I was looking through my journal and notes the other day, stacked and compiled in moleskine notebooks and envelopes, and something kept coming up, something nestled comfortably with my thoughts, recorded triumphs, reminders, to do’s, and other various musings. Written in almost every entry is a comment on what music I was listening to, how nice to was to listen to this album or that artist, listing favorite songs on a new album, ideas for mixes to make, songs to buy, artists to check out. It’s nice to reread my little music comments, and it is true, music has been a rock for me here, no pun intended. I can always depend on a good album or a favorite artist to be there for me at the end of a long, frustrating day.
There is something inside me that likes to believe that now I really understand music in a way I have never experienced; even down to the way in which I go about listening is differently. I focus on the song as a whole, taking into account the lyrics, the production, the instrumentation and form. I also have began the wonderful habit of listening to an album as a whole, listening as folk musician M. Ward suggests, “as if you were reading a full book, or watching a movie.”
Each of the following albums holds a distinct place in my memory. Listening to this music for me is like Proust’s madeleine cake, instantly taking me back to different points in the last five months which clearly manifest in my mind and heart, from a gripping, uncertain feeling, to complete relaxation and ease. The list is as follows:
10. “Ambient” by Moby, released 1993
I bought this album at the suggestion of my mother, who was in the search of music that would be good for my video work, a creative form that I had never really experimented with. I ended up using this album for a different purpose, as a sleep inducer. The songs build into dreamy, trance-like electronic, which usually would not interest me. This album, however, was perfect for me to relax to. No lyrics, generally simplistic form, and really solid production; it sounded great on my Bose headphones. “Ambient,” not to be mistaken with Ambien takes me to my bed, and to sleep.
9. “Welcome to Mali” by Amadou & Mariam, released 2008
I first heard “Sabali,” the opening track of this album, on an episode of NPR’s All Songs Considered. Already a big fan of “the blind couple from Mali’s” music, especially their work with another one of my favorite bands, Manu Chao, I was blown away by the distance from that work that they took with this track. I was on a bus, surrounded by my Sicilian classmates, but feeling very isolated and homesick despite the social interaction around me, a feeling I experienced frequently throughout my time here. I was so excited and lifted by the song, and later by the entire album. “Welcome to Mali” holds a great place in my heart, and is a perfect example of how music got me through some sad or difficult times.
8. “The Shepherd’s Dog” by Iron & Wine, released 2007
This is an album I had been quite familiar with before Sicily, and one of the few pieces of music that I was listening to here that I had heard and examined before coming here. Sam Beam, who is Iron & Wine, makes beautiful, warmly layered music that sounds unbelievable on good headphones. The songwriting paints bizarre scenes, often consisting of random, beautiful images that come together to form a crazily colorful picture. As a whole the music glows and bathes the listener in a warmth that reminded me of summer, and as the experience abroad came to a close it matched perfectly my feelings and thoughts as summer and home approached steadily on the horizon. It was a Sunday album for me, an album I listened to multiple times from the first song to the last on almost every Sunday. I picture myself listening to this album on summer nights upstate while cooking a good meal of food from the farmer’s market.
7. “Hold Time” by M. Ward, released 2009
I was introduced to M. Ward also from NPR’s All Songs Considered, where I heard a great acoustic performance and interview with artist. Summer was beginning, and I was sitting on the balcony drawing as the sun sank over the mess of wires and concrete that is Favara, my town here in Sicily. I instantly fell in love with the music. “Hold Time” is Matt Ward’s most recent album, and receives help from Grandaddy’s Jason Lytle, Lucinda Williams, and one of my favorite girls, the beautiful and talented Zooey Deschanel. The early rock and roll inspired guitar work on the album is wonderful, and M. Ward’s gently rugged voice sings well crafted and carefully conceived lyrics. This album takes me to the balcony, where I spent so much time late in the day alone and content.
6. “Merriweather Post Pavilion” by Animal Collective, released 2009
Animal Collective redefined the way both the way I listen to music, and my idea of music itself. They are a truly unclassifiable band, and their most recent album, “Merriweather Post Pavillion,” instantly hit me as being something mysteriously beautiful and strange. The album bases itself on a controlled cacophony, the vocals echoed and chanted to resemble at times traditional African music, and the electronic background music pulses and booms in layers, inducing the listener into a trance which often breaks into beautiful harmonic choruses. I remember the first time I heard the album I was beginning to see the end of the five months grow nearer. “Merriweather Post Pavilion is a truly amazing piece of music, and, maybe like this experience, something I am only beginning to understand.
5. “Furr” by Blitzen Trapper, released 2009
Portland sextet Blitzen Trapper makes music reminiscent of 1970’s country rock, and their newest album, “Furr,” tells beautiful, although sometimes dark stories. The electric guitar originally attracted me to the music, but there is also something wonderfully subtle in the album as well. The album hit me in an uncertain time in the experience, where I wasn’t sure quite where to turn to for guidance. The tastefully “country” sound of the album reminded me of the United States, but also the poetic songwriting was great to listen to attentively, making out the stories. See if you can figure out the story in the title track, “Furr.”
4. “March of the Zapotec & Realpeople – Holland” by Beirut, released 2009
This album came out days before I departed from New York to Italy. I saved it for the plane and for my good headphones, prepared to feel the utter joy and freedom of leaving for a long trip. However, initially a different feeling is associated with the album, homesickness, but an association that has changed as much as I like to think I have. The first few days in Sicily were the most difficult by far, and Beirut always reminds me of my father, a big fan of Zachary Condon’s Eastern European-inspired music. But, as I grew immune to the homesickness, venturing into the culture of Sicily, I was in a better place to enjoy and love the album. “March of the Zapotec & Realpople – Holland” shows two sides of Condon’s musical eclecticism, his love for traditional horns, this time enlisting the help of a brass band from Oaxaca, Mexico, and on the other hand an ear for muted, maybe unintentionally melancholy electronica. I have grown to love the album despite the initial associations, but still feel like I need to spend some more time with it.
3. “Hazards of Love” by The Decemberists, released 2009
Your normal rock album doesn’t provide you with tales of shape shifting fawns, rakes, maidens, and woodland queens. Sounds more like a Brothers Grimm story than rock and roll, right? Ultra-literate Portland band The Decemberists managed to pull off with intensely positive results a 17-song masterpiece, a folk rock opera of sorts. I am a big fan of this band, who always provide interesting music chock full of historical references and archaic language. This project, undeniably their most ambitious, was a joy and great adventure to listen to. The sometimes soft and beautiful, sometimes dark, frightening imagery is backed by great musicianship, which on this album ranges into hard rock at times, a genre never before associated with the Decemberists. So much of the day was usually spent reading at school, when I had nothing else to do, and my creative and imaginative drive was determined and spinning constantly. This album fulfilled something I was looking for in music, and is associated with a feeling of great satisfaction and pleasure.
2. “For Emma, Forever Ago” by Bon Iver, released 2008
This album, maybe more than any of the others, represents my feeling of isolation and solitude with beautiful, and often melancholy clarity. Bon Iver is Justin Vernon, and the new album was recorded under strange and perceptibly isolated circumstances, three months in a remote cabin in Wisconsin with basic recording equipment, a guitar and an old drum set. The bare bones aspect of the album hits me in a way that Bruce Springsteen’s “Nebraska” does, as the focus is on the most simple and stripped down aspects of music. The characteristic of solitude on the album struck a chord in me. In the last five months I found myself content being by myself so much of the time; on long walks exploring the city alone with my camera, reading at a café, writing or drawing on the balcony, listening to this album on my bed after school. The effort it took not to go crazy or descend into depression without my family and friends all hopefully was channeled in a just direction somehow, building me as a person and in this case as a music listener.
1. “Noble Beast” by Andrew Bird, released 2009
Like the new Beirut album, “Noble Beast” came out days prior to my departure, and I saved it for the plane ride to Italy. The work on “Noble Beast” was not the first of Andrew Bird’s music to stop me in my tracks and give me the chills for minutes at a time, but I surely have never listened to an album as much as I have listened to this. I consistently explored this album, and continue to, each time discovering some new song that had never jumped out at me before, lyrics that I had never understood before, or musical subtleties that make me wonder how such perfection is reached. Musically, Indie-rock critics to Classical music buffs alike recognize Andrew Bird for his compositions, which build and wind gracefully, utilizing the voice as an instrument just as much as the guitars, violins, mandolins and glockenspiels, not to mention Bird’s incredible whistling. The songwriting is nothing less than genius, the subjects ranging from musings on astronomy and life insurance to the awkwardness of “the words of a man who has spent just a little too much time alone.” This album takes me dreamily through a memory of the previous five months, from the depths of frustration and loneliness to the highest triumphs and joys, because it is all part of the equation, all part of the equilibrium of reality that I hope to have come to partially understand during my time here.
Peró quando il bambino nacque i genitori notarono qualcosa strano di lui. Era completamente normale nella faccia e nel corpo, ma aveva le ali di un corvo nero. Ma non importava perché per loro era ancora uno splendido bambino, che tanto avevano desiderato, bello in tutto eccetto per le strani ali nella sua schiena. Cosí la mamma con grande amore cucí nuovi vestiti per il suo adorato bambino.
Una volta cresciuto, diventó un ragazzo bellissimo, con una faccia che emanava tanta di quella luce che tutti quelli che lo vedevano rimanevano abbagliati e non notavano neanche le ali da corvo. Con le sue ali non poteva volare, infatti lui non sentiva le ali come una vera parte del suo corpo. Il giorno in cui il bambino era abbastanza grande per andare a scuola nella cittá, i genitori lo avvisarono premurosamente: -Tu sei un bambino diverso rispetto agli altri, figlio, non ascoltare quello che ti diranno.- e lui rispose: -Va benne mamma, non ascolteró nessuno di quelli che mi dicono cose brutte.-
E il ragazzo andó a scuola, con le ali al suo seguito. A scuola tutti lo additarono come un vero mostro. Purtroppo i ragazzi sono cosí, non si lasciano sfuggire nessuna stranezza, e lo escludevano anche se lui aveva la faccia piú innocente e bella di tutta la Sicilia. Lui non ascoltava nessuno e continuava a studiare, diventando cosí un ragazzo molto intelligente e studioso.
Ogni sera tornava a casa stanchissimo e triste, dicendo che nessuno parlava con lui. Era un ragazzo simpatico e divertente, ma nessuno sapeva, perché per loro, lui era solamente il corvo, un mostro. Il poverino si sentiva da solo, ma nel suo cuore egli sapeva che c’era un posto piú bello della terra, quindi lui continuava a vivere bene senza perdere la speranza. Si comportava gentilmente con ogni cosa viva che incontrava, e continuava a crescere, ogni giorno piú bello e piú buono.
Un giorno, il ragazzo stava tornando a casa quando ha visto una pecora ferita, ma ancora viva, che era stata investita da un’auto. La pecora piangeva e prima aveva paura del ragazzo con le sue ali nere, ma quando il ragazzo parlava con la sua voce d’oro e delicata si rilassó. Il ragazzo accarezzava e parlava con calma alla pecora.
Altre corvi arrivavano, e volavano in cerchio sul ragazzo e la pecora, cantando la canzone brutta dei corvi. Ma ad un tratto, un camion pieno di ciocci di legno arrivó dalla curva grande, e la autista non vedeva il ragazzo seduto sulla strada, solo le ali nere da corvo e la pecora sanguinante.
Se la autista si fosse fermato dopo che ha urtato la pecora e il corvo, avrebbe visto centinaia di corvi che portavano un ragazzo e una pecora nel cielo, sopra le nubi, e verso il sole, fino a che non avrebbe piú potuto vederli, perché la luce sarebbe stata troppo intensa.
Quando hanno visto che il loro ragazzo non era ancora tornato dopo quattro ore, la mamma e il papà, terrorizati per cíó che avrebbero potuto trovare, sono andati a cercare il loro figlio.
Hanno trovato solo il suo zaino sulla strada dove lui ha trovato la pecora, e non potevano credere a quello che fosse successo. La mamma cadde allora in una depressione piú buia di una notte senza luna, ma suo marito provava a restare forte, nascondendo la sua tristezza per suo figlio, suo miracolo di figlio perché sapeva che doveva essere forte, perché la mamma era molto ammalata, come il sole che tramonta.
Quando il papà pensava che la mamma era quasi morta, ha sentito qualcosa strana fuori della casa. Ha aperto la porta, e la luce del sole è stata nascosta da milioni di corvi, tutti che portaano piccoli pezzi di metallo; monete, stagnola, tubi, e altri cose trovate in tutta la Sicilia.
È conosciuto che i corvi sono attratti dalle cose lucide, e spesso conservano le cose che trovano nei nidi. È con questi pezzi di metallo milioni di corvi hanno costruito una enorme scala fuori la casa della mamma e il papà.
Il papà rimase in piedi per quasi un ora, guardando questi incredibili corvi ammassare una pila grandissima di pezzi di metallo. Subito lui ha chiamato sua mamma, che anche ha sentito strani suoni fuori della casa. Con tanto sforzo, la mamma si alzó, ed andó a stare accanto suo marito.
Quando ha visto la pila, la mamma ha pianto lacrime di felicità, perché sapeva cosa dovevano fare.
- Mettiti le scarpone, marito mio, noi andiamo a vedere nostro figlio! –
Quindi il marito e moglie salivano la scala di metallo, mentre ancora i corvi cantavano e continuavano a costruirla. Dopo un po’ raggiunsero un posto luminoso e bellissimo, sopra le nubi. Poi, il ragazzo, vedendoli si avvicinó a loro volando.
- Ciao, Mamma! Ciao, Pappa! – gli disse.
La sua voce era ancora piú bella, come oro e miele, e la luce nella sua faccia era ancora piú intensa, gli occhi piú brillanti ma soprattutto inece di ali di corvo dietro la schiena aveva due bellissime ali bianche da colomba. La mamma inizio’ a piangere, e strinse suo figlio con tutta la forza che aveva tra le sue braccia. Poi, il padre fece lo stesso, e gli chiese cosa successe nella strada.
- Niente di tutto questo ha importanza adesso, mamma e papá. Qui ho trovato dei veri amici. – Improvvisamente centinaia di ragazzi come loro figlio apparito, tutto luminosi e bellissimi.
- C’erano tantissimi ragazzi come me, mamma e papa, da tutto il mondo, e stiamo tutti qua. Io sono felice quai con i miei amici. – La mamma chiese, - Peró ti manchiamo, figlio, perché non torni con noi ora? –
- Non è cosi semplice mamma, e non voglio ritornare. Questo è il mio posto, e un giorno anche voi mi raggiungerete, quando sará la vostra ora. Io posso portarvi a casa, perché ora queste ali adesso funzionano! –
Il ragazzo ha portato i suoi genitori a la casa piccola fuori cittá, dove i corvi hanno rimosso la pila di metalli, e disse: - Ciao, mamma. Ciao, papà. Ci vediamo nel cielo un giorno. Per ora, non siate tristi, perché sapete che io sono felice e con la mia gente nel cielo. Vi voglio bene. Arrivederci, mamma e papà. –
È cosi, il ragazzo con le ali da colomba salí nel cielo. I suoi genitori, guardarono il loro figlio salire sul cielo verso il sole, quasi coprendosi gli occhi con la mano perché la luce che li investiva era troppo luminosa.
And now in English!
There was once a poor husband and wife who lived outside the city in a small house. For many years they tried to bear a child, but God would not grace them with the fulfillment of their desire. They had almost given up for good, regretfully accepting that parenthood was not in their fates, the wife walked slowly into the bedroom as her husband was getting into bed, her hands pressed against her middle over her dirty dress. “I’m pregnant!” she spoke with quiet joy. For the next few months she sewed and stitched together pieces of blankets and sheets to make the baby’s clothes, sitting by the light and warmth of the fireplace while the husband snored in bed, crouched over her work, smiling and humming as she worked.
They were extremely excited for the coming of their child. So much so that they didn’t notice that it was the rainiest year Sicily ever had, and as the abnormally large droplets crashed against the tin roof, the child slid gracefully into the world. It was a remarkably clean birth, and only out of religious superstition were the bed sheets burned in the fireplace.
The baby boy was beautiful in every way, with little golden curls and a magical smile that couldn’t help but warm the deepest caverns of the souls of those who saw it. But there was something peculiar about the boy, in fact, something monstrous. On his chubby little back were two black wings like those of a crow. They twitched and were warm to the touch, truly a part of their child. The parents didn’t care. Finally they had their baby, and a beautiful baby he was. The mother’s only concern was to begin on a new set of clothes with holes in the back, for the wings to peek through.
The beautiful baby grew to be an even more beautiful boy, and every day his face glowed brighter and godlier. His golden baby hair grew into thick locks of blonde hair, which was extraordinary in that neither of his parents had blonde hair. But this was a boy with crow wings; therefore little else surprised the proud husband and wife.
His wings grew as he did, but never provided him with the gift of flight. They just twitched and squirmed when the boy willed them too, maintaining control over them about as much as one has control over one’s smallest toe.
When he became of age, it was time to go to school in the big city over the hill. As most children are, the boy was thrilled by the prospect of school and the companionship of others like himself. The night before his first day, the boy’s parents sat him by the fireplace, and by the flickering light of the fire they warned him, “You are not like the others, my son. You have a gift, as God has marked you with a strange sign that even we, your parents don’t completely understand. You must ignore what people say to you, can you promise this?”
And the son promised, and although more than a little shaken by their words, he slept peacefully by the fire, lulled to sleep by the crackling embers and popping bursts of the dry wood.
At school he was regarded as a monster, and no one would talk to him or sit with him in class. Despite his angelic beauty, the children could see nothing but the black wings sticking out of neatly cut holes in his shirt. But the boy heeded the words of his parents, listening to nothing and no one, which was difficult when even the priests and teachers were whispering about, far louder then they realized they were.
The boy studied and studied, becoming an exceptionally bright and studious pupil. But each day he returned home on the dusty road over the hill tired and sad, complaining to his parents of his isolation at school.
He did not become bitter, as anyone would in his situation, for something in his mind told him of a place more beautiful than earth. It came to him right before dawn, as the light crept in through cracks in the walls and under the door. Then he would awake, eat a small breakfast of fruit and milk, and set off for school as his parents stood at the door proudly watching him down the road. The boy was kind and gentle to every living thing, in fact the closest he got to any physical contact at school was snatching a butterfly from a boy’s hand as another boy held a match under it’s wings.
And he continued to grow into adolescence, more beautiful each day, the glow of his hair and his face rising.
One day as the boy neared the big curve on his way down the road from the city he saw a bloody sheep lying on the road. A wagon had hit the poor creature, and its soft white hair was dripping with crimson blood. As the boy approached the sheep struggled to stand to run away, as sheep are nervous and shy animals, but when the boy began to talk, his nurturing words in a voice like gold and honey relaxed the sheep, which began to cry, tears running down it’s furred face. As the boy stroked the sheep, speaking in his calm tone, hundreds of crows began to amass above him, circling and clamoring their brutal songs.
And as the crows circled, the boy comforted the sheep, his back to the curve around the hill. A large carriage loaded with freshly cut firewood swung around the turn, and the driver, seeing but a crow and a dead sheep on the road, didn’t bother to veer around, and even felt a sick satisfaction as his carriage bumped momentarily.
If the driver had looked in his rear view mirror he would have seen hundreds of crows lifting a bloody boy and sheep into the sky. Then he would have seen the crows lift them above the clouds, until they could be seen no longer, as the light of the sun would have been too bright.
When the boy’s parents had waited almost four hours for their son’s return to no arrival, they set out on foot to look for the boy, terrified for what they would find.
Only the boy’s books were left at the spot on the road. The parents couldn’t fathom what evil may have befallen him. The mother fell into a depression as dark as a moonless night, and the father, fearing for the wellbeing of his wife, was forced to hide his tears and yells to the sky to the fields and pastures.
The wife lost what little extra weight she had, so poor were they. Dark bags hung beneath her eyes, her hair turned grey and fell out. The husband feared for her life, until one day when he was sure she was to take her final breaths. As he sat by her side, holding her thin hand and trying to nurture her as the boy had, he heard a strange sound outside, and rose to see what it was.
He opened the door, and no light flooded into the house as it usually would. The sky was black with millions of squawking black birds, all carrying small, shiny pieces.
Now, it is known that crows are collectors, attracted to metallic objects such as foil or coins. They often hoard these treasures in their nests, taking pleasure in the splendor of their beggar’s bounty. And with these things, thousands, maybe millions of crows were building a massive pile outside the door. The husband stood in awe, a chilly excitement reaching up his back and into his mind. The sound of the thousand beating wings, the shifting of the metallic objects on the pile, and the haunting squawks entranced him, until his wife, who had also heard the noise, called weakly for him to come and get her.
He led her outside in her dingy white gown, which waved from the wind stirred from the millions of black crow wings aflutter. Blood flowed back into her face, and she knew what they must do. “Get on your boots, my husband, we are going to see our son.”
They climbed up the pile, nudged and led by the crows. For hours they climbed feeling no exhaustion, only a deep determination and excitement. Finally they reached above the clouds, emerging damp and refreshed to a strange and bright place.
They noticed that the crows had left, descending back to earth in a terrifying cloud of darkness. As they stood on the top of the pile the boy appeared.
“Hello Mama. Hello Papa!” he said, his voice warmer and deeper then they had every heard. He looked more beautiful then they had ever seen, and most importantly, his black crow wings had been exchanged for those of a white dove. And they worked, too! They pumped and kept him aloft as he hovered above them.
The mother stepped from the pile to hold her son, and to her own surprise she arrived safely next to him. She grabbed him and held him close, sobbing tears of happiness onto his young man’s strong chest. Then the father joined them, holding the two of them tightly. “What happened, my son?” the father asked, and the son responded, “None of that is important now! I have found my place here, and there are others like me, thousands of others, just like me.” And as he spoke thousands of beautiful children appeared, all with the white wings of a dove, laughing, playing, speaking in voices much like that of their son.
“Mama, Papa, these are my friends. This is a good place.”
And the mother knew that she could not take him back to earth. She swelled with pride and joy as she knew that her son had found his people. She knew as well that earth was no place for a boy like him, and cried tears of joy, holding his perfect, soft hands. The son spoke: “I can take you home, for you cannot stay here!” And he lifted them up as if they were weightless, and, accompanied by others of his kind, flew the two joyous parents below the clouds.
When they arrived at the door of the house the pile was no longer towering. The crows had reclaimed their jewels, nesting them safely back in their hiding spots. The boy placed them down on the earth, and he hovered above them, fearful to touch the ground. He lifted them into hugs, kissing and whispering into their ears, “You will come and see me some day, when it is your time. For now you must stay here, but can know that I am happy and safe with my friends in the sky.” And the mother bravely dried her eyes, holding her son tightly.
He ascended slowly into the sky, pumping the beautiful white wings rhythmically and powerfully. His parents watched them as he reached higher and higher, until they could no longer look. The sun was too bright for their eyes.
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The first time I saw the men dressed up in giant foam suits in the shapes of hands running and jumping onto big posters of 80’s Italian musicians and actors, I thought I must have been either dreaming or hallucinating. The show was hosted by an elderly man with slicked back gray hair wearing a shiny pinstriped suit and big gold-framed glasses, and the contestants, the big flesh colored hands, were asked a pop culture question and had to race to dive onto a picture of the answer. Hands were crushed, and if one of them couldn’t stand up a team of blue clad helpers would run out onto the game floor and help them up awkwardly, as the hand struggled and squirmed in the probably hot and uncomfortable suit.
I quickly became used to this kind of bizarre entertainment, and have lately come to embrace it as a strange and sometimes alarmingly serious form of performance art. The difference between Italian television and American is fascinating, and I often have fun surfing the channels to see what oddness was on now. When I am lucky the “fruits and vegetables show” is on. In this riveting program, a specific fruit or vegetable is chosen as the topic, and in front of a massive display of the chosen food an expert is interviewed on every aspect of the fruit or vegetable. I often wonder who these experts are, and why in God’s name do they know so much about pineapples? Then there are the musical breaks, where a flamboyantly dressed, balding, elderly man with a keyboard plays funky songs about potatoes, or beets, or kiwi’s, or whatever exciting thing they have picked for this week’s episode. It’s wonderful.
On the other end of the television spectrum, the news is extremely straightforward. In the United States we are used to the overwhelming images thrust at us when we turn on CNN, FOX, or NBC, with their spinning logos, information streaming across the screen, names of interviewer and interviewee, flapping American flags, and stock tickers at all times flashing. On the major news networks here in Italy, the news lacks this intense visual stimulation, often the cause of our hypnotism to the TV set. The simple logo, small at the lower right hand corner is stationary, and doesn’t spin, shine, flash, or dance around. The topic of the news is set on the bottom of the screen in simple white lettering, and is always just the bare minimum of information, void of opinion and pun. The newspeople don’t crack jokes or go on rants, they present the news through a straight face, although I don’t know if maybe that’s just a more effective way to present biased information. Regardless, it is much easier on the eyes to watch the news in Italy.
My favorite show by far is Paperissima, the Italian form of America’s Funniest Home Videos. The home videos used on Paperissima are often much more disturbing and dangerous, which is what makes me laugh so much. I remember my first week here, when the homesickness and longing for home was crushing me and I felt like I hadn’t had a real laugh in a while, I was saved by this simple, ridiculous, and hilarious show. I remember sitting in pajamas and my Dad’s big cashmere sweater, exhausted and lonely on the couch of my new house, feeling the magical release that laughter allows. When I told my mother about it later, she confirmed the importance of that kind of release, quoting Joni Mitchell from the song “People’s Parties:” “laughing and crying,
you know it's the same release.”
Whether it’s watching the fruit show, or Paperissima, or the news, or even I Simpson, I am greatly thankful for the simple pleasure that is TV. As strange as that may sound, when you are this far away from home every bit of humor and comfort is worth more than anything. What could comfort a kid more than the home video of an old man falling backwards off of his chair into a pool?
It’s late, and I am quite tired after an intense post-sugar crash, but I thought it would be good to write something while the heaviness of all of the chocolate packed into my stomach was still present. Today we drove about two and a half hours to Modica, a beautiful, very classic looking town in a sharp valley, where a famous chocolate festival is held every year. I tried a ton of different types of chocolate, which was of an odd, granular consistency that I really like. The best was the pepperoncini chocolate, with a spicy aftertaste. It was truly a day made for Maxie and Mom. We also had a fun ride in a Fiat 500 (Cinquecento), a really classic and wonderful Italian car. For five euro we had an hour drive with a driver and stopped to see some lookout points and churches. Very cramped in the little back seat, but fun. Now the sugar has worn off and it is definitely time for me to go to sleep, so buona notte a tutti!
Zander
Listening to: "Hazards of Love" by the Decemberists, "Furr" by Blitzen Trapper, "At War With Walls and Mazes" by Son Lux
Buona Notte for me / Buongiorno for you all!
I have been having some fun the last few days. Last night was a good birthday on the beach. Fun dancing to techno music (as always), good food and it was warmish out. Although, there were a few times during the dancing part where I felt like Ben Stiller in “Along Came Polly,” in the basketball scene, when the big sweaty guy keeps rubbing up against him. Simon knows what I’m talking about! But, I would have to say that the highlight of the night by far was going to see this cover band down the beach with a few friends. As we arrived they were roaring through “Roadhouse Blues” by The Doors, and the singer, dressed in a black turtleneck and cowboy boots, was nailing the Jim Morrison voice. I was amazed! Occasionally I noticed a funny twinge on the accent, but for the most part he was getting it really well. Then they played some Police, some Led Zeppelin, and Jimi Hendrix. It was such a pleasure to hear some great music in English, and to be on the beach, will all these people around me yelling out their ideas of what the lyrics are, which ends up sounding like funny, half-pronounced English, was really a joy. Also, there was a homeless guy who was right up in the front doing some pretty intense dancing, who was undoubtedly “feeling the music,” and it all just added to the great scene. I left with my ears ringing.
Today I was supposed to go to Agrigento, where there was a massive festival for “youth.” I foolishly assumed that I was going to be able to take the bus, but as the buses are infrequent and undependable on normal weekdays, they were nowhere to be seen on this important day: May the first! So I ended up going to a barbeque in the country with a few kids. It was nice, and we ate a lot of meat.
A consistent and frustrating challenge of this experience has been transportation. Here in Favara literally every kid has a scooter or motorcycle, and that is pretty much the only mode of transportation, but AFS has a rule against riding on scooters, so we exchange students are oftentimes left in the dust when the armies of scooters buzz away to the beach, Agrigento, or the countryside. Today I was left in the dust when the group went to Agrigento for the festival, which was a pretty big shame, but I ended up going to the beach with my host mom and her friend. I enjoyed the late day sun on the ride to the coast.
Back in Favara we went to the grandmother’s house, who had promised to show me some old, old family photographs, which I was really excited to see. They were unbelievable. It was so nice to see all the young men in the 30’s and 40’s in their nice suits, with slicked back hair and leather shoes, looking sometimes serious and sometimes joking around. I love the quality of old photographs like that, especially just family snapshots.
Anyways, it is time for me to go. Enjoy the new photos from Romagna and this one. Tomorrow is Simon’s birthday!
Zander
Arancini are a classic Sicilian fried treat and one of my favorite after school snacks. Yesterday, at the Scibetta’s country house I learned how to cook them. Very easy, fun to make, and delicious. I thought I would share the recipe for all you at home. I know I will be making them this summer a bunch. There are some different variations, including making them with spinach and ragu, but I really just like the simple classic prosciutto and mozzarella.
You will need:
-About 10 eggs
-Parmaggian cheese (grated)
-Mozzarella
-A box of rice
-Saffron
-Prosciutto
-Farina
-Grated bread (almost powdery)
First thing you do is cook the rice. While that is happening you chop the prosciutto into little bits, then fry them up, but not too much that it is like bacon. Prepare 5 plates: prosciutto, mozzarella (should be cut up into tiny cubes), grated bread, whipped eggs, and farina. When the rice is done you add the saffron until it all the rice is bright yellow. Dump the rice onto a cloth, and lay it out so it can dry out a bit. You want the rice to be able to be molded into a ball, so it should be pretty dry and sticky. When the rice is moldable, you make a small bowl of it in your hand, and in the concavity you put a little mozzarella and a little prosciutto. A good tip is to keep your hands wet while you do this, it makes the rice a lot easier to handle. Then take some more rice and complete the ball, packing it tight, and making sure that there are no holes or imperfections, because if there are they will come apart in the oil when you are frying them. Once the ball is complete, roll it first in the egg, then in the farina so it is totally covered, then again in the egg, then in the bread so it is powdery and completely covered, then put it into a pot of oil. They should be pretty much totally submerged, and you can eyeball when they are done. Should look nice and crispy. When they are done, put them on paper towels to dry them out, then enjoy. Be careful, they will be pretty hot. Keep making ‘em until the rice is used up. Enjoy!
Note: I have been asked type of oil: Vegetable Oil or Corn Oil works well. And Farina, that one I can only explain through this.
It is Settimana Santa. In Sicily that is a really big deal, probably in all of Italy, and as I have been told, each town has its very distinct traditions and rituals. It has been fascinating to see it all, to see these rituals, the same rituals and traditions that Favara has had for hundreds of years. Here are two of the most interesting things I have witnessed:
1. Processione dell’Addolorata: Maria, my host mother, and I went to the high plaza, where the procession was just beginning. The priest was speaking in his low, solemn tone, and a group of helpers, mostly older men who wore maroon ribbons around their necks were holding up a statue of the Madonna, all dressed in black, with the face lit up by neon lights. There was very slow, very solemn tone to everything- the way the priest spoke, the pace of the procession, the response by those walking in the parade, the marching band, playing slow, beautiful Sicilian procession music. A very interesting note on the music: I started recognizing some of the songs, and was scanning my brain to where I would have heard them, then it hit me: It is all music from the Godfather. I was really confused, and asked Maria where this music was from, and she replied that the Godfather used basically only traditional Sicilian procession songs. It was really interesting to find out. Great music, reminded me a lot of the kind of stuff that Beirut does at the music’s simplest form. We walked for about fifteen minutes up the hill to a concrete formation with a big white metal cross, where all of the older priests were waiting, standing in the florescent light, which the whole scene have a very strangely modern mood. The priest spoke for a while, a crowd of the marchers forming around the base of the formation, until he stopped, paused, and said: “banda.” The band began to play another slow tune, and the Madonna was brought to the top of the podium. It was amazing- very ritualistic and dark. Then we turned back, and the whole procession returned to another church, the biggest in Favara, Chiesa Madre. We returned home.
2. Messa di Pasqua: This morning I woke up early to go with my school to church for an Easter Mass. Gerlando didn’t want to come, so slept in. They were taking attendance, but lots of kids would get their name down and bolt. We stood around the front of the church for a while, talking, doing what Italians love to do, standing, talking and smoking cigarettes. No one wanted to be the first to enter, then slowly the groups filed in and sat. It is a pretty modern church, but there is a massive, beautiful mosaic of Jesus surrounded by children above the pulpit. Lots of people were confused why I was there, being non-Christian and all. I explained a few times that I was just interested to see. Interested to see what? they implored. Too difficult to explain, it’s an experience I said. The priest’s helper carried around a beer bottle filled with water to water the plants. I thought that was really funny, and wished I had a camera. Very Favara. The priest spoke for a while, the music teacher from the school sang a bunch of songs, trying to get others to sing, usually to no avail. It lasted about an hour and a half, and when it finished, and I turned around, almost everyone had already left. The church was nearly empty!
Thursday I am going to Grotte, a town nearby, to see another traditional event of some sort with Intercultura. Should be interesting.
Now I am going to the country to cook some food with Sergio, Ditte, and Sergio’s cousin Marco. Then after we are going to the beach, just to walk, eat gelato’s, etc. It is a good way to start of the Easter vacation. Hope all is well. Feeling very excited that it is finally starting to get nice out. My family is in Anguilla, talked to them last night really late, which was nice. Miss everyone, but all is well.
Ciao! Zander
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