-shirt, and who wouldn't? It's a challenge to find a t-shirt that celebrates both cryptozoology AND Sicily, so I had better win next year.