Under the Volcano

My landlord is an awkward man - in a number of ways.  He cuts people off when they are speaking, refuses to engage with anyone who doesn't interest him, and says he has to leave Sicily because he can't stand the expats.  He says they never tell you the whole story; you're always left guessing about something.

It's when I'm standing at the top of a roaring highway, looking up through the smog at the volcano - that I realise I can see his point.  After all - when he told me how to get to Mount Etna (a bus, a train, another bus, another train) - he omitted to mention that the first bus of the day is also the only bus of the day.  So here I am, in Catania, fresh off the train he recommended I take.  Only I am half an hour late and 20 miles short.   And that's as close as I am going to get to the mountain today.

I've been sent from pillar to post by the locals - all unwilling to tell the 'stranieri' that her trip wasn't going to happen.  Eventually a woman at a local travel agency confirms my fears.  "And so", she says;  "there are now only two things you can do.  One is to go home.  The other is to go to the market and then to the church where we are celebrating the Festa della Madona del Carmine."  

Santa Carmine is the patron of the Carmelite nuns.  I was brought up Catholic so this intrigued me.  And so, of course, I opt for the latter.

The market was packed with humans and with goods.  Heaping scales of fish, miles of shoes, seas of swimsuits, acres of fruit and veg.  Pradda, Guccy, hamsters and trilling red-beaked songbirds.  I love it. How come we don't have markets like this?    Why did we turn a real-life, in-yo-mouth adventure into a stroll down the sanitised aisles of a supermarket?  This is much more fun.

I make my way into the church.  It is roiling with worshippers.  They have bought long, drooping, yellow-wax candles and handed them over to young noviates outside who were setting them alight.  Molten wax was everywhere, the smoke stinging our eyes.   White flowers are bunched up on all the altars and their scent is making it hard to breathe.  The women and children are wearing rough brown cassocks with little string necklaces, bearing S. Carmine's likeness.  People were coming and going, taking calls on their mobile phones.  Children were crying and the organ was severely out of tune from the heat.  I sat watching for a while until the humidity and constant jostling became unbearable.  On the way out I noticed the holy-water font was parched.  Not bloody surprising.

I walked until I found myself again confronted with a distant Etna, then I gave up.  It was just too hot and the joke was getting old.   I stood at the bus stop for 20 minutes.  An old woman insisted on showing me her arm muscles.  Earned, she insisted, from carrying such heavy bags.  She was strong, she said, 'forza' and mimed boxing my jaw.  Like she needed it - her breath could have killed me at 10 paces.  Losing interest in me, she got into an argument with another old lady - something to do with the 'scifo' quality of the bread on offer at the Spar.  The fault of shit American grain they're using.  Next thing everyone at the bus-stop is involved, screeching at each other.  Then the bus arrives and they all stop and hustle onto it.  Except for most vociferous of them all, a tiny old bat, the height of a 7 year old, who suddenly turns frail and asks the 'bella signora' for money.  I stepped over her.

A crazy gets onto the bus behind me and starts singing 'Volare' loudly in my face.  I could see his spit hitting my sunglasses.  I move to the back of the bus and he follows me, still singing.  I am almost beside myself at this point and suddenly hear myself shouting "LEAVE ME ALONE".   The bus stops abruptly, he gets off and everyone goes quiet and looks off towards the horizon and the volcano.  Mortified by my eruption.

It's time to move on.  And I am tomorrow.  Naples for a day then meeting up with Carla and Karen for a week on the Cilento Coast.  It'll be fun to drink a glass of wine with someone I know.

sweet like a honey bee

though apparently Sicilian api are a lot harder to handle than their Italian counterparts.  Wilder.  A bit excitable.  Which is why the honey they produce is so much more delicious than any other in the rest of the counrty.  Daniella told me this at the Cafe Sicilia in Noto.  

I took a day trip there yesterday because I had heard that the pastry chef, Corrado Assenza, created fabulous treats.  The best in Sicily reviews said. And they were.  When she realised that I was writing an article about the cafe - Daniella proudly bought me cake after biscuit after chocolate.  Even two balls of ice-cream - one; lemon and saffron, tasted like late afternoon sun, the other: montezuma chocolate, was flavoured with cinnamon, candied orange and almonds and flecks of pure, mexican chocolate. Almost as good as being there.   All this was rounded off by a blood orange granita and a glass of ice cold, home-made, lemon/lime flavoured moscato. Created in the 'old method'.  It was like drinking joy.

And then the honey - ginger, white pepper, bergamot, orange.  Made by the excitable bees.  Flavoured by Corrado in his laboratory.  Magnifico. I washed all this down with a coffee, and thanked Daniella for taking such great care of me.  "No", she said "thank you - for me this is a joy".  And I know she meant it.  

I headed off to Modica - higher up in the mountains in search of Sicilian Chocolate.  The province of Ragusa is apparently the only place in Italy where the cacao plant is grown.  

The chocolate is cooked at a lower temperature than commercial varieties (113 degrees) for 30 minutes. As a result the sugar doesn't melt leaving a grainy consistency.  I went to  Antico Dolceria Bonajuto - well known in the province - to try it out.  And I didn't love it.  The chocolate was crunchy and granular and resembled something that had been melted in the sun and reconstituted.  I had better luck at a co-operativo down the hill.  They were making and packing the chocolate by hand and insisted I try it.  Still granular - but gorgeously rounded and bittersalty. I kept a bar.    

I had two hours to kill until the next bus came so I wandered up the 200 odd stairs to the cathedral of San Giorgio.  Regal, beautiful but fraying at the edges.  A little past it's prime.  But, as I sat watching, two young men began to deck the church out in pale, soft, cream roses for an evening wedding.  Hundreds and hundreds of roses.  Bowls, sprays, balls, arrangements, bunches, centrepieces:  it was breathtaking.   As the sun started to set behind the mountain, the grand old building softened and sighed: and it seemed a perfect place for two youngsters ('the daughter of a famous man') to start their married lives.    

Then I missed the bus.  Or he missed me.  He drove into the parking lot, accelerated and drove right out again. With me running behind in my flipflops, waving my arms and shrieking "stop stop" (in English, go figure).  Not my finest moment.  

It took me two busses and four hours to get home.  Accelerating wildly in and out of deserted towns to the radio station's all-night tribute to Michael Jackson.  We arrived back at 10.30pm and the shuttle had stopped.  So I had to walk the half hour from the bus station into town.  Took a shower and suppered on a glass of wine, cheese and stale bread.  I should have been exhausted and crabby - but I wasn't.  Because, despite the 'buss'-up; for me it was a joy.

Roadposting - Garda to Ortigia

Arrive in Ortigia after 4 fab days spent with Manu and Sue at Lake Garda.  We stayed at a B+B called La Tinassara which boasted the grumpiest manager since Basil Fawlty. He refuses to allow his guests to take sugar in their coffee.  He won't help carry baggage.  Surely a reflection on the way he sees life - though the irony is unmistakable.  Apart from Giuseppe's various nonsensenses, Tinassara  was a lovely place to stay - cool, rustic rooms, simple surrounds and pretty central.  We battled to get a really great meal - and the service was pretty much lackadasical wherever we went.   Save the place where I got food poisoning from the vitello tonnato.  That host was genial and welcoming. The subsequent genuflection in the bathroom was not.  But I recovered and we added it to the list of things to laugh about. A list that was long and varied - no sense of the 20 years that had passed since we we were all last together.

My apartment in Ortigia, which is the old centre of Syracusa, is in a small alley off Via Giudecca.  Which, as the name suggests, was the Jewish ghetto in Syracusa.  My block is one of the safest in the city - 3 Mafia Capos live here.  Right over the alley from me.  And I hear them having dinner each night.  Big, loud, rambunctious meals.  One of the Capos is a woman.  She inherited the job from her eldest son who had followed his father and two brothers to an early grave - by way of the job.  Apparently she runs her branch of 'la famiglia' with an iron hand.  Though she won't tolerate women being picked on.  One local legend has it that she returned a handbag, stolen from an elderly English woman by two locals on a Vespa.  And not a thing was missing.

The mafia are apparently moving into more legitimate pursuits - some call them 'mafia bianca' - the white mafia. Though apparently, rather like Mae West - they tend to drift.

I have spent the last two days walking around Ortigia.  There is an fabulous cathedral here - moved from Syracusa mainland to prevent it from being sacked by the Visigoths.  My landlord Kevin, a retired lawyer from LA, took me on a 4 hour tour last night.  It was fascinating - he knows the entire history of this island. The cathedral was adapted from a Grecian temple dedicated to Minerva.  So you have classic Grecian columns lining the outside of the cathedral - 24 in total - which were transported onto Ortigia on barges specially designed for the purpose.  (I should mention that Archimedes lived here - so there was some precedent.)  Yet the inside of the church is all Roman Catholic.  I love the pragmatism of it all.

I haven't experienced any of the fabled Sicilian machismo here except for a moment at the market the other morning.  I was buying tomatoes from one stall when the owner of the stall next to me started to hiss - rather like calling a cat.  I ignored him and he grew louder and louder.  Suddenly I heard a voice yelling at him in Italian and turned to find an elderly lady, complete with osteoporosis, stick and shopping basket, telling him to stop immediately.  He stopped immediately.

Tomorrow I am going on a day trip to three villages that are considered foodie destinations.  I am taking the bus.  Daniella at the ufficio turistico was horrified to hear I was hiring a car.'Perche?',  she asked 'take the bus, we all do'.

So you'll find me at Piazza Archimede at 7.30am tomorrow morning waiting on the #20 if you want to join me.  Failing that - watch this space.

fastapproaching50: Barbarism on youtube

fastapproaching50: Barbarism on youtube

Barbarism on youtube

I received a link to a youtube video today which is about the threat posed by the Muslim world and the Nation of Islam (www.youtube.com/watch?v=6-3X5hIFXYU).  I received it 5 times - from friends and colleagues worldwide.  I sent everyone the same response.

 

"My opinion .... Sorry folks - but this is ugly shit and amounts to hate speech.  Not every Muslim or member of the Nation of Islam is a terrorist.  Not every Arab wants to destroy the world. Christianity has it's own share of ugly, murderous behaviours going back thousands of years.  It all starts off rather well - we create beliefs which we use to define a scary and unpredictable world.  Then we get pissed with someone who doesn't agree with us so we subvert them, rewrite them and corrupt them to suit. I was brought up Catholic - I think we can look to Rome for some of the most outrageous acts of greed and barbarism ever perpetrated in the interests of 'the holy word'. Yet it's somehow more acceptable because these wars, these rules and these abuses are dressed up real nice and live in the Vatican rather than in caves in freezing deserts.

Sometimes I wonder if God wakes up screaming at what we've become."

I'm posting this because I believe we need to start shaking hands with the person next to us. Whether they are wearing a taqiyah, a tiara or a yarmulke.   A 'hello' and a smile wouldn't hurt either.

Bringing in the Harvest

The past couple of weeks I've woken humming a Neil Young song: 

"Out in the fields they've been turning the soil

I've been sitting here hoping this water will boil."

It's from Harvest, it's not a favourite, yet there it is day after day.    

I've had bone harvested in my mouth but that seemed an easy answer and a long reach.  My sister is furious with the family right now.  And the whole episode has been sitting heavily on my fair-play sensibilities.  I have been wondering if I have done right by her, by my parents and by myself.  I believe I have.  

So what then?

I realised what as I watched a man running down a road, towards a stadium. He was about to win a marathon.  Yet he kept turning around to see who was behind him.  And no-one was. 

Despite the delighted cheers, despite the outriders flanking him on his way to victory, despite the young men galloping alongside him, just otherside the barriers.  Grins splitting their faces as they paced him - delighted that this man, this Zimbabwean man, this non-favourite, this Stephen Muzhingi: was ahead of the pro-field.  

Still, he couldn't believe. He turned around again and then again and almost tripped.   As tired as he was, if he went down, he was unlikely to be able to get back up.  As I was yelling at him to stop worrying and look forward I thought - that's what it is:  you've been waiting for something to happen.  Boil your own damn water.  It's that simple.

No more fear.   

the fear

Who would have thought I would identify with Lilly Allen?  http://www.myspace.com/lilymusic

But this song is genius.  At first blush it sounds like a shallow 'gimme gimme' ditty:

 "I wanna be rich and I want loads of money.  

I don't care about clever, I don't care about funny'.  

On second listen she's echoing how I feel today:

 "I don't know what's right and what's real anymore, 

And I don't know how I'm meant to feel anymore.  

And when do you think it'll all become clear?  

'Cuz I'm being taken over by the Fear"

I love every word of this song.  She's nailed the celebrity culture and the notion of becoming famous at any cost.  The video's great too - there's this sense of a woman wise beyond her years but still gawky awkward.

Why am I feeling the Fear?  I don't know.  I guess because work is slow, because I don't have a clear sense of direction right now, because I am  still getting better from the virus, because of Swine flu,  because my friends are losing their jobs, because an acquaintance took his life this week, because things are changing.

I saw Grand Torino this weekend.  Another incredible bit of art.  Bloody and real.  A movie about a tribe of people  - the Hmong - who now live in Ohio because they picked the wrong side in a ridiculous war.  And they're still at war (in the movie) now with their own.  The movie shows an unlikely redemption.  But you believe every minute of it.

What the heck happened to us humans.  In evolving we somehow devolved.   But I'm not giving up - I'm still working on the gratitude.

apres les virus la gratitude

The last week was not a good one. I have been whipped like a sick dog, walked over, bitch-slapped and sicked-on by something I couldn't even see (hmm reminds me of some of my ex-boyfriends) and it's all going to end with me having something I don't want pushed down my throat (yep, that's familiar too). In short - I caught a virus. In just 12 hours - I went from having a small cold to vomiting so hard I had to hold onto the toilet bowl to stop myself being thrown across the bathroom by the force of the heaving. I haven't left the house in 8 days. And I can't even think of drinking coffee.

The doc has no idea what it is. But he dosed me effectively and and has recommended a gastroscopy to try and get a picture of my insides. Lucky me.

No really. Lucky me. This week has given me a deep lesson in gratitude. I can't imagine what it must be like to get that sick and to have no bed to go to, no warmth to cover you. No roof over your head to keep you dry. No toilet in walking distance. No fresh water, no access to a doctor, no money for medicine, no brother to look after you, no family or friends to call and check on you, No fresh foods to help rebuild your strength.

The lack of any one of those would have made the last 8 days hard. The lack of half of them - a nightmare. The lack of all of them unthinkable.

And so many people live without these things. I've got a touch of the after-virus blues right now. And those thoughts make me a bit teary. And a lot grateful.

There's many a s-lip

This afternoon I was at the gym: stretching on my yoga mat, when a gym cougar hove into view. There's a few of them at the institute: girls in their very late 40's, in damn good nick, who prowl around flirting with the 20-something trainer boys.   

The gym cougars are always in full hair and make-up.  They wear the latest Nike's and strap i-pod nanos to their forearms.  They get the young guys to spot them on free-weights or to hold the boxing bag.  They're seemingly oblivious to wrinkled skin on their inner arms, or the wattle on the back of their thighs.  I've got to be honest, I am fascinated:  it's like watching your mum get drunk on sherry and can-can at your engagement party.   

This cougar's wearing teeny-weenie tie-dyed booty shorts and a matching vest. For those of you who don't know what booty shorts are - check out any rap video happening poolside. Those tiny little short shaped bikini bottoms ... dem's booty shorts.   

She mounts one of those big inflated gym balls, centres herself, lays back and splays her legs into a wide V.  I'm trapped, sitting about three feet away and facing her ... eye to eye with her va-jay-jay.  I'm a bit panicked, what do I do, shall I move - no I'll just brazen it out, take a yoga stance of no judgement.

Then La Cougar starts crunching away energetically, and suddenly a lip pops out.  A shiny bit of girly lip.  I got such a fright I choked on my own spit. It took me a good few minutes to pull myself back together, and when I looked back (WHY, WHY, WHY did I look back??) she caught my eye and smiled holding my glance for just a second too long.  

I'm still in shock.  What now?  I can't go back.  I'm going to have to avoid the gym for a while.  And what if she greets me when I do see her next?  

Gone Fishin'

There's been so much in the media about Madonna and Jesus Luz, I am not going to weigh in. Especially as I really haven't much of a leg of my own to stand on.  I've dated men younger than me.  Though, none more that 13 years my junior.   I have a policy:   anyone who could have come from my womb, should not be going back up that way, ever.  

Jerry Hall is quoted in the Sundays today saying she finds it "a bit creepy" that Mick sleeps with women as young as his daughters.  I do too - but isn't he with L'Wren (where did she get that name) Scott now?  She's a grown-up girl.

Could Madonna take a lesson from Mick?  Wouldn't it be great to see her punching above her weight?  Matched with a man as smart, as able, as driven, as successful, as unique as she is?  A fella who knows how to behave.   A guy who doesn't publicly refer to her as "It"  (as in - "must get home or It gets mad" .. shame on you Mr Ritchie.   Whatever happened, she's the mother of your sons.  Grow some balls.)

I would like to see Madonna date someone in her class.  But that's an unpredictable pool.   Those boys have minds and money of their own.  And, competition at that level is fierce. Maybe that's why she sticks to the shallows.  

Kidney chi and jelly

This blog was born on a massage table. It was born whilst a masseuse held my foot and told me she was checking my 'kidney-chi'. Huh? "Your kidney chi". She shiatsus a spot on my right instep and it hurts like hell: "because women your age start to lose their fire and I want to see how you are doing".

What? Then it dawns - oh my god - she's talking about menopause! She thinks I'm old enough enough for the menopause. I'm only 48 for God's sake. Priya senses my shock - she looks down at me and smiles: "you're OK - you've got masses of fire left...." Good to know - but it got me thinking..

The fact that I am fast approaching fifty had become a new persona for me. My younger friends love to introduce me: "this is my friend gg, can you believe she's almost 50!"    Responses vary – "wow you don’t look it",  "you could never tell",  "blimey - you look nothing like my mom".   And once, memorably;  "Lishen, the reashon I’ve been talking with you so much ish I love to fuck older women".   This from a 250 pound, 32 year old man, who could barely stand for the number of vodka tonics he’d been throwing down his neck all evening.   

"Thanks for the kind offer, but I'll pass."  

"Oh come onnn, you're almosht fifty."  

The web is full of sites aimed at me: arguments for and against HRT, statistics on the difficulty of finding a man after 50, tips for dealing with mid-life depression, cosmetic surgery hints.  Forum after forum bemoan this dark-age which seems to be heralded by a newly dry vagina. I mean, when on EARTH did that become an appropriate conversation starter? And hello ... anyone familiar with the letters K and Y?  

I still wear 7forallmankind jeans and t-strings. I go to yoga classes and have fashionable bikini waxes. I read fashion magazines, watch new movies, travel, love art and a great cocktail, adore 30Rock and buy lots of new music. I'm not ready for a dry anything at all.

And, I don't believe that '50 is the new 40' nonsense. What the hell does it mean anyway? I'm certainly not about to start doing things I didn't do when I was 40. I'm still embarrassed about some of the things I did do. 50 is not 40. Fifty is fifty and anything else is an ill-advised leotard,

So - my plan is to make sure that '50 is the new 50'. I am going to do that by really participating in my life. For the next 15 months (at least) I am going to go where I am invited, try new tastes and sounds and colours and looks, write up my experiences - and generally put together a "write of passage" into my next half century. I have no idea what that will involve ... but I am going to find out.

What the fuck .... Ken Starr + Prop 8

Who woke up one morning and make Ken Starr the conscience of America?  Now he is out in California prosecuting people who got married because they love and cherish one other and want to show their commitment by spending their lives together.  Why is he doing this?   Because they are not heterosexual.  

Ken Starr and the Proposition 8 Legal Defense Fund are trying to overturn California's law permitting same sex-couples to marry.   They have filed legal briefs defending the constitutionality of Proposition 8 (which maintains that marriage can only exist between a man and a woman) and are attempting to forcibly divorce 18,000 same-sex couples that were married in California last year.  Some of whom are friends of mine.  

The Supreme Court will hear oral arguments in this case on March 5, 2009, with a decision expected within the next 90 days. 

I am at a loss as to his reasoning.  I mean, it's not as if the male-female combo has proven fabulously successful in the marriage and child-raising arenas, has it Ken?  Or perhaps that's the problem - maybe Ken fears that gay folks will show us heteros up?  

The Courage Campaign has created a video called "Fidelity," (using a gorgeous song by Regina Spektor as it's soundbed) that puts a face to some of those 18,000 couples and stands up for all loving, committed couples seeking full equality under the law.  Check out this link.   www.couragecampaign.org/Divorce

 And given that  today is Valentine's day - spread the love a little by forwarding it on to friends, families, lovers ....    Maybe we can make a difference by registering our outrage through adding our names to their petition. 

Really Ken, given all the help that's currently needed in your country - could you not turn your prodigious energies and (reportedly) considerable intellect to a cause more fitting?