On the Other Hand

 Of course, the other side of that weather breaking, is, well, the weather breaking, and we've had some true rain storms lately, made all the more impressive by the fact that it hadn't rained in months - and so everything just seems all the more unexpected and powerful. I somehow managed to capture a little window on Monday morning to get in my two mile walk, although the wind just about picked me up and blew me into the sea. The true storm was just beginning. Our recycling bins were sliding back and forth on our balcony.

And to think, we were on the relatively peaceful side of the island. I can't imagine how gusty it was on the southern coast.

This picture can't begin to do justice to how windy it was. I really should have broken out my Alouettes sweatshirt. As it was, I just about lost my Till It's Gone (Ali McGuirk) hat, which I had to use my left hand to keep from sailing away (another disadvantage of walking with a cane: one less hand to keep oneself from disaster). 

The view from our unofficial widow's walk off our bedroom. Trust me, there are mountains over there.

Via Giuseppe Maniaci

 Here's another street that I walk by quite a bit, and it also shows how I'm benefitting from investigating the story behind the signs (which shows that they do serve a purpose, although maybe I'm the only one nerdy enough to do the research). Giuseppe Maniaci was a communist leader who was gunned down here in Terrasini, either because he was a communist leader or because he stole some olives or had run afoul of some mafioso figures (this latter choice seems to bear the greatest probability, although the three suspected mafiosi were never charged). 

This is such a beautiful and tragic land.

On the One Hand

 Since the weather has broken we're now able to do something that couldn't dream of doing in August and early September: actually go outside in the middle of the day. It's hard to discuss the Sicilian sun without it seeming like an urban legend, but it is truly fearsome. It sort of turns us all into vampires, and we avoid direct exposure to the sun as much as we can. Anyway, on Sunday we decided to actually go for a walk down the hill to grab lunch at Assettati. Somehow, we didn't know that Salvatore served lunch on Sunday (we also didn't know that he served dessert for a long time to, for some reason, which we've made up for). There are many reasons to go to Assettati (the food is wonderful), but one of them is Salvatore himself. We popped in around 1:00 and I gave him some gentle grief, "Salvatore, you didn't tell us you served dessert, and then we found out and started ordering dessert. Then we didn't know that you were open for lunch on Sunday, and we found out and here we are. What else are you hiding from us?" He smiled and replied, "Oh, so much. I have to leak information slowly." Great answer.

Once we were settled, I simply asked Salvatore what I was having. It turned out I was having spaghetti with clams and sea urchins, which is not on the menu, but it's clearly what I was having. Delicious.

Janet had swordfish and lot of grilled veggies, although I think she was allowed to order. As always, she is more beloved one of us.

On the way back we decided to take advantage of the cooler weather and stopped at Barinello for an Aperol spritz. It was Janet's first opportunity to sit at the wonderful window seat, and she wasn't passing it up. She should clearly be stopping here every day to sit, stare out at the sea, and write.

Matthew's Bar

 Ever since we arrived here in mid-August I've gone for a walk every day, and while some of it was/is related to necessity since we don't have a car, increasingly it is driven by my desire to get in better shape but also to appreciate what Terrasini has to offer. Since we're located on the coast, I guess it's not too surprising that I've made it down to the shore every day. Now, as the weather turns colder I know this will be a challenge, but my goal is to make it to the shore every day. It does give me a sense of peace, even when the winds are whipping and the waves are crashing (actually, especially when the winds are whipping and the waves are crashing). Part of that adventure is to stop at some bar, and when the Italians say bar they really mean coffeeshop (or least coffee in the morning, and maybe mixed drinks after siesta) for my morning caffe e cornetto. As I've walked farther and farther, I've also expanded my list of bars, with one of the newest and favorites being Mathew's Bar farther west on the Lungomare, and is a beloved local tradition. I've stopped by enough that, while I'm certainly not a regular, they are getting used to me dropping in - either way, they couldn't be nicer folks. Somehow, we've never stopped there in the evening, although it would be a natural place for an evening drink to watch the sunset. 

Matthew's is a natural place to stop after a visit to the Tornatore bench (more on that later), which is one of my favorite spots in Terrasini. I mistimed the morning storm once day and ended up walking from the bench to Matthew's in a pouring rain, but I was greeted warmed, as always.

Via Filippo Juvara

 And here's another picture of another street sign here in Terrasini, this time of the Via Filippo Juvara. Born in Messina in 1678, and thus a proud son of Sicily, he died in Madrid in 1736. Apparently, he died of pneumonia, although there were also rumors that he was poisoned (because, well, I guess because he was Sicilian there had to be at least the hint of a mysterious death). Juvara was an influential architect, associated with the Baroque movement, not only in Italy but throughout Europe, with his most lasting contribution occurring in Turin. He spent a short time in Portugal, and although his plans for the royal palace never came to fruition, he so impressed the Portuguese king that he was granted a wealthy year pension (which somehow makes sense to me, knowing Portugal as I do - I was also thinking that he had designed a famous Lisbon building that was destroyed in the famous earthquake, but that was just me romanticizing his life even further).

Truthfully, He was such an influential architect during his age that he no doubt deserves a more impressive street (with apologies to anyone who lives on Via Filippo Juvara). I'm not really certain how the names are assigned here in Terrasini, although I'm quite happy that they're actively celebrating Italian writers and artists and sculptors and architects.

The Writer

 Just a quick note - and picture - from the last of Summer 2026 Trips of CFL Excellence, when Kevin and Erik and I drove up to Ottawa to watch the REDBLACKS game. Again, I wish we would have stayed for the weekend (this is one of the lessons that Kevin and I learned over the years: just go ahead and stay a couple days, because you never know when you're going to make it back to Winnipeg). After the game we went for a walkabout (or at least as much of a walkabout as I was capable of then) and ended up at a posh bar. I think there was a dance club with beautiful young people up on the roof. The owners of the bar gently directed to the downstairs bar because it was "quieter", which I think meant, "Dudes, you're going to ruin the vibe upstairs." Anyway, we were sitting there enjoying adult scholarly beverages, when the waitress came by with a leatherbound journal for select customers to write in. Naturally, she handed over the journal to Erik, who is actually a legitimate writer who has penned several novels and countless articles. Just as they were right to steer away from the roof, they were right in handing to opportunity/responsibility to Erik. Kevin and I were just happy that they didn't size us up and ask us to carry in some boxes from the back.

Either Erik was simply clearly the writer at the table - or he was also simply the best-looking guy at the table - both of which were demonstrably true. As to be expected, his words were thoughtful and beautiful. 

As My Servant Deems Me to Be

 "God most high says, 'I am as my servant deems Me to be. I am with him when he remembers Me. Whosoever remembers Me within himself, I shall remember him in Myself. Whosoever remembers Me in company, I shall remember him in company better than them. Should he approach Me by a hand, I shall approach him by a cubit, and should he approach Me by a cubit, I shall approach him by a fathom. Should he come to Me walking, I shall go to him running.'" Hadith

I'm certain I've discussed this passage before as well, as it is one of my favorites. It is a hadith, although technically a hadith qudsi or "sacred hadith." A hadith is a saying associated with the Prophet. As I've discussed previously, I have issues with the hadith, not so much the idea behind them but rather their practice. There are thousands and thousands of hadith, and an astonishingly high percentage of them are of rather doubtful legitimacy. There's a whole school of Islamic science based on tracking down the legitimacy of hadith, based on a series of specific criteria (it's actually quite fascinating). Many are outright forgeries, while others may well be true, but simply can't be proven to have actually come down to us from the Prophet over the centuries. If you attend a Friday service in a local mosque you're probably as likely to hear a hadith quoted as a passage from the Qur'an itself. There have been times when I heard a hadith quoted as a central point of a sermon that I, even with my limited knowledge of the subject, knew to be of somewhat problematical authenticity. Still, they are a central part of the Islamic world, and they're not going away anytime soon, but it would be nice of Imams would be a little more deliberate in pointing out that the hadith which is sitting at the center of that week's talk was debated by Islamic scholars. A hadith qudsi is a hadith that quotes God, but isn't in the Qur'an (it's more complicated than that, of course, but for our purposes here I think that will suffice); consequently, they're held to be especially significant.

After that somewhat lengthy intro, I suppose I should actually talk about why I love this hadith so much. As I mentioned previously, I'm carving off time every morning for more reading, study, and reflection, and not falling into the trap of leaving it to Ramadan to "get caught up." Seyyed Hossein Nasr quoted this hadith in his commentary on the Quranic passage, "So remember Me, and I shall remember you. Give thanks unto Me and disbelieve not in Me." (2:152) Obviously, the notion of continually remembering God is an immensely important concept, and in this case I mean the necessity of keeping God and faith in our hearts and minds every moment of the day. I don't think that faith is based on huge, showy, public events, but rather the constant work of reacting to the world around you - essentially, the hundred times a day when you have the opportunity to do small kindnesses for other people. To me, that's the work of faith. That said, I've always been fascinated by the opening line, "I am as my servant deems Me to be." The following lines speak to God's desire to have a relationship with believers, and her/his/its desire to go the extra mile (or cubit) to reach that relationship. In that sense, each individual determines their relationship with God, even if God is dedicated to working even harder than the believer. However, does this passage go even further? If everyone's relationship with God is different, does that also mean that God is different for each of us? That is, God is what each believer "deems Me to be." I'm enough of a Stoic to understand that everything in the world is really defined by our perception of it - or, as Epictetus would remind us, "It's not the event, but rather our response to the event," that shapes our perception of the significance and meaning of the event. Everything in this world is based on what we bring to that interaction, but we tend to think that the divine would exist outside of the tyranny of senses and memory. It's certainly another reason to not fall into the trap of imagining God in human form, something the Jews and Muslims avoid but a trap the Christians fell into pretty early (too much time hanging around the Greeks and Romans, no doubt). 

Via Nino Martoglio

 Nino Martoglio was a writer, poet, and director of both stage and screen, who was born in 1870 in Belpasso and died in 1921 in Catania; so, one of Sicily's own. That said, he was famous throughout Italy, and founded both theater and cinema companies in Rome. He directed three early films, sadly all of which have been lost (which, as we've discussed, is all too often the fate of movies from the early days of cinema). His works were known for beauty, but also for focusing on the tremendous gaps between rich and poor.

Apparently, the phrase "died under mysterious circumstances" is just a part of Sicilian biographies. Martoglio died at age 51 when he mysteriously fell down an elevator shaft when visiting his sick son at a hospital in Catania.

The Other Guttuso

 Yesterday I mentioned that there are actually two streets named Via Renato Guttuso here in Terrasini. This inspired me to scroll back through pictures on my phone from my various and sundry morning walks, to see if I had any shots of the "other" Via Renato Guttuso. It's a much longer and winding version than the one I more routinely walk past, but I didn't seem to have many pictures of it. However, I did have this photo of the end of that Via Renato Guttuso, as it finally drops down to the sea by the largest of the beaches here in Terrasini. I don't think I've ever seen roads like this in the US, but you do occasionally see them in Europe. There is a sort of logic to the construction, but they're definitely not for the faint of heart. 

I found this a little nerve-wracking to walk down, but, truthfully, I think it would be much worse to drive down.

Iliade

 As I've mentioned, our time here in Terrasini has featured occasional victories and a motley collection of failures. One of our biggest failures has been in trying to find alternative spaces to read and writer and simply be. Essentially, we look for other spaces so we're not in each other's grill all the time. Actually, we get along famously, and are very good at working side by side, but I think we would both appreciate optional spaces that we could go to in the course of a day. One of the things that I found most disconcerting about retirement was that for the first time in over four decades I didn't have an office, another space where I could go to work. There were many aspects of retired life that I predicted, but that was one that I didn't see being such a problem. Maybe it's simply a reminder that I don't really matter anymore, and have entered the +1, trying to do die as unobtrusively as possible, stage of latter life. Our new place is better for carving off space, and Janet is putting together a great little unofficial office upstairs, but it's still only a one bedroom apartment. I work at the kitchen table, which is perfectly fine, but wherever we settle in the future we'll definitely need another room or two to truly make it all work (oh, and some bookshelves, obviously). When we were investigating possible towns and cities, we came up with a lot list of prerequisites (most of which seemed to be reflections of what we loved so much about Evora, Portugal). One of them was a library where we could take turns working. However, the concept of a public library is much more of an American phenomenon that we realize. There's a lovely, and growing, little library here in Terrasini, La Biblioteca Comunale, Claudio Cataflio. However, it doesn't have separate carrels or even a table where a person could set up a couple books or notes or a laptop and get some writing done. There were a couple tables in the children's section, but the woman behind the counter was insistent that I not enter (although there were other adults there). I'm assuming that you thought I was some mysterious creepy old dude and it would be best to keep me away from the children, and I completely understand that. So, the search goes on. Sometimes I just set up at a local coffeeshop and work for a bit, slowly nursing drinks and snacks, and you can make that work occasionally, but I need something more structured and dependable.

There was a lovely and musty and growing collection of books in the stacks - and Italian versions of Homer just screamed a perfect place for me to work - but there wasn't really anyplace inside of the stacks to work. 

Everyone Has a Direction

     Everyone has a direction toward which he turns. So vie with one another in good deeds. Wheresoever you are, God will bring you all together. Truly God is Powerful over all things. Quran 2:148

I know I've discussed this Quranic verse before, no doubt in the year I devoted to writing about faith every day. However, it's just one that is so near and dear to my heart, and how I try (too often unsuccessfully) to approach my life. I've been carving off dedicated time each morning for more intentional spiritual time and study, and this popped up again. To me, it speaks to so much of what is good and pure and central - and should be more good and more pure and more central - to Islam, and, for that matter, all faith. Every religion has its own qiblah or, more generally, its own direction, its own way of approaching the divine. And you need to accept that while yours may seem the best, in the end it's only one of many. How then are you to address those differences? Mainly you should be working on your own faith, fighting your own internal battles, trying to be a better person every moment of every day. And others? "So vie with one another in good deeds." You "compete" with them only in the goodness that you work to produce, the help that you give to others, the kindness with which you treat all living creatures. It's such a simple concept, but how much better would the world be if that pursued that simple goal? As I've often proposed, most of the world's problems would begin to sort themselves out before the day was out.

Via Renato Guttuso

 Actually, there are two different versions of Via Renato Guttuso here in Terrasini, a longer and more circuitous one on the east side of town (which I explored several weeks ago on a long walkabout), and a shorter one on the west side (which is where I snapped the picture). They're both in honor of the famous Italian painter Renato Guttuso, who was born in Bagheria (outside of Palermo) in 1911 and passed in 
Rome in 1987. He is often described as an Expressionist, although he also had his own unique style, and he's known for his social artistic sentiment. Guttuso was a long-time member of the Italian Communist Party, and also painted the emblem they used until the party's dissolution. In fact, he also served two terms in the congress as a member of the PCI. What I cannot tell you, at least not yet, is why there are two different streets with the same name in Terrasini. The larger one in the east is off of Via Palermo and the smaller one in the west is off of Via Carlo Alberto dalla Chiesa (they're the same road, which is also known as Via Roma in between), but I can't believe that would explain it.

The sign for the smaller of the two Vias Renato Guttuso, appropriately draped in an orange tree. 

This is his first painting that received recognition, Crocifissione from 1940.

Sunday with Salvatore

 When Janet and I thought about moving overseas, part of the dream was finding a great, small local restaurant that we could call our own. We've definitely found it in Assettati. We've only been here around two and a half months, and I think we've already eaten there a dozen times or more. That, alone, should give you a sense of how we feel about the place. The food is dependably wonderful and affordable, but it's also more than that. It just feels like home. Everyone there is friendly and welcoming. We wanted to find that place where we didn't feel like an outsider, but instead a member of the family. A couple of days ago Salvatore told us that due to a strike there were no clams (which led to my spaghetti and sea urchins meal), and he promised to track down some clams for Sunday - and we promised to see him then. Last night it was pretty dreary and drizzly, and it's over a twenty-minute walk down the hill to Assettati, but we were both in agreement: "We promised Salvatore that we'd be there for the clams on Sunday," so it was inconceivable that we wouldn't come. As it turns out, the clams didn't arrive, so Salvatore jumped in his car and somehow tracked some down. The meal was wonderful, and we took advantage of a relatively quiet, rainy Sunday to talk to Salvatore about the secrets to cooking spaghetti and clams, where one finds clams - and the challenges of taking care of them, and the fishing patterns of local fishermen. It was a wonderful evening.

The spaghetti with clams was worth the wait. That's a pretty big serving with a ton of clams, so I don't know if that was a bonus for keeping our word on a rainy Sunday night and showing up - or just for being such loyal customers.

Janet ordered the raviola con ricotta, which was once again great. She was cutting it into with her knife, when Salvatore told her to eat it with her hands. More sage advice.

I didn't get the chance to order dessert, as Salvatore told me I was having the tiramisu. This is fine with me, as I've told him that I've made enough decisions in my life. They served it with espresso on the side, which was a wonderful addition.

Via Ettore Majorna

 And speaking of roads that cut down from the Cala Rossa to the Lungomare and the sea, here's one I take almost every day: the Via Ettore Majorna (1906-1938). He was a child prodigy, in a family that produced child prodigies, and grew up to become a recognized genius in physics. Along the way he studied under and worked with both Fermi and Heisenberg. He attained a professorship in Naples, but left it almost immediately, heading home to Sicily to rest up (he was born in Catania), and then suddenly one day, at only thirty-one of age, he disappeared. His last few letters hinted at suicide without actually mentioning suicide, and then later walking away from the idea. He spent only two days in Sicily before heading back to Rome, or maybe he didn't, no one knows.

Sadly, but I guess unavoidably, Majorna's fame as a brilliant physicist is shrouded by ongoing fascination with his mysterious disappearance. According to the Interweb, the theories relating to his disappearance (which are almost a cottage industry in their own right) break up into five general categories: 1) he did in fact commit suicide, and his body was never found; 2) he joined a Jesuit monastery to find the mental and spiritual peace that life never gave him; 3) he disappeared into Germany, and this includes the possibility of a murder/suicide, which builds upon his troubling, although maybe only temporary, interest in the Nazis and some anti-Semitic statements; 4) his travel to Argentina and disappearance after the war, which is sort of a continuation of #3 above; or 5) disappearing into Sicily itself, becoming sort of a travelling wise man, displaying an unusual amount of knowledge about physics for what appeared to be a homeless man (including helping local children with their homework).

Framing

 As I've often proposed on this blog, I have the common failing of most bad photographers: I tend to frame everything. It could just be that as a historian I feel that I am honor-bound to provide some sort of framing context, or maybe I don't have enough confidence in the picture as it exists. Anyway, here's a picture I snapped over by the Camilleri bench. I had stopped by La Sirenetta, where I had stopped for my normal cornetto con Nutella e caffe, and on the way back home I stopped at the bench (on my long morning walks I stop at many benches along the way). I was going to retrace my steps on the Lungomare, but the wind was howling so I turn south a little earlier in case the rain did decide to find me. The break in the heat and the rain has suddenly given Sicily a more lush appearance.

It was another beautifully wild morning for a walk here in Terrasini. We do actually have some beautiful surf here in the fall. In the summer, it's almost as if the sun is so brutally hot and unrelenting that in the sea doesn't have the energy to move. Unlike yesterday, I did not get caught in a soaking rain.

Via Giacomo Serpotta

 One of the roads here in Terrasini that I find myself on a lot is Via Giacomo Serpotta. Since we live off of Via Calla Rosa, roads that head down the hill towards Via Roma/Palermo and then onto the Lungomare and the sea are of natural interest to me. This led me to the Via Giacomo Serpotta, which is a continuation of Via Aprile. As part of this project, this led me to figuring out more about Giacomo Serpotta. Sadly, beyond the fact that he was a sculptor, I didn't know a lot about him (again, curse growing up culturally illiterate in Indiana). Giacomo Serpotta (1656-1732) was born and died in Palermo, and apparently never left the island of Sicily, although his influence was felt much further afield. 

He is known for his sculptures, but also made profound innovations in stucco he's credited with the invention of the process of allustratura.

His works are all over Sicily, including a bunch in neighboring Trapani (which gives us another reason to visit a city that we've been considering for a longer term move).

Grazie Mille

 This morning I tried to time my morning walk to avoid the rain showers, and, of course, completely screwed it up, and ended up getting soaked. As I was walking along the Lungomare in the pouring rain, a very nice man stopped his car to ask if I needed a ride. With my faulting Italian, I replied, "No, ma grazie. Vado a Matthew's. Grazie mille!" He seemed satisfied and happy with my answer. Happily, I was only a few minutes from Matthew's Bar, and a refreshing cornetto e caffe. It's easy to get down on the whole experience of being an expat and waiting out the chaos of citizenship, but occasionally you do meet some very nice folks who restore you confidence in the human condition.

Still, before the deluge, I did get a great picture of a very Homeric wine-dark sea.

Sea Urchins

 If Janet were not the voice of reason in these things, I'd probably eat at Assettati every night. Granted, isn't that the expat dream, to be that character in a W. Sumerset Maugham novel who is always - and mysteriously - lurking in the same restaurant or bar every night? Last night I had it in my head to try their spaghetti and clams, because it's such a staple of the Mediterranean diet and I know that Salvatore and his crew must prepare a killer version. Anyway, I ordered it, and they had to break it to me that the strike (because, well, Italy) meant that there were no clams. I tore back into the menu for another option, when Salvatore asked if I would be interested in trying spaghetti and sea urchins. The answer was obviously yes. I don't even think it was an option on the menu, but it was fantastic.

This picture made me think of how much great food I've eaten here (and some dog meals as well, but certainly not at Assettati), and how I've somehow managed to lose weight. I don't know if I've truly noticed it yet, but Janet assures me that I've lost a goodly amount of weight. That said, most Americans who go to live in Europe end of quite naturally losing weight. Apparently, it's an actual verifiable thing. According to the Interweb, Americans moving to Europe lose weight for at three main reasons: 1) portion size - I mean, look at that plate in the picture - that's actually quite enough food (in America we'd have twice as much on the plate, and it would be less than half as tasty; 2) better, fresher, and healthier ingredients - I saw statistics claiming that the average American diet is comprised of as much as 60% of highly processed foods, which the European average is around 12% - that's a huge difference; and 3) walking a lot more - Europeans tend to spend less time in their SUV, and instead more time travelling around on foot or public transportation - we're sort of an extreme example because we don't have a car (for the first time in fifty years, and this makes me very happy), and thus I, initially out of necessity, but now more out of desire to explore and sit by the sea, walk at least two miles a day.

Via Giacomo Matteotti

 A couple blocks east of our current apartment lies Via Giacomo Matteotti, which means that I usually end up heading up and down it several times in the course of a week. I do like the fact that Terrasini (again, like so many other Italian towns), devotes so much time to celebrating famous and influential Italians through the naming of street signs and piazzas. It's deepening my interest in Italian history, and giving me a direction for more research. Giacomo Matteotti was born in Fratta Polesine in northern Italy in 1885, and later assassinated in Rome in 1924. Matteotti was a sociologist, but is probably more famously known for his adherence to Socialism, as well as his journalism and anti-fascism. His book The Fascists Exposed: A Year of Fascist Domination revealed to many what was actually happening in Mussolini's Italy, but also undoubtedly led to his murder. 

In 1924 Matteotti was kidnapped and assassinated by a group of Fascists, after he had denounced the expanding dictatorship of Benito Mussolini (who had only come to power a couple of years earlier). 

Matteotti began his The Fascists Exposed thus:

"The Fascist Government justifies its armed conquest of political power, its use of violence and the risk it incurred of igniting civil war, by the plea of the urgent necessity of restoring the authority of the law and the State, and or rescuing the country from economic and financial conditions approaching utter ruin."

If that seems like it might apply to the US today, well, it sadly does much more than we'd care to admit.

Beach Days

 As I've previously proposed, Terrasini is sort of a glossy beach town (which we're starting to see now, as shops and restaurants are closing for the season). Janet and I are the farthest thing from beach folks, but when in Rome - and it was especially tempting to sneak down to the beach for a couple hours when the weather was so ungodly hot. Also, because of the time difference, there was a perverse joy in spending three hours at the beach, and then heading home to begin the (Eastern Standard Time) workday. We tried several of the different sections of the beach, but usually ended up at the first lido, where you could rent an umbrella and a couple chairs. There were a couple free sections, but then we would have had to buy or carry chairs and an umbrella (the latter being essential in the hellish Sicilian heat), so I was happy to rent a space. Sadly, that spot has been purchased and will be part of a new resort, although I wonder when that will become a reality. Now that we're twenty minutes up the hill, as compared to two minutes away (as we were in our first place), I suspect we'll mean to go to the beach next year, but probably won't. I can see me heading over to the Calla Rosa Beach for early morning laps.

One day we were at the beach and I snapped this picture of my cane and one of my Mothman shirts hanging from the umbrella. There was this ungodly beautiful young couple sunning next to us, which would have been easy to hate, except that they were both so aesthetically beautiful you forgave them many sins because of their beauty. Anyway, we were packing up to leave and I put on my shirt, and the guy yelled, "Dude, I love that shirt!" All was forgiven.

Andrea Camilleri Bench

 In the coming months I'm going to devote some time to the different streets - and related notable Italians - that populate the city of Terrasini. I should also pay tribute to the artistic benches that the city built to celebrate famous Sicilian artists. There are five of them, which I discovered rather organically on my morning walks. Now that I've tracked down all five, I'll include posts for every one of them. For the sake of geographical order, I'll start in the east and head west. With that in mind. we need to start with Andrea Camilleri. He was born in 1925 in Porto Empedocle in southwest Sicily, and died in 2019 in Rome. He's best known, I suppose, for his Inspector Montalbano novels and short stories, which inspired one of the longest-lasting and most popular television shows in Italian history. Along the way he taught at the National Academy of Dramatic Art, and one of his students was Luca Zingaretti (who starred in the Inspector Montalbano series). He was also a very dedicated and long-time member of the Italian Communist Party (one of the things that I love about Italy is that being a Communist is simply a political and economic decision, and not an allegiance to the dark lord, which seems to be how it is viewed in witless America). We've watched about half of the films, and Janet has read several of the novels - and I'm starting my Camilleri journey soon, as I have the first couple queued up in my Kindle.

Camilleri wrote into his 90s, and in the end grew even more dependent on his assistant as he lost his eyesight. 

Like all the benches, his looks like an open book - and features a lovely view of the sea. It's tucked away between a couple buildings so it's easy to stroll by it, but it's also up the hill from La Sireretta, so it's pretty easy to find. As you head toward the Lungomare, just keep sneaking peeks down alleyways towards the sea and you'll track it down.

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.

Via 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!!!