A conversation that repeats itself

Sicilia this time of year is as green as Ireland, but a different green--not so dark or bright--sound like a contradiction? go to Ireland--and peppered with many other colors. The sepia of ceramic tile roofs, yellow wildflowers, the rust of homemade windmills. Fields of artichokes (bellisima) and cauliflower, oranges, lemons. The oranges, by the way, are the best ones I've ever eaten in my life. I hope I never eat a more delicious orange because my taste buds will explode. They already are.

Being in Sicilia is a little like going back in time. Somehow the whole country feels like a small town, and when you walk down the street, even in cities--Palermo being the only possible exception--people say ciao and smile. In train stations, and on trains, strangers chat. I have barely paid for food or coffee since I arrived because everywhere I go I am either offered half of someone's lunch or invited home for dinner. And you can't say no to Italians or Sicilians because when it comes to food, they are about the most stubborn and most generous people you can meet. Another reason it is a time warp is because it is traditional and patriarchal. In the piazzas, it is mostly men sitting around, smoking cigarettes and yelling at one another. It is not so strange for women to sit in the piazza, but mostly they don't. I make note of this because the piazza is the center of the town, socially, and commerically. Also, I'm not sure about this, but I think Sicily is the only place in Europe where you can still walk over rubble from World War II. Not far from the airport no less. They just haven't cleaned it up yet. You can still walk over WWII rubble, yet there are more windmills in Sicily than in the whole northeast of the US. And, in addition to contemporary windmills, there are homemade windmills that look like they've been around since before windmills were popular. In fact, they look like they've been around since World War II.

Race is really complicated and confusing here. On the one hand, a lot of Italians and Sicilians say openly racist things about black Italians, and African immigrants (of which Italy has a growing population). This is especially true in the south of Italy and in Sicily. Meanwhile, in the north, there is a very unsubtle racism against southern Italians, Sardignians, and Sicilians. And you would think that this would mean these groups stick together. Yet Sicilians are looked down upon by some southern Italians. And Sicilians refer to Italy as "the continent." They have a separate identity, with a separate language. I also met some very openminded Neapolitans and Sicilians who all said that north is the most openminded and least racist part of the country. The north, by the way, is whiter, but also richer and this makes me think that the tension between the north and the south is really more of a class question. But who knows. And another possibility is that northerners are 'less racist' because they live in a place that is much more homogenous than the south. And it is like this--it is very easy to claim not to be racist when you never see anyone who looks any different from you. I've met a few Europeans who criticize the US for all our race problems, and then say something like, "Oh, watch your bag in on this street. This is where the Tunisian immigrants live." And when I challenge them on this comment, they say something like, "Oh, it's not their fault, because their lives are hard, but it's true that they steal." It amazes me. So I really don't know. I really don't understand how people think about race here.

And, in regard to the US, and race, there is an interesting conversation that repeats itself. It happens when my non-Italiana identity is discovered and goes something like this:

"Di dove sei? Siciliana? Italiana?"
"No, sono Americana."
"Americana! Ahhhh...Stati Uniti..bella. New York-a. I love-a New York-a."
(me smiling)
"Obama, I love Obama. I love US!"

The conversation might continue in other directions, or not, and then, for example, I am not allowed to pay for my coffee. Just as an example. When Bush was in office, and I was in South Africa, there was a prominant dislike of America in the world. I (somewhat consciously, and somewhat unconsciously) developed what I will refer to as a pan-world accent, and hid my own accent underneath, like a secret current. By the time someone I was chatting with discovered I was American, they already liked me and it was too late for them to judge me based on my citizenship. I think it's odd that it is the likeability of our leader that has such an effect on how we are perceived as a country (rather than his policies). I agree that Obama is a great improvement from Bush, and a step in the right direction for our country, but the people who exclaim so zealously that they love Obama usually haven't examined what he is doing. Nor have they questioned what on earth he did to receive a nobel peace price (....?)

The only good part of all of this, although it is the sad part too, is that it may be changing the way Europeans think about race. I met a very thinky--beyond intelligent, a person who knows how to engage, heart and soul and brain--young Sicilian guy who said that Obama is changing the way Sicilians percieve black people. In his words: "Because Obama is handsome and elegant and in charge of the most powerful country in the world." But does Obama really change how Sicilians treat and think about immigrants, or just change the way they think about America?

The Modern Church

A wall of square windows, floor to ceiling, in a steel frame. The windows are stacked seven up and 8 across, each one approximately 2 feet by 2 feet. The steel beams run horizontally and are about five inches wide. Cut steel beams connect the windows vertically. On the right-most side, the third window from the top is a yellow square, and the one directly below this is a red square. Otherwise, all of the windows are clear, clean glass. That I can see, only two of the glass windows have imperfections--smudges, scratches, or paint, I'm not sure. The room's ceiling is an arc, and this box of windows reaches the top of the arc. I am looking into the other half of the room (from my perspective the second half), which I cannot reach. On the opposite wall, there is a window and I can see a neighboring building in it--this window is part of the art too. Because the art is here, and I am here, and the building is here.

In front of the wall of windows is an ancient and immense anchor. Just by looking at its rust, I can feel how heavy it is. I could not lift it if I were wonderwoman. No one could. It is holding me here in the room and also reminds me of an anchor inside myself. It would take magic to lift it. And it is my idea that magic is possible, only very difficult. The anchor is attached to the ceiling via a thick rope, old and frayed, the width of my four fingers held together, and the rope is attached to a large ring in the ceiling. From the ring, the rope draws a straight line to the floor where it is not coiled neatly but lies in a mess. It skims the curve of the anchor on its way to the floor--perhpas a few fibers touch but not the whole rope. The anchor is attached to the floor by its weight and it is nearly the length of five windows.

To me, now, this is about travel. There are a great many windows in front of me, and windows are openings into other worlds, views, places of magic. The windows are also magic, and you know this by looking at them because they are solid but they let me through. And yet, I cannot go through because I am on the side with the anchor--this is my home, or anything in my mind that is holding me. The anchor is old, it is immense; the rope that holds the anchor is frayed.

The red window and the yellow window are not clear. I cannot see through them as I can see through the other windows, but this does not make them non-windows. The steel frames of these squares still hold glass. These colored windows are about limits--perhaps my own limits, or limits that precede me. And they could be places where I might see my reflection, or pretend to, or desire it. And it could be that I am seeking my reflection because I am seeking something familiar--some semblance of my home--or maybe I am seeking what I hope to make familiar and understand more thoroughly (i.e. myself, who I was, or am becoming). Or, the colored windows are wild cards, risks I take. Windows I go through without knowing what is on the otherside beforehand.

And the frame is steel. Like with the anchor, I feel an immense strength from it, but also its ability to hold me back or down. If it were not there, I could go through the windows (either by magic or by smashing the glass with the anchor or my boot). The steel frame is there to remind me I am looking at a wall--the steel reinforces the windows, which are opportunities; it also holds those opportunities in place.



*Reflections at MADRE, Museo d'Arte Contemporanea Donna Regina, Napoli

Jannis Kounellis, Untitled (2005).

Roma o Napoli, vecchio e nuovo...

Roma is old, everywhere you look. Old, old, old. And everybody knows that old--whether the Sistene Chapel or vintage cowboy boots--is expensive. It costs twelve euro to see the 'inside' of the ruins of the Coliseum (includes Palatino and Foro Romano). No doubt it also costs a lot to keep these structures from crumbling completely--but that's the point. There is an obsession with keeping the old old, yet intact. And though it is not required, what often follows this is a love of money. Roma is host to a lot of great art, and some impressive buildings, but Roma's value lies, to some extent, no longer lies in its art, but in the pockets of its many tourists. The art itself is devalued by the masses that come to visit it and take it home with them, via a cell phone picture.

Meanwhile, in Napoli, the old is of a particular sort that cannot be priced. It is the old of wrinkled women, fixing their socks in the street. They are crumbling like churches, but not yet dead. It is the old of the traditional bread, which one can imagine has tasted the same for generations (and for good reason). And Napoli is old in the way one does the shopping: still in specialized shops and streets--a street for bread and cheese, vegetables and fish, a street for wedding dresses, a street for corsets, one for musical instruments, and one for books. In some cases, the old is suffocated by the new. I saw a church surrounded on all sides by skyscrapers, its dome barely sticking out the top. The old exists, only not at the expense of the new. And both live together, one growing over and through the other like vines through the ruins.

In Napoli, oldness, and in particular the antiquity of death, cannot be avoided. With the gaping mouth of Mt. Vesuvius in plain sight (and, so scientists say, 150 years overdue for another deathly eruption), mortality is only a breath away. The city has a largesse, both sprawling and stacked, full of pickpockets and bullying nonas, full of squalor and inexpensive fruit, reckless waste and frugal spenders, with stunning parks and roofgardens, and streets of trash. In all of this, Neapolitans live close to and with a consciousness of the fragility of life, the incredible vulnerability and fallability of humans, (which is also what makes us such good artists). And so it seems that Neapolitans laugh louder and cry harder and live with more ferocity. And it is also out of this that life in Napoli is fluid. A street empties to make way for a scooter, only to flood with people in its wake. Everything is crazy. Everything is normal.

Neapolitans look at one another with curiosity, with intensity, and unabashedly. It's an imaginative land where everyone is wondering about the lives we lead. Everyone here is a writer in theory, in philosophy, in thought.

Above: The washing hanging out.

Your typical Italian flea market. Your typical Italian penis-fish joke. 

Ragazze francesi e pizza margherita

Piazza del Plebescito, Napoli

The Bay of Naples.  Mt. Vesuvio. A small gang of street dogs.

Travel

There are two ways of going about it: to do it, and to read.

Herein lies the reason trains are so wonderful: both kinds of travel can happen simultaneously.

A spiritual loss (net gain?)

One day I went to church in Pescosolido, which is a nice little jaunt up the hill from Le Mogli. I woke early, took a spongebath, put on a dress I found at the farm, borrowed a peacoat from my roommate, and went off with confidence that only a Jew can go to church with (will they know I don't belong? who says I don't belong? God belongs to everybody, etc). Church in Pescosolido starts at 7, not 8. So I was there for only 20 minutes. Which turned out to be a good thing. I didn't know any of the words (not really a bad thing, but I got some glares for not singing during hymns). I was seated next to the electric heater, which was blasting a hell-threat into my face. I wanted to take my coat off, but everybody else was still wearing theirs. I didn't want to rustle. And I couldn't pray because I couldn't take my eyes off Jesus's bloody knees. But I guess that's sort of the Catolico experience.

I went because I thought the church was lovely and elegant, and from the outside it is. I thought it would be peaceful to be around other believers. But the Jew in me says that these Catholics are idolators. There were statues of bishops and pictures of popes. And there he was, this man in 3D with blood on his knees, and around his scalp, blood, and his thin wrists and feet nailed to a cross. I couldn't take my eyes off. How are you supposed to pray with all this other stuff going on? But that's just it--you are not supposed pray, only to believe and eat styrofoam wafers.

Which brings me to my confession (how appropriate--Jews only ever confess to themselves). I tasted Jesus's flesh even though I have never been baptized, communioned, or confirmed. It was sort of an anthropological question. I have to say this. Why would Catholics want to believe that Christ tastes like styrofoam? OK, in America, the land of styrofoam food, this is excusable. But you would think Italians would want, even expect God to taste good. And why hasn't the church, which is losing membership, think about this? What if you went to church, and communion tasted like biscotti? You would have a little incentive to put on the leather shoes and get dolled up for father, son, and holy ghost.

But here's where I found my religion this morning. Here's why getting up at 6 am rocks. Half the country is in the daylight, half is still in night (moon)light. It's particularly dramatic because to get to Pescosolido, the road I walk on is a ridge between two valleys--to my left the morning, to my right, the night. The moon and one last star are fading into the soft blue glow of first light, and to the east a sunrise full of pink--the effects are such that you can imagine the day is in reverse. Stray animals bark and skulk away through brambles. I feel the cold air begin to warm. I am the only one outside. I feel like a witness and I want to testify--I can't believe the world is missing this moment. That is one of the reasons for writing, I suppose. 

Uphill both ways

My time in Pescosolido began with an Italian lesson, which continued throughout. I lived sometimes alone, and sometimes with other Americans in a crumbling room, which was once a chicken coop. The walls were damp, and the ceiling was falling in and there was no electricity and I loved it. It was here that I met the only real Italian cowboy, walked my feet into senselessness, and fell in love with Sicily without ever having been there (via my adopted grandfather, Giuseppe). During the day I worked with Giuseppe. He lives at the first farm, which is a 20 minute walk from the second farm, where I live, down a hill and then up a hill. Sometimes we organized the firewood, sometimes we bottled wine, but one day we butchered and cleaned four chickens and two rabbits for Christmas presents. This was one of the most humbling experiences I have ever had.

I decided I don't like places that are excruciatingly beautiful. Like Cape Town. In Cape Town you never get a break. You can't think because every second, you are just "wow wow wow." Where I just was (Parco Nazionale d'Abruzzo), it's gorgeous, but my brain can handle it. Whatever that means. Then again, I have missed Cape Town everyday since I left it and everything is relative. Sora next to Buffalo is a stunner.

There are little dots of electricity all around us, and we are outside of this. We are something else, unreachable, except by those who know where to find us and have strong legs. At night especially we feel outside of the plan. You start to think differently: of a dirty tissue, of an empty toilet paper roll. They are valuable firestarters. Everything at Le Mogli is scarce except for sweaters, cookies (thank the lord) and wet socks. If you can read by one candle, you read by one. You create old world entertainment: coloring a chess board into existence, molding pieces out of clay. Plastic bags are braided into ropes--this is entertaining and useful!

My shoulders are tense from the cold at night, and there is something really wonderful about doing yoga in the room. Or on the roof of the room if it's not raining. Because it's so what yoga is about to me: not a fancy studio, but finding peace anywhere. 

New Year's. Me, my two paisans, and two Slovakian couchsurfers. We made pizza and bread in the brick oven outside, in the rain. The Slovakians made the best effort, but after a little chat and some candlelight reading, we were all asleep by 11:30. We woke at the stroke of New Year's, or just after to a war of fireworks going on in the hills around us. From our various beds, in various languages, grumbles could be heard. My favorite was Joe, because he never swears in the daytime, but only in his sleep. I got up and stole somebody's gumboots and walked outside, but it was foggy and raining hard, and I didn't know why or what exactly I was doing, or trying to see, so I went back to sleep, promptly.

Selected notes from my notebook

Italy becomes at once calmer and more chaotic the farther south I move. Both the landscape and the people. Or is that the people react to the landscape? Outside Tivoli, a waterfall seems to pour into a village. My little regional train grumbles around and around and I wonder if we are going anywhere, and I hope we never arrive.

Italians are terrible at giving directions. They can talk for five minutes without saying anything useful. Sometimes they don't even use simple directional words like 'left' or 'right' (sinistra o destra), but just a lot of 'over there's' (la, la, la). However, they do say everything required with their hands. So if you pay attention and ask a new Italian at every block, you will become very confused and maybe, eventually, get where you are going. Actually, one of my favorite things about Italians is that they understand me more if I speak with my hands. The gesticulations are not extra, but part of the language.

I eat carbs and cheese for almost every meal and I have yet to see any negative effects. On the contrary, I feel wonderful.

Apertivi is a brilliant invention. You buy a cocktail and get a buffet. A whole dinner really. It would never work in the states because people would abuse it, but it's amazing.