Syracusa: The Last Day

 We all had to be out by noon.  the baggage could stay but the bodies and the goods had to be out of the rooms and in the closet by noon.  for me this was no problem.  i tried a new formation for my belongings hoping that the combination of strapping on the outside again with soft things on the rolly luggage and then hard things like the computer and books and shoes in the backpack.  the difference-none.  the discomfort-huge.  Still a problem. I  made two trips down from my room steadying myself the best I could.  I wobbled from side to side a little when I placed my pack on my back.  I was disgusted.  The disks in my back felt like they were touching and my brain was rubbing up against the top of my skull.  I moped down the three flights of stairs anxious that I had arrived sweaty and already tired. 

I had a full two days of little interaction with people so when Alan and Kate asked me to meet them at the Elephant in Catania at 8 I said yes.   I was certain that I saw all that i could so  just wanted to have another short walk near the water.  I was planning on staying in the same hostel in Catania that I had so there were no worries or arrangements that needed to be made.  Max and I chatted briefly about my plans and his for the hostel.  Max was an attorney.  He had a practice in Catania was giving hostel ownership a go.  He seemed tired and overwhelmed.  He smiled a lot but when he spoke he was breatheless, like nervousness was claiming space inside like an rhinosorus on a bench.  I don't know how I ended up here, he said.  What I really want is to take a year off and just do some quiet work or spend a month not talking, just in a quiet place with monks or something."    I listened empathetically as he continued.  He talked money, the number of clients that he needed per month to make the bills, the pressure of a bank note, the costs and politics of renovations, the reliablity or unreliablity of help.  I could only think of how happy I was to be picking worms and shoveling shit to put around plants.  I felt so lucky that I was not in charge anymore.  I was so happy I was not working late staring at a computer screen hoping that the numbers would be flush that month.  Happy to not have dead lines staying late making things shiny and pretty for people when the rest of my family and friends were home and in bed. Happy to not be the interpreter of customers wants. Happy that when something was wrong someone else was being told.  Happy to wear rubber boots and holey t-shirts and jeans.  Happy to wear leather gloves and use a shovel or a zappa.  Happy to be the lovely assitant to wake the tractor beast and not in a dark basement melting metal and throwing it into a stinking hot flasks.  I was happy not to doing any of it.  "You could try WWOOFing.  Give it all up and sell everything, get a backpack and some rubber boots.  It is good for you I promise."  he smiled with sparkly eyes maybe because he agreed maybe because he thoguht I was completely out of my mind.  "My favorite thing though that keeps me going is meeting people like you.  You are from so far away and had I not owned this place we would have never met.  I love that the world comes to me a little here." 

I walked to the little city beach past the pier watched men fish and others walk small dogs.   I made my last stop for a sweet treat and said my good byes to Syracusa.  "Bye Bye dancing music selling man in the trailer on the sidewalk, bye bye ear sucking waiter, bye bye all you happy couples and your public displays of affection, bye bye light fluffy baked good, bye bye woolly mammoth,  bye bye fish guy in the big rubber boots, bye bye Caravaggio, bye bye all you well suited old men in hats, bye bye obedient horticulture.  See you again."  I thought as I walked. 

When I returned Max greeted me at the door.  "Remember Marianne to return here.  Remember that is I have an amazing cook and she will be happy to teach you what you want."  "Okay then I will."   A polite handshake and one kiss on each cheek sealed the deal.  I loaded up the goods on my torso and grabbed the handle to my luggage and was out the door.  I went first to a little bar to buy my bus ticket.  entering felt a little like moving a sofa, angling myself to clear the side, then switching my position a little to clear the back.  The rolling luggage last.  The waiter looked a little horrified, I actually looked down at my chest to see if any really personal  part of  me was hanging out of my shirt and then I checked my fly.  After finding that everything was still covered, I realized that it was probably just the usual what the hell is in there look.  I asked about a ticket and was told that I had to go to the bus station to buy it.  He explained the where and the bus line. I was pretty certain that I understood. 

It was all very easy to find.  I greeted the young man in the ticket booth in broad day light. "Buona Sera"  which means good evening.  "Buona Sera Signora, Prego."  "No NO  Buon Giorno."  "Ah uguale. Dove vai?"  (the same were do you go?)  "Catania"  "Catania? Quanto tempo"  (Catania for how long) Looking at my luggage.  Oh I am here for months but not just in Catania.  Dove sai?  Where are you from?  The United States.  Wahut dew yewe dew here?  He asked in English.  I answered in Italian.  "I work on farms and agritourismos in exchange for food and a room."        "W H A U T!" he said holding his mouth and spinning around in a chair.  "Ti piace? No per to get paid"  (you like, )  "Si si."  No me. Me no like this whork.  Americani always they whant to help."  "Eye lieke America and Americani."  He said patting my hand.   

Syracusa: Day Two

My roommate in the hostel was a woman named Kate.  She is from Hawaii.  Pleasant, round faced girl with haunted deer eyes and nervous friendly manner.  If she were a house everything would be perfectly placed, shiny and new but there would be a dark and scary attic.  When she spoke she always smiled but her eyes were light less and still.  She was traveling alone but was visiting the city with another hostel guest Alan.  Alan was from California.  He was a bit like a submissive puppy.  I think he has spent his life with a screamer.  It seemed like you could walk up behind him say boo and maybe he would piddle a little bit.  the poor guy.  They were exploring the city together that day and asked if I wanted to join them.  Confidently and without remorse I had declined.  i was looking forward to a day without conversation and without discussion, without the consensus of a group vote.  I did not want anyone in tow, or to be in tow, to wait or to keep someone waiting.  I was in me motion and was completely unapologetic about it.

I set out early again this day.  It did not take very long to get into an eating routine.  First a breakfast snack at the hostel, then duck into the bakery on the way out of town for a little snack treat in a bit when hunger started to stir again after some walking.  My messenger bag was packed with dictionary, lipstick, water bottle and a snack pocket with a napkin cushion where a little baked good could be cradled perfectly away from all the other things.  In one day my map was dog eared and worn on the folded edge from going in and out of my back pocket and covered in check marks and scribbles noting what I had done and what I saw.  At some point I had the full collection but as my compulsion to lighten my luggage weight mutated this map along with others had been placed lovingly into a recycling bin.

Todays agenda Etruscian ruins, and Greek theatre and the civic museum.  The sentence structure was metaphores.  Parlo come una bambina.  I speak like a baby.  My goal was to be able to make up ten of these sentences before I fell asleep that night.  Entertaining myself with this verbal game I set out.  Orienting myself from left to right on a map for me is tricky when I am first getting to know a place.  Sounds silly but I tend to go backwards when I want to go forward and left when I want to go right.  I think it is because I can read something written backwards and upside down as easily as I can something that is written normally.  Maybe it sounds like it would help but it actually doesn't.  I usually take a little longer and the process completely consumes me when I orient the map in the direction that I am standing.  This map was one of the bright ones with silly drawings of things that are pretty irrelevant, torn from a pad like a piece of theme tablet paper.  The proportion of streets to one another and the images were completely inaccurate.  And remember, The other challenge is the street names are all in Italian.  Everything you look at is in a italian.  Signs on doors, Signs on the streets, Signs in the windows.  A bakery does not say bakery it says pasticceria. The book store says Libreria, Suonare, as store that sells musical instruments.  .  One could look at this situation and turn around, go home OR one could look at it as a live language teaching machine.  The reality is that the name of the street can be different only by one or two letters so you really have to concentrate every minute and this can make you very tired.  In no time I was lost.  I found a friendly looking motorcycle guy and asked him.   Excuse me sir, I speak italian like a child and I am lost.  Practice sentence number one.  Where am I .  Dove sono? and then handed him the map.    Where to do you want to go.  Hah I understood and I pointed.  He seemed a little nervous and sweetly spoke incredibly slowly, instantly starting Italian charades with me.  Long arm gestures as if he was helping to direct a plane to a gate.  Smiling and pausing to make sure I was understanding.  "A piede?"  (on foot) he asked.  "Si, Si."  "It would be better to take the bus."  Ha ha  again I understand.    He told me the bus number and where to get it.  I knodded but ignored him thinking about my snack and wanting a nice walk to work up a good deep hunger for a luscious sweet treat.    Thanked him, flipped the map around to orient myself and went on my way.  Walking and looking for landmarks as I went, insuring that I was still on the right path I realized pretty quickly I did not understand a thing he said.  I liked the hand gestures and the slowness of his speech but I was back where I started and was hoping he did not see me.  I think I was so excited about the few things that I did understand that I failed to listen to everything that was being said.  This made me laugh out loud at myself as I walked and read the map in the hope that I could be redeemed.

I found a small row of fish markets, had a look and then asked a man in one "dove sono?"  handing him the map.  He too asked where I wanted to go, I pointed and again this man said  "A piede?"  "Wow where the hell is this place", i thought.  I ignored too his suggestion for the bus.  Being less surprised by my understanding of some basic things I paid much closer attention to the directions he was giving me.  This time when I set out I was hitting landmarks that he pointed to on the map when he was moving his arms as if he was directing the plane to the gate in his big rubber boots and apron.  Cute.


It took me about 40 minutes to arrive.  It made me smile that this seemed too long to walk.  The walk was completely uneventful.   The Greece theater once had the capacity thousands of people.  Today some performances are still made in the summer to a much smaller audience.  Along with the theater were some ruins and some botanical gardens.  The gardens were not in full bloom but had a lush green foliage that bent over creating a tunnel.  This place was acres and acres but every where I went was an  Asian woman wearinga red t-shirt and baseball cap lugging her rolling black bags all over the park.  " Assomiglia come Tic Tac dei cannella sulla scala."  (She looks like a cinnamon Tic Tac on the stairs)  I said watching her on the sun bleached theatre holding her camera out at arms length to take a picture of herself.  "Ha sentence number two." I said feeling extra satisfied because it was kinda funny.

The day was glorious.  I was enjoying my day without conversation.  I hummed in my head, strolled at a comfortable pace and stopped when I wanted.  The afternoon was the civic museum.  Dark low ceiling, sound fell silent a short distance from its source, a calming retreat from horns and chatter.  The galleries were a maze of black fabric and glass cases displaying a wonderful collection of etruscan pottery and jewelry, tools and cookery that I had encounted so far in Sicily.  My favorite was the installed animal skeletons.

After returning from my day,  I opened a bottle of wine, made a salad with meat and relaxed.  When I was eating the Cinamon Tic Tac arrived,  red clothes and her black suit case. Standing next to her luggage the top was above her waist.  If she bent over she could have easily placed into it.   I listened to Max orient her in the same way he had me.  He tore the map from the pad, marked it with the arrows to the grocery store and the bakery, noted the hours of operation, the run down on the kitchen rules and check out times.    Also over packed, I watched Max  lug her bags up the stairs, winded he inspired my third sentence for the day.   Ansimare come una mucca che partorisce.  Panting like a laboring cow.  

Syracusa: The First Day

In Syracusa I decided to start to approach Italian by sentences.  Max was preparing to close the Hostel for some repairs so he was on the desk the entire time I was there.  We had already discussed my new approach and he assured me that he would be willing to supply me with a new sentence whenever I needed one.  Charming.  The first sentence was going to be "Thank you very much. You are very nice but I am just looking." This kind of thing makes me laugh.  My idea was I would walk into stores that I knew I did not want anything and practice this a few times that first day.  Now that I know a little more about the language I laugh a little knowing that I made mistakes.  I already knew the thank you very much and you are very nice but I think a time or two I may have said I am just driving.  I ducked into a beautiful hat store, a Italian book store, a music store where they sold sheet music, a postcard store, a meat store (I did not leave empty handed) and a bakery, where I asked to just buy one of a beautifully tied knot of fluffiness covered in powdered sugar.   These crunchy fluffy things were piled in a mound that was being sold by the kilo.  Judging by sweet airy crunch of melting sweetness, I think you probably got a thousand of them when you bought a kilo.  The woman behind the counter smiled at me and just gave me two in a tissue without charging me, knowing that one would never be enough.   I am inspired by the spirit of it all and  find the Italians endearing when they just smile and bow politely.  

So there was my first goal for the day:  The sentence.  I would practice when I could and then I would add to it on this day a visit to a, well i will call it a castle. On the peninsula of Syracusa is an enormous building enclosed by a wall and a huge door.  The hours were in the morning so my  goal was to be there when it opened.  I don't remember what it was called but I could find it easily when I visit Syracusa again or move there for the rest of my retired life in a decade or two.  I avoided the area with the ear sucking waiter, walking behind the water front through the  streets shadowed by the labyrinth of homes made from stones and volcanic rocks, restaurants and stores to the end into the bright Sicilian sun.  The gate was open and surprisingly modern.  Behind the gate was another door enourmous, three stories high and probably 20 feet wide.  I have no idea how anyone opened it.  I just walked in.  I saw the ticket office and found it closed.  Inside was a police station.  I wondered around the grounds, climbed spiral staircases made of slabs of stone, descended tunnels on ramps made of stone into dark, cool caverns which were more than likely little workshops.  I found an empty cathedral with mosaics of angles and saints.  I wondered around for almost an hour.  I decided to try to see if the office was open so that I could pay for a ticket.  After finding it still closed I decided to leave.  When I tried to leave the giant door had been shut.  I tugged and tugged, pulled and tried to slide, but the door would not budge.  I saw a stair case behind the police station and climbed it hoping that it was a way out.  I was walking on the wall that surrounded the place and was startled by a shrill, loud insistent voice.  I turned myself to the source of this annoying sound, in front of me now, a small flush man with rapidly moving hands saying all sorts of rude things that was offensive at the very least.  Since the crazy ladies at the train station in Valle Lunga, I had not had such an angry experience.  This man had no concern for my well being he just wanted me out.  He was so aggressive and frustrate that he mutated my impulse for spite in situations like this, even though I knew he was probably working in the police station.   I decided that I was going to make him more frustrated by pretending that I knew nothing that he was saying and force him to play Italian charades with me.  I needed to see him silly.  I wanted a chance to enjoy how potentially ridiculous he could look.  Within seconds the speed of the man's hand gestures multiplied by at least two and soon he was opening an imaginary door and walking through it.  He was then closing the imaginary door and walking away from it, marching in place.  I could not help but cover my mouth and laugh out loud at him.  This frustrated him even more.  Then in the end when he was flush with frustration, in perfect Italian I told him. Sir the door is shut.  I thought his eyes were going to pop out of his head. I actually surprised myself a little.  I did not know that I knew how to put that all together in a sentence until I put it together in a sentence.  I knew he knew what I meant and as far as I know this might have been one of the first times that I put an idea together that was not premeditated.  It was satisfying.   He turned on his heels and I followed.  We walked to the monster size door.  He lead and I followed directly behind him.  He inserted a huge key, unlocking it with a clunk.  I smiled, thanked him, wished him a good day and bowed a little.   This all made his mouth very small with anger and a little pale, he turned on his heels again and said nothing.  i don't know why but i enjoyed this very much.  I think I get this from my father.  maybe it is bitchy but he just did not have to be so mad.  cranky little bastard.

I did not let him ruin my day.  everything was still on schedule and I did not get arrested.  My next stop was to practice my new Italian sentence have tea in the Duomo square, visit the Duomo, see the Caravaggio, visit the underground bomb shelter that was used during WWII then cross town for my lunch time meat ration and possibly some gelato.  I was off to a very good start. 

Senza Compagnia

When I arrived in Syracusa my head felt like it was filled with
rocks.  I was tired and all of me was weighed down by the waiting for others for rides, for dinner, for naps, for shopping, for waking, for sleeping.  All of this an inherant part of living with others without a real place of your own and without a means of transportation besides what your body can do.  My politeness was baring down on me like a drill into wood because at times it was the complete opposite of what my real impulses were.  I was ready to have some time of eating when I wanted, going when i wanted, where I wanted for as long as I wanted,  talking when I wanted and not talking when I wanted.  I wanted meat three times a day and also cheese.   I was ready to be without company.  At home I have a life style keenly developed to accomodate my every need and want.  It is an independant and complete existance free of conferences with others on the lagistics of who, what, when and where.  I have not needed to be so dependant on others for so many basic things for decades.  Some moments I was amazed by my ablility to adapt.  My independence has been developed for better or for worse from years of living alone and knowing if something had to be done i was the only one to do it.  It is an instinct now that is deeply embedded.  This is my strength and my weakness.  This part of me has been challenged tremendously here.  There are moments with cravings that cannot be satisfied.  I would sit still and pretend that the idea is a blown Bubble that I could pop and make disappear.  I knew that being less dependent would be a challenge for me and it is part of the reason that I wanted to put myself in this situation.  I needed to learn how to play better with others.  I needed to learn how to reconcile the difference between what I wanted and what I could not have.  I wanted to morph the "Hell Yeah Hell No" approach to life into "well perhaps could you tell me a little more".  I think some people call it moderation.  I  was trying to learn to live life with a parachute.  The idea of gradual, piano, piano (slowly, slowly) was a new and over due idea.

By the time I had arrived at the hostel with Christina I was at my end with patience and conformity.  I was weary from talking myself off the edge of instantaneous.  I smiled and wrestled my luggage out of the car, with a resentful "humph" I put my new man sweater in the crook of my arm and pleaded to be left where I was.  It sounded like this. "oh my you have done so much already for me I hate to see you waste any more of your

day." What I meant was,  "Oh for Christ sake, leave me alone I just want to drink a bottle of wine in my room in my underwear with the lights out and fall asleep."  She insisted.  I handed her my scratchy man sweater squinting my eyes a little to try to stop myself from rolling them.   I managed the ton of luggage on my own.  I packed it and I was going to be traveling with it, I was going to carry it and lug it.  She was certain of my conviction and acceded.   I could tell by her face that she thought I was being ridiculous.   I invited her to walk in front with a polite bow and a wave of my arm because I did not want a witness to my struggle.  The hostel was only three blocks away but when I arrived I was winded and sweaty. 

We were buzzed in and greeted by the owner of the hostel, Max.  Christina took the reigns of my arrival there.  She spoke italian to the man, asking for a room.  Telling him what she thought I might need, like a mother would when she dropped her kid off at camp.  I smiled at this, thinking letting her do it was good practice for me and my parachute approach to life.  He answered her in perfect English.  this made me chuckle a bit.  I pat her on the back, thanked her and assured her that all was well.  It seemed like she was satisfied and ready to go.

I left my things in the hostel.  I walked Christina to her car, kissed her once on each cheek, took my man sweater from her and watched her drive away.  I was relieved and ready for the next adventure.  When I returned to the hostel, Max was waiting  for me with a map and a pen.  We did the usual registration lagistics, then proceeded to help me make a plan for my visit.  I asked if he thought I could do it all in two and a half days.  He said yes if I was ambitious.  I assured him I was indeed.  He circled some places to eat, some of his favorite place to see and where to buy groceries and good wine.  I asked him to circle where the Carravaggio was and he quickly complied.  Pleased that I like his work we spoke for another half hour about other painting by him.  He explained that there was no lock out that I was free to come and go as I pleased.  He gave me the keys and helped me to my room.  He insisted on carrying a bag.  It was impossible to convince him not too.  I watched him take the one with wheels, he raised his brows with surprise by the heft of it, tilting his head down, cocked a little with the wonder of what the hell was in there.  He spoke with me as we walked up the two flights of stairs, but was winded from the climb with my half ton.  I thought  "Silly silly man I told you." 

Well I was only kidding when I said that I wanted to drink a bottle of wine in the dark in my underwear.  I dropped my things, took a shower and went downstairs.  I sat in the lounge, wrote some e mails, planned my next two days, celebrating by consuming meat and glorious stinky, creamy cheese. 

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                

Ah Abruzzo

My writing machine has a clog and it is called Anversa.  I have settled in and made a little bit of a life here for myself in this tiny town in Abruzzo.  I am not lonesome and the routine of work here is creating so much structure  I am finding it more difficult to get down to writing business.  I think that this is a blessing but I am not getting anywhere fast with the details of the trip after Noto.  The longer I stay here the more of a blur everything else is becoming.  I am going to give it a girl scout try, but please know that I was asked to leave the girl scouts.  Love Marianne.  thanks for reading.  xoxo

Ciao Noto

The last day of work was picking  mandarin, oranges and lemons.  The mandarins are wonderful to harvest.  You have to wait for the sun to warm the skin and push away the morning dew.  Each one is cupped in your hand and cut with scissors, the sun's warmth nudges the oils onto your palm leaving a sweet perfume.  More important there are no damn thorns.  Harvesting lemons and oranges is not my favorite.  Although my skills had improved in ladder placement and also ripe fruit recognition, I still hated the thorns and found it impossible to completely protect myself from them.  The routine was normal and almost everything regarding this kind of work was predictable.  I was understanding how things worked and the order that things went in.  For some this is a comfort but for me, I was getting restless.

The ponies followed me as usual to the field but this day they started to eat the foliage on the citrus trees.  This is a big no no.  They were quickly lashed together, tied to the tractor beast and after we finished harvesting they were brought to the barn.  Ninette, my favorite, protested when we got to the door.  she kicked it and whinnied like mad.  My eyes were a little damp watching her.  Janne looked at me like I was being ridiculous, gave me an "oh dear, you silly thing," pat on the shoulder and wrinkled her nose.  "They will only stay here for a week then we will put them in another pasture."  I was a little embarrassed.

Dinner was the usual  and no one even mentioned that it was my last dinner there.  It all passed in a low key way.  I think they will forget my name in a few months and then maybe recall me as that American that was pazza for animale when speaking with a future WWOOFer, perhaps.   In the morning I needed to go to the hardware store.  I was still struggling with the luggage configuration and I thought that bungee cords were the answer.  I wanted four of them.  I was hoping that strapping some things to the outside of my rolling suitcase and lightening the load in my backpack would make the moving part of my life more pleasant.  The plan was I would go with Janne to drop Sophia off at school.  Go to the hardware store, come home, pack and travel to Syracusa with a family friend that lived there.

The car was packed in the back, crates of fruit, boxes to be shipped and Massimo's massage table for physical therapy patients.  Sophia sat in the front with her mother and I was wedged in the back.  "Are you comfortable?"  Janne asked.  "Well if we were driving to Catania I would not be but I am okay for now."  Looking around at all of the things wondering why she even needed to ask such a thing, astounded by my diplomacy, feeling a little puffed by my wittiness.   "well it is  a shame that I have to drive because I could fit there comfortably without a problem."  Wow bye bye witty puff, are you kidding me Janne.  I thought.

When we arrived at school Sophia said good bye to her mother and slammed the door behind her.  She did not even glance in the back seat at all. This departure and the ponies felt like a confirmation.  Silly maybe but I found it reassuring. I was not sure what I had done to these women but it seemed like leaving them was not a bad idea.  Perhaps it is simply that I am happy.  Sometimes people smell happiness on someone and they want to smear crap all over it.  I have my crap guard on but it did burn a little and made me want to eek out a little ouch. 


Christina is a family friend.  She was born in Germany but has been living in Sicily for 15 years.  She lives in Syracusa but spends lots of time in Noto.  She planned her day around helping me with a ride to Syracasa instead of taking the bus.  She was always chatty and like Janne, spoke beautiful English.  I enjoyed her company.  She was spirited and when she was in the house Janne seemed lighter and Massimo was not.   This I enjoyed observing.  A quiet vengeance, a little evil of me but satisfying.  The car ride was not a language lesson like it was with Massimo.  Christina talked about her work as a Shiatzu therapist, her training, the misery of her relationship, the joy of her friendship with Janne and Massimo and her love-hate relationship with Sicily.  The love was the warmth, the sun, the flowers, the sea, and some of the people.  The hate was the ruthlessness of robbers that murdered her dogs by kicking them in the gut until they bled to death, and then robbed her and destroyed parts of her property.  "I am telling you these stories Marianne because I do not want you to leave feeling like this is a perfect place.  When people are angry with you or think you have something they should have they can be ruthless and cruel, especially when you are a foreigner and you live in the country"  She squeezed my arm as she told me looking straight into my eyes like she was trying to burn the information into them. 





This was not the first set of stories I had heard about vengence and crime.  Janne and Massimo had acres of property distroyed by fire, loosing hundreds of trees including carob trees that were 200 years old..  The fire was set on a neighboring property by a disgruntled worker.  The man was angry with their neighbor and as a result the fire traveled over the mountain and distroyed thousands of acres of farm land, including land of  Janne and Massimo.  Today the roots of the ancient trees have offered new growth and are producing again.  The fire reached the man property ironically and also took a few of his buildings.  This man was sentenced only to two years in prison.  TWO! Basta.

We arrived in Syracusa and I found my finger tips were far from my palms.  I was feeling relaxed.  Some of the conversation was her concern that I was going to the North.  When I told her that I would like to go to Friuli, a region in Italy that boarders Croatia,  she said Sicilians almost don't consider that Italy and continued with a concern for the cold.  I reasurred her that I was a master at warmth and managed to live for five years without running water and electricity in a state that is very close to Canada.  I was certain that I would figure out how to stay warm.

Before bringing me to town she wanted to give me a tour of her house.  She had purchased an abandoned villa with a barn.  The barn had been turned into a therapy room and a yoga studio.  Two additional buildings were built with bedrooms and another as a central kitchen.  The property was purchased with the idea that it would be shared with several other families.  It turned out that the other partner, also her boyfriend at the time,  doesn't really like people that much.  The plan was derailed, the money ran out and now she is mortgaged on a half finished property with a cranky misinthrop that loves the land and gardening but is a misery to be around she claims.  I smiled politely at all of this information, my insides soft with empathy and tried enjoyed the view.  In the end she handed me a sweater belonging to the misinthrop and asked me to try it on.  The sleeves were a mile long and I had room enough to carry a child to term.  "Oh that fits you perfectly," she said.  Are you not seeing what I am seeing here.  This thing is down to my knees.  I took it and thanked her, not saying a thing but assuring her now I would be very warm in the North.  My finger tips greeted my palms and buried themselves in. 

Syracusa: Prima Volta

 Returning from the field mid morning with Massimo, Massimo stopped suddenly, picked up a worm and put it in a bucket.  "Mariannknee these arre very importante."  I watched him repeat this four times.  When we arrived at the house, he handed me the bucket and a small shovel.  I looked down at the bucket and then at him.  "Oh dear" I thought  "Verme importante."  I repeated.

  Viene qua Mariannknee" , he said.  (come here).  I followed as I always do.  "Facciamo cosi."  (We make so) He said turning over a rock to expose the tail end of other worms.  "Pick it Mariannknee."  "What, the worm, you want me to pick the worm."  "Si, si. Importante for to make the dirt."   " We need very many for to make the dirt gud.  Very many den in da bucket cosi", making a plop it in here motion. 

"How many is a lot in Italian?" I asked knowing well this kind of English he did not understand, but stated for my own enjoyment. "Massimo, is this really my job now."  I watched as he knodded yes and smiled in kind of an evil and satisfied way  "well then, I will and there will be many."

I still wasn't really sure what many meant but I was hoping that my idea of many was enough for his idea of many.  I set out for all the dark damp places that I could find.   I turned over rocks small, medium and large, exposing there dark, cool underbelly.  I  pinched with my bare hands worms that were as thick as a pencil.  In their final protest before being place in a bucket, they would always poop like playdoe out of a mill a little beige coil, shrinking a little in an effort to escape.  "Ah this is the dirt making juice that I hunt i think.  Verme Cacciatore that I am."  (worm hunter) I stood with my legs spread like Wonder woman, one arm on my waist with handle of the bucket in the crook, my shovel raised in the other hand.  Dah dah dahhhh da.  "I wish I had a cape."    laughing madly at the absolute obscurity of it all,  "I am thousands of miles away from home.  I am squatting on my hands and knees squeezing poop out of slimmy worms."  I thought.  One really long one I measured,   it went from the tip of my middle finger and about 1 inch past my wrist, it was as wide as a kids starter pencil.  It was revolting and amusing all rolled up in one.  I laughed and laughed.  I could think of about a dozen people that I would have liked to share this moment with.  It made me feel lucky.

After I reached what i thought was a lot in my book I went to the house.  Janne had a doe eyed look of apology.  "How was your day."  in a tone half knowing that I might say "Crappy."  Just thinking about this as a response makes me smile a little.  Proudly I state the final count for worms in the compost-50.  "Well because I am here for experiences, I am sure that this one will be a good story someday but I hope that there is only one compost bucket." This is the closest I came to complaining my entire stay.   "This work I can never do."  she said, smiled, waved me in, handed me a bowl and removed the lid to the lunch pot.  Fish with pasta you can twirl.  Well this once had eyes so why isn't this meat and why do you call yourselves vegatarians.  If you can call this a vegatable then why isn't chocolate a vegatable, I thought. I just don't get it.   I said nothing, smiled and piled a hell of a heap of it in my bowl, picked out all the extra bits of fish that I could find in an amount of time that could go unnoticed.

During lunch there was the usual chatter that I did not understand.   I mind traveled back to the obsurd afternoon, the long worms while I twirled my pasta.  It was a struggled to keep my mind from thinking about the similarity of my noodle and the creatures, especially in the end when the verme were mounted in one pile.  Massimo voice pounded, "Mariaknee, would yewe like to go to Seeracusa wit me?"  "Well sure I would."  The deal was to quickly sluff off the day work scum, check my hair for hay, wipe the sweat crud from my neck, don my city clothes and be ready in ten Sicilian minutes.  Massimo had an appointment with a client for two Sicilian hours and i was offered an opportunity to walk around the city for a bit.  Arriving home for dinner at nine Sicilian time, which probably meant 10:30 or so.

I was ready in 10 American minutes and waited for the other 20 or so Sicilian minutes.  I kept company with a nasty cat i called "Cranky" and her babies.  One by one I shoved a kitten in my coat and gave them a pat.  They would lay there content purring, protest a little when they had their fill, be placed gently on the ground and then the next would be invited to snuggle.  This routine was ended with a boom, smash of the screen door opening scattering kittens and cats like beads of mercury. Even the one cradled in the darkness of my jacket sprung to its feet leaping out onto the ground, "Andiamo Mariannknee."  (We go Marianne)  Spoken as though he had been waiting for ME for 20 Sicilian minutes.

Car rides with Massimo meant language lessons.  He was passionate and consistent.  I think it was because he wanted another person to understand him when he spoke.  He liked an audience. He was the kind of man that always had something to say about everything.  I often wonder if I would like him as much if I understood everthing he said.  I have witnessed many woman red faced and slapping their thighs or the table in what looked like protest to me. Janne always, with a soft, defeated downward glance.  Shaking her head but always silent.

 Today's lesson was: "Marianknee tell me what you did today.  Ah cosi:  I whake upe, I washe my teeth,  I awashe my face, . . . Nowa ewee treye."  Oh dear how long is the ride to Syracusa I thought. noticing that my nails were digging into my clutched palm.  Politely I gave it a go and he seemed pleased.  All present tense, I did as I was asked.  I was tired though and relieved to see the sign for Syracusa.  I looked forward to a deep whiff of sea to push out the damp smell of worm that had taken hold and probably I would try to find another place to eat more vegetarian fish.

He drove me to the door where I was to return in two hours.  He pointed to the church across the narrow street, instructing me to wait there for him.  I photographed everything to document it, took out my guide book with the ridiculous street map and was on my way.  I wondered around the maze of streets for a while until I had the courage to ask someone where I was.  I quickly conjugated the verb to be and hoped that I really knew the word for where.  "Mi scuse senior, dove sono?"( Excuse me sir where am I) Pointing to the map on the open page of my guide book.  "You are here"  He replied in perfect English after looking for a few seconds, "Where would you like to go?" The the park by the sea.   "Vieni,  I will show you."  He walked briskly, we arrived quickly to a street.  "You go straight here and you will arrive.  Enjoy your evening.  It is a wonderful time of day to go.  The sun set here is the most beautiful." I looked over to the horizon, seeing that day was slipping away quickly.  He smiled a handsome toothy grin that made me flush.


  I expected acres of green grass and tall trees with bent bows that looked like the equivalent of bed head but that was not what i found.  I liked what I found but it was orderly and obedient.  The trees had crew cuts, the square was paved with steely grey volcanic rock tiles.  A narrow terrace of stone carved steps up to a pier to a few feet above the sea.  What I liked the most was that it was a place that people used.  Like Noto, the square was active with residents taking in the end of the day.    Men sat in clusters chatting on the steps to the pier.  On the square ,  a father was teaching his son to ride a bicycle, a couple in a window over looking the sea were drinking wine in silence watching the sky blaze, young men where fishing, couples were snuggling, a young woman walked arm and arm with her grandmother.  it was wonderful.  I found a perch at the end of the pier near a smaller set of stairs to observe and enjoy.



One big difference between Noto and Syracusa was the presence of small european cruise ships.  Clusters of really white tourists with plastic name tags and head sets, like a gallery guide in a museum sporting big white sneakers and wide rimmed hats snapped pictures of the marina.  One woman walked slowly like she had no knees, her legs straight as boards.  Her camera was on her wrist like a braclette.  She stopped to take a few photos then approached the end where the stairs were lower and there was a shallow ledge she could use to hoist herself on.  She grunted and mounted one. I held out my hand to help her.  She grabbed it without thinking, looking surprised when the palms of our hands met.  My grip was firm and hers was frail.  She gave in enough for me to need to flex my arm and back a little to hoist her.  Her eyes were wet, grateful and  friendly.  "Grazious."  she said  "Prego"  I replied.  "Eyetalians are so very nice."  she said.  I just smiled. I just smiled the warmest smile I could.  She nodded and bowed a little.  "Piacere,  Buona Serata Signora."  I said waving a little, feeling the warm pride of being lopped into a group called Eyetalian.

The sun had slid under the sea and I was ready for more meat.  I set off down a new path in the same direction I had come.   I walked through a small park with large trees filled with birds.  I stopped to take a photo of a woman taking a photo and my hand was crapped on twice.  "Good luck,"  I thought, "Who the hell made that up.  A mother that was trying to comfort a hysterical daughter.  that is who."  I thought.  I dragged my hand on the sand to remove what i could.  "Wow what is with all the dusgusting things on my hands theme today.  Geezum. I am done with this today."  I said to the sky  and continued on my meat quest.




I found a line of small restaurants on the edge of the water.  Shyness nearly pushed me passed them all until I reached the last one.  A waiter leaned out, bowed and waved me in.  "Prego Signora."  He said a lot more that I did not understand but it all seemed friendly.   I quickly ordered knowing that I was getting close to the end of the American Two Hours.  The restaurant was full and I had no idea how long the food would take. Tourist mostly, eating dinner at a very unItalian time.  I did not care.  This was snack time.  Dinner would probably be at 11.

I ordered a seafood salad, a small bottle of water and what I thought was a glass of Sicilian white wine.  When I did this it seemed to please the waiter very much.  It was hard to imagine why he seemed so happy.   He returned quickly with a caraf and a huge bottle of sparkling water said some more things that I did not quite get and bowed a lot.  What the hell is this guy doing and what did I say that super sized everything.  Resigned to the reality of not knowing how to say what I needed to change the situation,  I sipped my wine.  content,  I listened to the sea tossel the gravel beach with a gentle crackle.  This sound, the sound of people chatting in a half a dozen languages and the wine was like a brain binky.  I was sinking deep into planet Marianne and I liked it.  When the waiter arrived with my salad and placed in front of me with a thud, I was startled but delighted.  It was a mad heap of crunchy raw vegatables, carrots, celery, onions  with a mound of calamari, octopus, shrimp, flaky white fish.  All things that required chewing and made a noise when you did.  I became aware in this moment that besides the chocolate that I had eaten in Modica, everything I had eaten in the last month I could have manage without teeth.


I glanced to see if others were looking because my lust for crunch seemed so very overt.  My first bite the crunch sound filled my head.  I loaded my fork again with all the vegatables I could and shut my eyes in an effort to have the crunch seem even louder.  For the third, I traded in my fork for a momma spoon, one with a deep wide belly.  Eyes shut again, I crunch with my teeth furthest in the back. I heard a little meow, opened my eyes and looked at my feet.  There, a dinner companion.  "You know about the others don't you friend",  I said to him, thinking of the kittens that I throw in my jacket on a daily basis.  I grabbed my camera, took a photo.  He squinted his eyes.  "The answer is no.  you cannot have one single bite."  Shaking my finger at him.  I smiled, scratched his head, raised my brow with resignation and he was on his way down the street.  He did not even try to seduce anyone else.

I managed to finish every bite of the oh my I don't think I can finish this way too big  salad.  I drank every drop of wine and water then asked for my check.  The waiter said some more things but I did not understand, bowed some more.   I was starting to feel the pressure of punctuality so I walked inside to pay my bill.  The waiter met me, slid my card, said something more, handed me a pen.  I folded myself down over my belly now sloshing with vegatables and liquid to sign my paperwork on the desk he was standing behind.  I stood straight handed him the paper, flung on my bag in one effort.  He leaned over kissed my cheek, licked my ear, handed me my copy.  "Oh my" I said and squeezed  my ear lobe like I was trying to stop it from bleeding.  I backed away from him like he had a gun, tripped a little down the step and rushed out of the restaurant like it was on fire.  "Holy cow, that guy just sucked on my ear and I am  I  I  I  am speachless.  Ohhh Dio Who am I here?"

I walked for a bit realizing that I was lost and late and still holding onto my ear lobe.  I let go, took my camera out of my pocket,  showed the picture of the church to a woman.  "Ah intellegente."  This I understood.  I thanked her.  I travel alone alot,  I told her,  in retrospect now, with a little more information about the language, i think I said something that might have resembled that, like a "b" resembles a "d".  She walked with me a little bit then pointed down a street, gestured a few turns with her hands, smiled and waved.

I had arrived.  Found my post empty.  A young man pulled up on a scooter.  His phone rang, spoke a bit.  "Mi scusi seniora,  Ewe rrr to waitte here for Massimo.  He will only be annudder ten minutie." Ha that is a stinkin dirty lie, He can't be punctual but he can manage a messager.  How can I be mad at that. I thought.

Technically I was still on time.  I tried for the Sicilian two hours but failed.  Alone I sat waiting under the dim yellow street light on a church step with my head in my hand,  pondering my whacky little day in the life of a WWOOFer in Italy and thought I would not change a thing, not one little thing but honestly wondering if my bladder would hold up to the Sicilain two hours, tryng not to laugh. 

Following the Saints

My morbid fascination with the martyrdom of saints had been rekindled once again on this visit to Italy.  I search for crypts, mausoleums with bodies of popes and priests, cult chapels that hosts human skulls with the hope that caring for them will earn a ticket into heaven.  The Italians walk a very fine line between witch craft and Christianity.  Superstition mutates the practice of prayer in some cases, leaving in its path a endless series
of perfectly maintained relics housed in beautifully crafted vessels located in magnificently designed and executed architectural wonders, in my opinion.  Other Christians completely lack the obsession for the saints and no one except for maybe the Mexicans can hold a candle to the Italians for the worship they have for the Madonna.  I do not mock them.  I think that it is human to need to believe in something, to create some kind of structure as a filter to make sense of the world the best we can.  As long as no gets hurt, I could care less what it is or how it is done.

Among my favorite saints, who are very prominent in Sicily are Saint Lucia and Saint Agatha.  Because both were born and martyred in Sicily, the island is rich with images.  Still festivals are held and pilgrimages made to celebrate them and the implore protection from them.  Saint Agatha's image is a bit more ubiquitous in Italy, often being the subject of paintings and sculptures by some of Italy's best like Tiepolo, Tintoretto and Titian.  Rome is the home of two churches dedicated to her.

In the north I found the story of Agatha to vary a bit from the South but the basics are very much the same.  Saint Agatha was the fairest of all maidens  and super young to boot, some versions write that she may have only been 11.  (Now I am no expert,  I am just restating the facts that I found).  Of the dozens of images I have seen of her, only one represents her this young and it is quite disturbing.  A huge canvas portraits a life size image of Agatha, blond, fair skinned, dainty standing in a audience of  towing adult males with her breast exposed.  Her suitor on an elevated platform points to his guards, one holding a blade and the other enormous pliers, ordering them to remove her breasts.   Vowing her virginity to God and refusing the hand of her jilted suitor, she was reported and first sentenced to a brothel.  After converting all of the whores into good Christian woman, she was sentenced to public removal of her breasts.  On the evening of this day, in her cell, located in Catania, she was comforted by the vision of Saint Peter who restored her breast to their former perky state.  Enraged, her jilted suitor ordered her to be rolled in hot coals.  Here is where the story changes a bit.

One story states that Agatha was rolled in coals, causing an earthquake leading to the fall of an enormous wall that crushed her suitor to death as well as his executioners.  After she died in the burning coals.  A second version is that she rolled in coals, caused an earthquake then died alone in her cell after years of torture. A third version is that she was burned at the stake but would not die.  After several attempts to burn her they chopped off her head.  This did the trick but when she died she smelled like roses.  She is the patron saint for protection against earthquakes and natural disasters, jewelers, breast cancer, torture victims and because she is portrayed in painting with her breasts on a platter, she is also the patron saint of bell makers.    The last one makes me chuckle a little bit.

Saint Lucia was inspired by Agatha,  born thirty years after Agatha's death, and only 19 at the time of her martyrdom, she too consecrated her virginity to God.  Again Saint Lucia was an ideal candidate for marriage.  she was young and beautiful, born as a noble to Catholic parents in Syracusa.  Her father died when she was a child, left in the care of only her mother.  A young suitor asked for her hand in marriage and Lucia refused.  Her mother annoyed and frustrated developed a hemorrhage.  Lucia told her mother to visit the tomb of Saint Agatha and pray for a cure.  Her mother was delighted that she had been cured.  This was the green light for Lucia to confess to her mother that she wanted to dedicate her life to helping the poor and to God.  Her mother bursting with pride called off the plans for marriage.  The young man, angry and vengeful, accused
Lucia of being a Christian before a judge.  Again, like Agatha, the first thing the judges do is send the virgins to a brothel.  When the guards arrived however the souls of Lucia's feet  were like magnets to metal and she could not be budged.  They tried to burn her, but could not be burned so instead of taking her head like Agatha, they drove a sword through her throat.  Now sometime her eyes came out and they were restored.

There are different versions of this part of the story.   First version is that the judge ordered her eyes to be removed before they attempted to burn her.  The second version was that her jilted lover had removed them because he thought they were so beautiful.  The third, the version I prefer,  that she removed them herself, sent them to her jilted lover and said.  "Here you liked them, you can have them now leave me alone."  Either way it happened in the end she comforted by a vision of God, her eyes were restored and were even more beautiful then before. of course.  She died a whole woman and she probably too smelled like roses.  Saint Lucia is the patron saint of the blind and to protect against blindness.  She is almost always portrayed with eyes on a platter.

If I were a person that navigated through life as an intellectual I think I would mock these beliefs, believing that all of this was complete rubbish, nonsense, propaganda.  I know that I do not.  I pray to Saint Anthony when I loose something, and there is a postcard of Saint Agatha in my jeweler's bench.  Before I pull go on my motorcycle throttle  I say the same prayer in the same way enlisting the protection of all my dead relatives in heaven.   As I progress to the last grain in my hour glass I value the accumulation of my experiences and find that I have learned to distribute the weight of importance more evenly. I am grateful for the questions that I ask sometimes liking the answers and other times not.  I have learned to celebrate most differences but have learned enough to know that some, like those steeped in hate should not be tolerated.  I love that I love beautiful things and that I have learned to find them in the smallest places.  Here more than ever I witness and accept that a church, a festival for a saint, a pilgrimage represents tradition, which is often just a romantic notion of people getting together and eating really good food.  And for me more importantly,  visiting the same subject over and over my eyes become more keen and my pleasure more intense.