MY TWO LANDS OF SONG

Yes, it's been a while. Sometimes life intervenes but I'm back today to tell you how happy it makes me when a special event links my two countries, Wales and Italy, especially when my home town of Cardiff is involved.

Cardiff Singer of the World is a prestigious classical music competition which takes place biannually in the Welsh capital. This year sixteen competitors arrived in Wales to take part and five were selected as finalists. All were worthy but after careful consideration the 29-year-old bass Adolfo Corrado from Salento (Puglia) was declared the winner. He looked absolutely amazed but also, of course, delighted. Asked how he felt, he replied, "Distrutto" and the audience went wild when he said he had learned just one word of Welsh, diolch - thank you. 

Adolfo studied at the Tito Schipa Conservatory in Lecce and this year has performed in Don Giovanni in Valencia and Il barbiere di Siviglia in Bari. He now lives in Florence and I am sure we'll be hearing much more of him in the years to come. Good luck, Adolfo!

You can watch the international version of the final on the BBC 4 website but I don't know for how long. I love the shots of dear old Cardiff at the beginning and towards the end, at approximately 2h.23m., you can see the winner announcement and listen to a very fine rendition of the Welsh national anthem. I have a feeling that Adolfo will be learning it!

AGRIGENTO 2025

Young people I talk to often ask what my favourite cities are and I always reply that in Italy, they are Agrigento and Florence because both literally took my breath away when I first saw them. I add that in the UK, London has to be on my list, for the simple reason that Dr Johnson was right and it has everything, while Cardiff has to feature because it is the city where I have lived longer than anywhere else, and Bath because it is so easily walkable and has homogenous stone which, like that of Noto (another Sicilian favourite) glows light amber in sunlight. But Agrigento lifts my heart, reminds me why I came to Italy and retells the story of Western European culture.

I was very pleased, therefore, to read last week that Agrigento has been chosen as Italian Capital of Culture 2025 for it is an honour it has long deserved. Gennaro Sangiuliano, Italy's Minister of Culture, said on Friday that the (cultural) wealth and interconnectedness of so many places, cities and villages in Italy are unique in the world and something that only Italy has, making the country a cultural superpower. Every town, even the smallest, he said, is a treasure trove. 

The Commission awarding the title was impressed by the fact that Agrigento included in its application the cultural importance of the island of Lampedusa and other towns in Agrigento Province, and stressed the importance of the relationship between the individual, his or her neighbours and nature. The concepts of welcome and access were also at the heart of the dossier.

Francesco Miccichè, the Mayor of Agrigento, said that Agrigento and Sicily had not really won because the real winner is Italy, and to have written and promoted this application in this historic political period, focussing on cultural exchange between peoples and the diverse ethnicities of the Mediterranean, was a great act of courage and sensitivity on behalf of the judges and all the institutions involved. He then issued an invitation to all the mayors who had participated in the competition to help create a tourist network from Aosta (in the Alps) all the way down to Agrigento, uniting all of them by being Italian.

As a lover of Agrigento, I feel very proud of her myself and I have written before on this blog about how I think its Sagra del mandorlo in fiore (Almond Blossom Festival) unites young people in particular and of how, on my first visit to Sicily, I managed to find and visit the birthplace of the writer Luigi Pirandello, which you, too, may like to do if you are interested in literature and find yourself in Agrigento. The city itself is also welcoming and pleasant, and you should not miss an opportunity to visit the 13th century church of Santa Maria dei Greci (built on the site of a Greek temple, hence the name).

However, Agrigento's main attraction for tourists is, of course, its Valle dei Templi and it really does have to be seen to be believed (in a good way). The last time I was there was on a sunny spring day in 2018 and it looked, as it always has, glorious.

The Culture Minister also said that from 2024 there will be, in addition to an Italian Capital of Culture and an Italian Capital of Books, an Italian Capital of Contemporary Art and a European Capital of the Mediterranean.

OF A LEVELS AND STARS

Today is A level results day in Britain and seeing the reports of joy and disappointment always reminds me of the day I got mine. (A levels are the exams students take in order to get into university.) Here is another extract from my book:

Besides, it was not all doom and gloom at those Friday night meetings* and after them we would all go to a nearby café where we drank coffee, ate cake, laughed and joked and talked about other things. I was there the night before my A level results came out and I suddenly started crying because I couldn't control my anxiety about them any longer.

* The meetings were Gamblers Anonymous for Dad and the Gam-Anon group, for family members affected by a compulsive gambler, for Mum and me (once I turned eighteen).

...

When I heard the postman the next morning, I put my head under the eiderdown and refused to open the envelope which Mum had brought into my room.

‘It's all right, Pat. You know we're still proud of you, whatever it says.’

But I carried on hiding and eventually she took it in to Dad, who was still in bed.

‘Well, if you won't open it, I'll have to!’

And a few moments later,

‘My darling, you've got a place in university!’

I had done it! Despite all that had happened, I had got even better grades than my first choice university, Cardiff (then The University College of South Wales and Monmouthshire, to give it its full title) had required. I couldn't believe it because I really thought I had failed everything but then, I always convinced my parents that I would fail every exam I ever took. I had chosen Cardiff not only because the city was known to me through holidays and weekend trips, but because you could study Italian there and they had not required an O level in maths, which I hadn't passed. I wanted to study Italian, along with French, as a change from Spanish. I think ‘La Vida de Lazarillo De Tormes’, which every Spanish student had to study, had finished me off for that subject and now I wanted to learn the language not only of opera, but of some romantic Italian records I had bought. At Cardiff, if you already had an A level language pass, you could do a crash course in Italian which would take you to A level standard and beyond in a term, so that is what I decided to do. I was so happy and even Miss Williams told me I had ‘done very well, considering all that.’

We celebrated and told everyone we knew and soon a reading list as long as your arm arrived so Dad and I were in our element, buying books in Foyles in Charing Cross Road. Our motto was always, ‘Why borrow a book when you can buy one and have it on your shelf?’ Dad's cousin John, Auntie Ethel's son, sent the two enormous volumes of the Harraps French-English and English-French dictionary, considered the best there was and I was delighted to own them instead of having to go to the library to consult them. John, now a university professor in Australia, had visited us often in Bristol when he was at Clifton College and had always encouraged me academically. I also had to have an undergraduate academic gown and, the Hall of Residence list said, ‘a biscuit tin, a mug, instant coffee and a tin of dried milk powder.’ In that first year the friends I made in Aberdare Hall and I drank myriad mugs of coffee laced with the dried milk, which would often turn lumpy, and I have to say it was one of the most revolting beverages that has ever passed my lips.

So, dear students in Britain, I do know how you feel today and if you are disappointed, it is very unlikely to be as bad as you think so explore every avenue because there is always a way - I know this as a teacher.

Exam results at that level of course impact on our dreams and our dreams are often inspired by the stars. Today is also the feast of San Lorenzo and in Italy on the notte di San Lorenzo and on the nights surrounding it we all look for falling stars, which are said to bring luck. Having said that, on the notte di San Lorenzo in 2019 I saw, for the first time, several shooting stars in succession and look how 2020 turned out! However, when I mentioned this to a kind friend earlier today, she said,

"Hey! You wrote the book, you got through a pandemic and you and Bertie (my dog) are well. Maybe those stars worked!"

So there you are - things are rarely as bad as they may seem.

L'âme est pleine des étoiles tombantes - The soul is full of falling stars.

- Victor Hugo

Le stelle cadono senza far rumore per non svegliarci - Stars fall noiselessly in order not to wake us.

- Roberto Gervaso

Image: 
https://cliparts.zone/falling-stars-cliparts

A FAMILIAR VOICE

There I was at lunchtime, daydreaming as is my wont, when a UK number came up on my mobile. When I picked up, a familiar voice exclaimed,

"We're in Modica!"

The voice was that of my Cardiff hairdresser, Pete [originally from Partinico] and the "we" referred to his wife, Carla. I'd never thought I would see them here and it was great to catch up.  They'd seen most of the sights of Modica earlier and were impressed.  Come back soon, Pete and Carla!

Pete and me in Cardiff last November and in Modica today

And you know you're in Modica when the waitress says, 

"Yes, I'll be happy to take a photo but it'll look better if I do it when I've got the food on the table."

PALERMO IN A JAM

Now it's official: every palermitano who drives - and that's most adults - spent 147 hours stuck in traffic during 2015. Thus the city earns the dubious honour of being the worst in Italy for traffic congestion, according to the TomTom Traffic Index. Rome comes second, Messina third, Naples fourth, Milan fifth and Catania sixth.

In the table for Europe, Palermo is fourth, after Łódź, Moscow and Bucharest and Rome is in ninth position.  

Mexico City "wins" first place for congestion in the world table and is followed by Bangkok, Łódź, Istanbul and Rio de Janeiro.  Rome is 15th, London 16th, Manchester 25th and Athens 29th.  

Dear old Cardiff, for those of you who are interested, has no world ranking - presumably because of its size - but was 121st in the "all cities" congestion index.

I'm sure you're wondering, as I am, what the palermitani do with all this time that they spend in traffic jams: Do they read their smartphones or newspapers?  Do they occasionally dart out of their stationary vehicles to consume a quick espresso? I rather think they watch each other and the world around them and indulge in the occasional good-natured shouting match. 

SICILY SCENE'S REVIEW OF 2015

The year that has just ended began, for me, in the worst possible way, with the loss of my darling Simi on January 8th. In the days and weeks that followed, there were several points when I thought I was going to go as well and of course, these days coming up to the anniversary of her death are also difficult.

But in February my Bertie-Pierrine, whom I love not as a substitute but in her own right, bounded into my life and we saved each other:

Other highlights of the year were visiting my new-found sister in Norwich, seeing Charles Aznavour live in concert in London and revisiting Cardiff, all of which I've written about here .

Elm Hill, Norwich, UK

It was also the year which marked the tenth anniversary of my move to Sicily and you can read about that here.

I was surprised, checking my blog stats tonight, to find that my most read blog post of 2015 was this Sabato Musicale  - I must have a lot of readers who are Annalisa fans and very welcome they are! The second most read post was the one I have linked to above about Simi's death.

My recipe of the year. among those I've created myself, is my Brit-Indian-Sicilian Shepherd's Pie:

I don't have a gadget of the year but I do have new [to me] uses for two old ones!  Both Mary Berry and Nigella suggest peeling ginger with a teaspoon in their latest books and I would like to thank them. It seems so obvious but I had never thought of it. Nigella recommends a microplane grater for grating citrus zest into dishes. I've had one for years but never realised how easy that would be!

My book of the year in English is The Dust That Falls from Dreams by Louis de Bernières and my book of the year in Italian is Giuseppino by Joe Bastianich.

Instead of the Italian logic prize this time, I am awarding an Italian scandal of scandals prize and it goes to the TV advert that horrified the nation in January because - are you ready? - it showed a MasterChef winner adding a stock cube to her caponata!  I am pleased to be able to report that this ability to be more scandalised by the use of stock cubes than by all the worst excesses of Italian politicians is alive and well, as a hapless would-be MasterChef Italia 5 contestant found out a week or so ago.  "Ci hai messo del dado?"- "You put a stock cube in?!" exclaimed a horrified Joe Bastianich and the ice-cold eyes of Chef Carlo Cracco turned icier than ever.

It was yet another sad year for migrants and tragedies have continued to happen, not only in the Mediterranean but on the land routes too. Italy's European partners continue to fail her and, consequently, all who are in need of a safe haven. You can find links to all my migration posts here.

My hopes for 2016 are a safe corridor for migrants and an end to migration tragedies. As always, I hope for peace and health for those I love and for all of you, wherever you are.

Happy New Year and thank you for reading Sicily Scene!

Buon anno e grazie di aver letto la Sicily Scene!

PLUS ÇA CHANGE....

So after visiting the UK for the first time in eight years, what changes did I note? I tend to notice weird, often insignificant things, so here are my weird observations, in no particular order:

• Handbags are still on the small side.
• Eateries are noisier than Italian ones but at least they are free of the ubiquitous televisions you find in the latter.
• Why did I get a separate "glass of ice" every time I asked for ice in my mineral water?
• There is a craze for sweet potato chips.
• Halloween has become a more pleasant festival than I remembered.
• When did people start saying "See you later" to mean "soon/sometime/never"?
• I was interested to see what kind of shops have survived the recession and was surprised to find several novelty shops in the centre of Cardiff still there.
• I was negatively flabbergasted at the cost of public transport and positively so at its efficiency [after 10 years in Modica].
• I was relieved that most people I talked to were more sympathetic to refugees than when I left and than the media would lead one to believe now. I was also relieved that most people I met did not think the UK will leave the EU.

Et plus ça ne change pas.....

As a post scriptum on my trip home, here is a note to Comiso Airport, a clean and efficient facility that we are justly proud of in these parts:  I know Sicilians don't like to be comfortable, but the rest of the world does, so please can we have some seating outside the airport? Weary travellers waiting to be picked up after you close need somewhere to sit!

HOMETOWN

However much we love our new country, sooner or later most expats feel like this:


But that wasn't the only reason I took a quick trip back to the UK a couple of weeks ago, as you will see.
Firstly, it was an opportunity to spend some time with my new-found sister and meet the rest of my birth family and their friends.
"We're having a little party for you tomorrow", announced my sister Jill upon my arrival. I was astonished and delighted to find that she had invited what seemed like the whole of Norwich and I must say, she was rather Italian about food, as it kept coming!  Don't you just love brother-in-law's specially made shirt?  

The "sisters" poster was made from a photo taken when Jill and her husband were here in Sicily last year and yes, there were fireworks too!
As I said, the delicious food just kept on coming.....

I very much enjoyed walking around Norwich with my sister and it made me feel closer to my birth mother to walk through the market there, as I had learnt it was something she often did.

Then there was a visit to the Norfolk Broads:

Here I am the next day, hair done and ready to go and meet my blogging friend Ellee Seymour for the first time!  We were off to London for a very special occasion indeed and Oxford Street looked beautiful from the bus:

The occasion was the Charles Aznavour concert at the Royal Albert Hall and all I can say is that both Monsieur Aznavour and the venue were merveilleux.  And thank you, Ellee, for the dedicated copy of your very interesting book, The Shop Girls. I loved it!

Wednesday morning and I was off again, to WALES at last!  I'd had the hiraeth for a long time, you see and I also needed to reconnect with the mum and dad who had brought me up.  Of course, I cried as the coach came into dear old Cardiff but was "the 'Diff" going to be ready for my Catania hat?

It turned out that it was and one of the first things I did was to have a walk in the park in the rain. I met up with lots of friends, gazed open-mouthed at the sheer number of new shops in my hometown and spent several hours just trying to orientate myself! I was very relieved to find that the universal greeting there is still, "Hiya, love".  
Later I visited the Senedd or Welsh Government building - it hadn't been built when I was last in Cardiff - and was impressed, especially when I was told that it is probably the first Assembly in the world to have achieved gender equality in its membership.

These lovely gentlemen deserve a BIG photo all of their own for they are none other than the members of the fabulous Cardiff Arms Park Male Choir and they kindly allowed me to attend their rehearsal. There's nothing like the sound of a Welsh male voice choir and a more rousing version of the Welsh national anthem I have never heard in my life!

There was another concert, this time at the Royal Welsh College of Music and Drama and performed by the students of the Brass and Percussion Ensembles. I'm sure some of these young people are going to be stars.   I had to have a "full Welsh" breakfast before leaving and the dear friend I stayed with lovingly prepared this excellent Jamaican Pepperpot Stew.  Then it was time to go and, as I passed the entrance to the Castle grounds at twilight, I couldn't help shedding some tears for the little dog I walked there so long ago.  "Ta'ra, love", I said to the 'Diff.  "I'll try and come back soon!"

Not that Cardiff is full of "tumble- down old shack streets" and not that my friends there are "corny country cousins" but this is for my hometown and for them:

SABATO MUSICALE

During a quick trip home to the UK last week, I was lucky enough to be able to attend a Cardiff Arms Park Male Choir rehearsal. Oh, how I've missed sounds like this!

Cardiff Arms Park Male Choir - Bread of Heaven

Earlier, on November 3rd, I achieved my ambition of seeing the great Charles Aznavour live in concert. This little man embodies the spirit of France, of which we are all thinking tonight:
Charles Aznavour, Royal Albert Hall 2015 - Les Deux Guitares

ANY UMBRELLAS?

Often it is the sideshows of great events that are most revealing about the nature of some of those attending them and so it was last night in Rome: As ecclesiastical history unfolded in the rain, spectators' umbrellas were refolded when they were asked to put them down so that everybody in the crowd could have a chance to see the new Pope. Italians can, at times, be among the most disorderly people in the world but at others, they will comply surprisingly quietly with a reasonable request and thus it was in St Peter's Square while the world looked on.

This got me thinking about umbrellas and I remembered that, when I first came here, it was difficult to actually buy one: they are not normally sold in supermarkets as they are in Britain and, if you couldn't run to a designer one, your choice was very limited. Those that were on sale at a reasonable price were either flimsy or had prongs that did not tuck in at the top, making them a menace to those padded raincoats so beloved of Italian women in winter.  Now better specimens are on sale in more shops, though rarely in supermarkets.

I've never really got on with umbrellas, I must admit, preferring a hood or my trusty Cardiffian hat, so when it does rain here I am often asked where my umbrella is.  This is a question which only someone addicted to their car would ask on a windy day for, as every Brit knows, rain and umbrellas do not mix. And when hailstones the size of eggs fall, as they did today in Modica, no umbrella would last very long. [Of course, I was the only person out and about in such weather once again.]

A beach parasol is known as an ombrellone or "big umbrella" and in the summer we were treated to the ombrellone strike. As I wrote then, Simi has her own version:

Earlier, I searched for umbrella quotes but the only one I liked, and which rather fits my mood at the moment, is this:

The rain it raineth on the just
And also on the unjust fella:
But chiefly on the just, because
The unjust steals the just's umbrella.

- Lord Bowen, quoted in Walter Sichel's Sands of Time.

My favourite Sicilian proverb about rain, by the way, is,

Cca çiovi supra ô vagnatu - Here it rains on the person who is already soaked [the implication being that troubles do not come singly, a premise with which I concur].

Does anyone know if there's still an umbrella repair stall in Cardiff Market?

Flanagan and Allen - The Umbrella Man

My favourite film featuring umbrellas is Les Parapluies de Cherbourg and I cry enough to make an umbrella necessary every time!

As it's nearly Easter, here's an umbrella song from Easter Parade:




Finally, here's a bit of inconsequential fun:

Enzo Jannacci - L'ombrello di mio fratello




If it's raining in your life at the moment, I hope a friend with an umbrella comes along soon!

ANCHORS - A "LET'S BLOG OFF" POST

Every two weeks, the blogosphere comes alive with something called a Blog Off. A Blog Off is an event where bloggers of every stripe weigh in on the same topic on the same day. The topic for this round of the Blog Off is "The Edge of your World".

When we are children, the edge of the world is represented by the limits of the world we know - the comforting scent of a mother,  the bars of a play pen or cot,  a garden wall, familiar rooms - and  perhaps this is why so many of us scream at our first children's party at another house or on our first day of school. 

For most of us, there is always a loving adult policing our surroundings when we move from that edge

and if we feel we are alone, even for a moment, we become pretty miserable:

However, I think I wanted to test the waters from an early age

and go off on the big ships

but always come back:

As a member of Churchill's "island race" it is not surprising that I am drawn to islands

Me, Elba-bound in 1977

and one day, more than half a century after the black and white photos above were taken, I flew to the biggest island in the Mediterranean and knew that I would not turn back:

In Donnalucata, Sicily - 2005

Sampieri, Sicily

I've written before about how, even then, leaving the comfort zone of my house in Britain was scary but tonight I want to think about one of the things you lose when, having stepped off the edge of your world, you arrive in your new one:  you lose what Alexander McCall Smith calls your "anchor-points".  He puts it thus:

"Just as Freddie de la Hay was missing him, so too was he experiencing that sense of incompleteness when a familiar presence is suddenly no longer there. Such feelings can be profound and long-lived..... or they may be less substantial, more transient, as when a shop or coffee bar we like closes down, or a favourite office colleague is transferred. These may seem little things, but they constitute the anchor-points of our lives and are often more important than we imagine."

- Alexander McCall Smith:  The Dog Who Came in from the Cold

If this is the case even in a city where you have lived all your life, imagine how important such "anchors" are when you change not only your city but your country.  You find new ones, as I wrote here, and you have to cultivate them but when you in turn lose one of these, you can feel quite disorientated for a while. Perhaps that was why I was so upset when Mr T shut up shop.  Yet this regret, for the loss of landmarks in an unfamiliar place, also means that you have integrated, so can be celebrated in a way. These days, though I still miss Mr T, I have become used to the new folk in what used to be his shop, and the butcher who occupies part of it has turned out to be a treasure - an "anchor", in fact.

So for me, stepping beyond the edge of what was my world has meant finding new anchors and it is still an adventure!

I couldn't find a suitable picture of an anchor, so here is my paternal grandfather in naval uniform, complete with anchor on his cap:

Below is the full list of bloggers participating in this week's theme:

Note: This is my last "Let's Blog Off" post as the project has now been wound up. I have enjoyed participating and would like to express particular thanks to Paul for inviting me to do so and for his unfailing support and courtesy. I've made some new friends along the way and I hope we can keep in touch. The "Let's Blog Off" archive can be viewed here.

SABATO MUSICALE - UN PO' DI NOSTALGIA

If I cared about sport, I could have had divided loyalties today as Italy played Wales in the Six Nations Rugby Tournament at the Millennium Stadium in my home town of Cardiff.

My plan to fly the flags of both nations on my balcony was foiled by atrocious weather so, in honour of the two cultures, here is an old favourite of mine - Jimmy Fontana singing the Italian version of the Tom Jones hit, Delilah:

Jimmy Fontana - La nostra favola

ITALIAN LOGIC PRIZE 2011

Sicily Scene's 2011 Italian logic prize goes to a twelve-year-old student of mine who, when I explained to the class the British habit of giving houses names, deduced,

"Oh, so when you come home you say 'Ciao, Michael' to your house?!"

My former house in Cardiff, which I named Le Bateau Ivre

WHAT IS HOME? - A "LET'S BLOG OFF" POST

Every two weeks, the blogosphere comes alive with something called a Blog Off. A Blog Off is an event where bloggers of every stripe weigh in on the same topic on the same day. The topic for this round of the Blog Off is "What is Home?"

On 27th May, 2005 I sat on the bare floor of my house in Cardiff, Wales, UK and I cried.  My possessions were on their way to Sicily, my precious dog was in boarding kennels at Gatwick Airport, London and I was remembering the last time I had seen the house empty, 21 years before.  

I had not always been happy in that house - indeed, it held as many sad memories as pleasant ones for me - but it had been my refuge from the world for a long time and now, with only the echo of my own footsteps and sobs where once there had been friends' laughter, the sound of dogs barking and my mother's beloved voice, I felt as if my heart would break. 

Yet it had been my choice to go and I was about to do something I had been dreaming of for 36 years, for I was moving to Italy.  So what was it that made that little house so hard to leave for the last time?  What was it that had made me call it "home"?

What I realised with a shock on that day was that, for a while, I would no longer have a home and that revelation made me feel strangely lost in the world.  Home, then, was not just the place I came back to at the end of the day or the trip, but it somehow fixed me somewhere on this vast earth.  I opened and locked my own doors, I received utility bills, I "belonged" to a street, a community, a town.  Now, by a stroke of a pen, all that was gone and I had no "space" of my own.

In Watching the English the anthroplogist Kate Fox writes that the British "sport" of hating estate agents [realtors] stems from our obsession with the carefully demarcated little spaces in which we live:  to sell our home is to invite an intrusion into that space - in other words, an invasion of our haven, the place where we can look and do as we like - and to agree to have judgement passed upon it.  And I had hated the estate agents' visits, the uncaring marches of others across my "little plot of land" so much that I had nearly given up the whole project.  So we  can be fiercely protective of our "home", even when preparing to leave it.

My garden in Cardiff had long become too much for me and even before I reached that point, I liked to look at it but had never wanted to do the work involved in keeping it even marginally tidy!  But I had shed tears for my garden ornaments, too.  They had been part of my life and I had "talked" to my stone animals and people every day.  Some of them were given to good, new "homes" but others have made a happy transition to my balcony in Sicily and I greeted them again as I unpacked them here:

When Simi the dog and I first arrived in Sicily we lived, for a while, in a tiny, traditional house belonging to a kind friend. It was comfortable and cool for us during the first months of that summer of 2005 and, with its magnificent Sicilian locks, we felt safe there:

But it wasn't "home".  No mail came addressed to me there and, although my neighbours were pleasant enough, they knew that we weren't going to stay so we did not become part of their community.   The house didn't contain our things but, more importantly, it didn't contain our memories.  We lived there but we didn't "live our lives" there, as we did in Cardiff and as we do now in our flat.   Home is a place for making memories. 

Simi and me at home in Sicily

Here is a list of other blogs which are participating in this week's "Blog Off" theme:

CLOUDS, CASTLES AND COLLATIONS

A quick diary of my trip back to the UK:

Let’s start with arriving at Catania on Wednesday 3rd: I always get off the bus at the airport as it’s easier to find a taxi there than at the town stop when you are laden with luggage. “50 €”, declared the driver when we arrived at my hotel. “That”, I informed him, “seems a lot to me. I live here and I know what the prices should be.” “Oh, 30 €, then”, said he, apologetically, then shook my hand but still looked as if he was expecting a tip. What he got was a lecture about not judging by appearances: “I may be pale and blonde but I am neither unfluent in Italian nor stupid”, said I and with that I swept off. Hopefully he’ll be more careful next time! Silly man – had he asked for 30 or even 40 € in the first place I’d have given him 10 more, as I was in a benign, holiday mood. Then a wander around Catania, a city which has always treated me kindly, in the evening and back for a wonderful meal in the hotel restaurant: You see it above, beginning with an orange salad flavoured with fennel, dressed with olive oil and garnished with anchovies and toast. No, I still don’t eat fish and could have ordered it without, but I wanted to see how they would use the anchovies. This is such a simple idea and so easy to copy. I don’t normally care for fennel, though it is much beloved of the Sicilians, often, in season, taking the place of fruit at the end of a meal, for it does clear the palate. I do like it like this, though. As a second course I partook of veal scaloppine served with a mushroom sauce and finally treated myself to this semifreddo of almonds. I seem to be known at the hotel now, so got my liqueur and coffee free, which sort of made up for the naughty taxi driver! One thing that struck me was that I see the same maître d'hôtel and other waiting staff there year after year; there doesn’t seem , in hotels at any rate here, to be the quick staff turnover that we have in Britain.

Next day at the airport you could, as ever, immediately tell who was British, for the women wore clothes of understated elegance – every one of them dressed at least partly in beige – whilst the men seemed ill at ease in the lighter apparel of late summer. And however well turned out, British women don’t “walk tall", telling the world they know they look good in the way that Italian women do. I also noticed the impatience of the British, strutting around as if we still ruled the waves and some even turning quite nasty when told that an airport shop would not open before 8 am. A couple of years ago that would have annoyed me too but now I look on with amusement and pazienza. Help! I might be acquiring the latter!! There is a smart new terminal at Catania: it lacks places to sit before you go through security and there is no bookshop after the x-ray machine but otherwise it is a much better place to wait in than the old one, apart from the facts that the bar has nothing remotely recognisable to a Brit, American or even a Frenchman as breakfast fare and they have started to charge for trolleys. Why?! If the busiest airports in the world can survive without introducing such a fee, I don’t see the necessity at Fontanarossa. Where do they think anyone is going to take the unwieldy things?

The flight was on time and I got my Cardiff bus but, with the Laurel and Hardy of National Express driving, although we left Gatwick on time, we were 45 minutes late out of Heathrow, for Messrs L & H weren’t very good at checking who had reservations and who was on standby. Bring back the dragon hostesses, who were “jobsworths” as far as what hand baggage you took on board but who would have sorted this in an instant! Then we hit the traffic so it was 7pm before I could text my friend Christabelle, with whom I was to stay, with the magic word, “bridge!” [meaning crossing into Wales] and I was an hour late getting to her – and a gin and tonic. [You can see Chris and me in picture 9.]

The first thing I noticed in Britain was how much closer to you the clouds seem and the second was the tapestry of green. Yes, I cried! And I also cried at the majesty of Caerphilly Castle [near Christabelle’s house] and I unashamedly offer you a photo of it in the middle of a blog about Sicily.

On Friday I walked around Cardiff, took a photo of an English breakfast for Raffaele the hairdresser, who doesn’t believe my description of one, and neither, come to think of it, does Gina, who, although she has spent plenty of time in the UK, asked me the day before I left if we ate “fresh green” beans in the morning. John Dickie is correct when he writes, in Delizia, that "the very notion of frying anything so early in the day is enough to make most Italian stomachs turn". Then I met a friend who, arriving in her car, asked, “Where do you want to go?” “Tesco!” said I.

Saturday brought the highlight of my trip and the real reason why I went at all: the annual Cheltenham Literary Festival. I had to get up at 5am in order to get there in time for the midday lecture I had booked as there was railway engineering work between Gloucester and Cheltenham causing delays. Here the true genius of the British is revealed : stage a prestigious event and then ensure maximum difficulty for the travelling public in getting to it. The talk was by Germaine Greer - I hear you groaning now, James! – and as mornings and I don’t get on I was not a happy bunny, until she spoke, that is. I can honestly say she is the best speaker I have ever heard, on any subject, anywhere and it was well worth the effort to attend. She has written a book on Mrs Shakespeare, to whom she believes history has been unfair. After that, I wandered around elegant Cheltenham, bought a few more books in the tents and had lunch in an Italian – of course! – restaurant. This was pleasant and reasonably priced for Britain, but I wondered why an Italian establishment listed pasta dishes under antipasti, unless it was to discourage the British from ordering them as a main course, which they never are in Italy. Then a rush back to Christabelle’s for dinner with friends there.

Sunday and I met a former teaching colleague for coffee – I am finding that I can no longer take the British “long” coffee or brodo [broth] as a friend here calls it – lunch and a shopping expedition. I was shocked to learn that so many of the people I worked with in one particular school have forms of cancer, have had breakdowns or are otherwise ill. I can only suppose that the stress of such a situation catches one up and I truly feel for all of them. How lovely it was, later, to read the papers as papers and not as online editions! The very process is so different.

Monday was the big day when I at last met Liz and Shirl [photos 6 and 7] and some of the details are already on our lunch blog [and it was clever Shirl who put the link to that in my sidebar!] I am going to post there again tomorrow. We got on famously, as I knew we would and I had a lovely time. Kind Shirl gave me the “make-up” fridge magnet which you see above, a little book of “friendship” quotations [in the last picture] and some chocs which I can’t show you – guess why?! I don’t know why but I navigated [with clear instructions from Shirl’s husband, Pete] Liz to Shirl’s place in Bristol, then got her lost back in Cardiff on the way to Penarth where I was to meet Christabelle and my former neighbours for supper! Sorry, Liz! This couple have just adopted a dear little girl of two and here’s a secret : I’m scared of 2-year-olds and the like, because I haven’t had children and was not used to little ones in my own family, so I don’t know what you’re supposed to say or do around them! Give me a hall of unruly teenagers, however, and I’d be fine. However, this little girl is especially delightful and has already learnt to say “Cheers – together!” so she is being well taught. My friends cooked me this stunning shepherd’s pie and had crumbled a little of the Sicilian oregano I had brought them into it. Just what I needed!

British early dining - although not as early as American evening meals – was a shock to my system throughout the trip, though. Here it is not unusual to dine as late as 10 or even 11pm and certainly no one would think of it before 9. That suits me, with my “owl’s blood” as my Dad used to call it.

On Tuesday I met my friend Jo the artist for a leisurely lunch in Cardiff and afterwards we wandered around Borders, where, the Dodos will be pleased to learn, Jo asked me, “Now, what book can I buy you for Xmas?” and I pointed to theirs. I’ve been wanting it for a while and I’m sure it will cheer up my winter. Jo had also brought me some more "Welsh" fridge magnets and you will see that they have joined the conglomeration on the door above. [That’s the best photo I could take – sorry.] In Borders I also bought an inflatable daffodil – how did I live without one for so long, I wonder? – and, as you see, I got my “Klippits” from Lakeland!


And suddenly that was the end, for I was travelling back to London for an overnight hotel stay on the Wednesday. [I can no longer do the midnight coach plus a 1200 mile flight plus a further 2 hours to get to Modica in one go.] I have to say the loo at Cardiff Bus Station remains disgusting: people grumble about the facilities here but, although some of the contraptions may lack a seat, they are not dirty. At Gatwick I noted, anew, the impatience of the British: “Huh! You wait around for 2 hours and then you have to spend 20 minutes walking to the gate”, huffed one of my compatriots when boarding was announced. I thought: “You are obviously fit and on holiday; you are going to a lovely place; what’s the matter with you?”

In Cardiff I even passed the man’s house several times on my way to and from from London and en route to other places: it doesn’t hurt any more and I’m not even sure I could pick out which one it is in the row now. It’s just a memory. "Forgive yourself", said Shirl on Monday and I rather think I will. I also managed to walk by what was my own house – or the building society’s – and it seemed somewhat forlorn. I could have coped with that better had the present occupier made some alterations to the outside!

The visit was tinged with sadness not only because of the former colleague situation I have mentioned, but because there is one friend who is not well and who has deteriorated so much that I fear I will not see her again. Admittedly, parting is always difficult, for who knows what the future holds for any of us? But it was a little harder to leave my father’s land this time.


However, it seems that in Britain, if al-Qaeda doesn’t get you, bedbugs on the London underground will, so on the whole I am glad to be back, with Simi, on my other island. I have returned to a temperature of 25 C but the women have decided it is autumn, apparel – wise, and I am glad of that. There just comes a moment when I want to don my blacks, shoes rather than sandals and tights! “Welcome home!” my kind neighbour who always brings me packs of mineral water when he visits the supermarket shouted from his balcony last night. “Do you need any water?” And at lunch time yesterday I was given a very big box of torroncini as a ben tornata present by the manager of the Altro Posto. Most importantly, Simi is here: I got into the apartment at 7.30 pm on Thursday, unpacked a bit, but then found myself wandering around sighing, “I want my baby!” until she arrived, as beautiful and as full of energy and wagginess as ever, at 8pm with “Mr Enzo”. Then I knew I was home! Oh, yes – I cried when I landed upon the soil of the “land of lands”, too!