Italian Days, Part XVII

A castle in the sky

Lombardy Castle, Enna, Sicily, Italy (Wikimedia Commons)

Dear readers: The previous parts of this journal can be found at the following links: I, II, III, IV, V, VI, VII, VIII, VIX, X, XI, XII, XIII, XIV, XV, XVI.

In this journal a few days ago, I scribbled, “Catania is in the shadow of Mount Etna. ‘Shadow’ can sound ominous—and I mean it to. Sucker’s liable to blow at any moment.”

You know that sucker did blow, the day after I left Catania (for Syracuse)? Yes. Didn’t hurt anybody, but threw its ash and whatnot into the air, complicating flights to and from Catania Airport.

Etna is a dangerous, temperamental beast.

***

I’ll tell you what is nice: Augusta. Augusta, here on the east coast of Sicily. As nice as the golf course in Georgia, where the Masters is played? Well, different.

I’m glad I’ve seen both …

***

Not that you asked, but I’ve just eaten the best plum of my life. It’s an astonishingly flavorful sugar bomb. A phrase comes to mind: “a peach of a plum.”

***

Whether we like it or not, there are sex differences. At least I think so. Let me suggest one: Men detest meetings; women either like them or don’t mind so much. If a meeting involves men only, it’s likely to be very brief (mercifully so).

May I suggest—no, state—another one? Well, women “run cold” while men run hot, or less cold.

On a train, there is an old Sicilian couple. The man is grumpy and gruff; his wife appears to me longsuffering. The day is hot, but the train is air-conditioned.

The man is in a white short-sleeved shirt and is wearing white shorts. The woman wears a long-sleeved shirt and a skirt. A minute or two into the journey, she gets out a sweater and puts it on. She then clutches herself, shivering.

***

I’m switching trains at the Catania Airport station. I happen to glance in the distance and there’s Mount Etna, smoking. Having a smoke, after its latest eruption.

***

On this next train, there is a conductor who speaks good English—American English. She has learned it from TV shows and movies, primarily. When she finds out I’m American, she’s amazed. She doesn’t meet many Americans in these parts.

“These parts”? We are headed deep into central Sicily, the Sicilian heartland, if you will.

She is doubly—triply—amazed that I live in New York. She would very much like to go there. But money is an issue.

In a few weeks, however, she’ll go to Berlin, where her sister lives. There, she can use her English.

She comes from a small town in the vicinity of Palermo. She could not wait to bust out of that town. She has, living in Caltanissetta—which is also a small town, but which is (a) notably beautiful and (b) different (different from what she had before).

In the past month, I have been in many small towns, which are interesting and charming to a traveler. But I understand why kids want to bust out of them. I understand it very well.

***

My destination is Enna, a mountain town, very beautiful. It’s in the center of the center of Sicily. It has sometimes been called the “navel” of Sicily. You wanna know how high this baby is? Almost a thousand meters, about 3,100 feet.

That may not be high to a Coloradan, but it’s high to me.

***

Let me give you a shot from sort of Lower Enna, looking out:

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Enna is the “Città della Gentilezza”—the “City of Kindness”—or so says the sign (the welcome sign). That’s a nice designation (no pun intended).

***

Again, people are amazed that I’m here—I mean, not me personally, but an American. I don’t see many of us in town.

Enna is not the simplest to get to, it’s true.

***

Dry cleaning, I’ve heard of. “Wet cleaning” is kind of a new one on me …

***

One store is open all day, pretty much, except for one hour: from 2 to 3. That’s what the sign on the door says. A phrase from an opera comes to mind: “dalle due alle tre.” That’s when Falstaff arranges his assignation with Alice, in the Verdi opera: “from 2 to 3.” (Doesn’t work out for the poor guy.)

***

Wanna give you a shot of some local produce:

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Here’s a neat street:

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“Monticello,” as in Jefferson’s home, means “little mountain.” I’m not sure the mountain on which Enna sits is little, but there is a Monticello Street (Via Monticello).

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A view from on high:

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You know, it’s cool up here—and I don’t mean “hip.” The temperature is lower, and pleasanter, here than it is below.

***

About my speed—a game I can play:

***

Lombardy Castle is the symbol of this town. It was built, in stages, from the 10th century to the 14th. Outside the castle is a war memorial, commemorating local men who were killed in the world wars. The names have been allowed to wear off, over time.

I don’t think this should be so.

***

This is somewhat awkward, somewhat painful. A sign tells us that a certain piece of ground is dedicated to the memory of Giovanni Palatucci, a Righteous among the Nations, credited with saving thousands of Jews. He was a police official in Fiume (i.e., Rijeka, Croatia). He died at Dachau in February 1945.

Did he, in fact, perform the deeds that he is credited with? There is now doubt about this, and a historical commission is investigating.

***

Here at the castle is something dramatic, and inspiring, I would say: Eunus, breaking the chains of slavery in the 2nd century, B.C.

***

Stick with antiquity: A plaque denotes the place where Cicero lived, when he was prosecuting Gaius Verres on behalf of Enna.

Gaius Verres was corruption personified.

***

Near Cicero’s place is a grocery store. There is an image of Jesus behind the cash register. A mother is working, with her daughter nearby. The daughter knows a little English and wants to practice it. I ask her how she’s doing. She’s doing fine. “I love you!” she exclaims. (“You don’t know him,” her mother admonishes, in Italian.)

The mother, the cashier, is delighted to learn I live in New York. She and her husband have been there … six times. From right here in hard-to-get-to Enna.

Some like New York, some don’t. I have heard from both, for years …

***

Bear with me a second: A friend of mine told me a story, some years ago. A black American documentarian had made a documentary about black Americans. My friend heard this fellow interviewed on the radio.

The interviewer asked a strange but interesting question: “What do you like best about black people?” The documentary-maker answered, “Their laughter.”

I think of this here in Italy. I like their laughter—the Italians’ laughter. It is hearty, unembarrassed, unselfconscious.

***

Lower down in Enna, the last of the day’s light:

Let’s head to Palermo, okay? Talk to you soon. Thank you so much.