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.