Sicily Metal Kids and Concert at San Leone (100th Blog Post)

Finally a Legal Resident...for Eleven Days

After four months of "processing" my documents, photos, and paperwork, the Agrigento Questura office granted me my "permesso di soggiorno." It is a pretty little card with my photo and lots of shiny magnetic strips and fancy pants numbers and codes, etc.  So, for eleven days I am a legal resident of Favara, Italy. Hallelujah! 

The Questura office is an interesting place. Sitting in the wooden chairs waiting for my number to be called, the scene around the windows is as colorful as a Maira Kalman painting. The characters are truly right out of a drawing. Gypsies, North Africans who made the treacherous trip across the Strait of Sicily to Porto Empedocle (the infamous port where all of the illegal immigrants land, about ten minutes from Favara) on little boats, overcrowded and hot. Then there are the Italians, frustrated that they don't take precedence over the others, being Natives! and the grumpy immigration officers, who hold supreme power over the lives of so many. 

I got a few photographs of the scene, but was disappointed to be denied entry into a room where I went the last time the Questura office beckoned me that held a really creepy and fascinating poster of mugshots from the forties and fifties. 

It is sticky hot out, just talked to Mom, who is upstate, and Dad at home. All is well. 

Zander in Sicily

Thirteen Days

Ciao a tutti,

Well, it is extremely strange to say that I only have thirteen days left in Favara, Sicily. I look back through my blog, my journal, my photos, and realize just how long it has been! I have been talking to friends, planning, scheming, getting excited for my return. The things I am looking forward to the most: family and friends (of course), driving (especially driving Big D's new car), eating mama's summer cooking, bbq-ing with my Dad, swimming in the Hudson, running in the trails behind my house, my own bed and room (I am switching with Simon when I get back!), the comfort of my native language, assisting my Dad on photoshoots, going on night walks, Guard Hill Road, hamburgers, Mr. T sandwiches from the Bedford deli, seeing movies in English, and most of all, looking back on my experience from a distance to really see what came out of it all. 

The rich green of the hills that we see from the balcony is turning into a burnt yellow color, like Greece in the summer. It is damn hot, and lots of kids in school came into class with nasty red sunburns, which reminded me of a funny story my Dad tells about some Italian friends. I went to the beach on Saturday, felt great to take a dip in the water (still a bit fredda, but it's getting better). Then just to lay on a towel in the sun was so relaxing. I want to go right now! Maybe I can, must go see. Wish I could drive here. Ok, well see you all very soon. 

Zander Bernard Abranowicz

Favara, Sicily

Listening to: "Hold Time" by M. Ward, "At Ear Park" by Department of Eagles, "Merriweather Post Pavilion" by Animal Collective

Reading: Just finished "East of Eden" by John Steinbeck, one of the greatest books I have ever read. Want to read it again this summer. Now I am just rereading old magazines!

Watching: "It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia," "Paperissima," calcio! (soccer)

Details from the Chiesa Madre

The Boy With Crow Wings / Il Ragazzo Con Le Ali del Corvo

I wrote this first in Italian, as a project for school in which I was supposed to imitate "Le Fiabe Italiane" by Italo Calvino, then translated it into English. I hope you enjoy!

C’erano una volta un marito e una moglie poveri, che vivevano fuori della cittá in una casa piccola. Per tanti anni non potevano avere un bambino, ma finalmente, nell’anno piú piovoso nella storia di Sicilia, la moglie é rimasta incinta. I consorti erano molto emozionati, e la moglie ha preparato tanti piccoli vestiti per il suo bambino.

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.

Italian Television

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? 

White Cat

Walking around with my camera has changed for me here in Favara. At first it was almost easy for me to find a subject, as everything would pop out at me as new, and strange. But these days when I venture out into the streets of Favara with my camera, I must look deeper into the place, and sometimes return home with not one photograph that is worth posting. When I saw this white cat I was excited to have a new subject. Enjoy.

P.S. It is nice and hot out here, which as its obvious upsides, but coincides with a pretty nasty garbage strike. There are piles of trash everywhere, and the dogs are having lots of fun tearing it apart and finding things to eat in the mountains of garbage. Then the sun hits the piles all day, and makes for a nasty smell. My window was open last night and I returned home to find the smell had entered my room, which was pretty gross. Anyways, its all part of the experience! 

Big Things: Some Good, Some Bad

I have made the decision to return to the United States at sometime in June, a little earlier than was planned, but I am feeling very confident that it was the best decision. It allows me to take two big state tests that would be hanging over my head if I didn't take them this year. Also, it doesn't get in the way with school here, so I can finish out the year here, then get that done. Also it doesn't hurt that there is a sailing trip with some friends when I get back. And that I will see Simon and Max before they go to camp. And in all truth, at that point I will be ready to return back to my life in Bedford, NY. It has been a great relief for me to make this decision, and now I have a few major things I need to focus on: learning as much Italian as I can in the next few weeks, focusing on writing/photography/drawing, finishing up school strong here, and spending good times with Gerlando, family, and friends. All good things to focus on.

Then there is some pretty sad, weird news, that actually made "Il Giornale di Sicilia" right from my town, Favara. On Tuesday as we were walking into school we saw a large crowd outside the door, and the school president was talking into a cellphone sounding concerned. We asked someone what had happened, and they replied "vandali!" Vandals! We pushed through the crowd to the big glass doors that lead into the main lobby of the school, and immediately I saw the damage done. 

I didn't care too much about the fire extinguisher foam all over the ground and the walls, or the red spraypaint on the walls, but when I saw the statue of Martin Luther King spraypainted white and the base smashed, I was disgusted. Something about the contrast of this man of peace, looking so noble and calm in the statue and the hideousness of the spraypaint and mess really angered me. The vandali really destroyed a whole wing of the school, ripping doors off the hinges, smashing desks, spraypainting everything. I feel sorry for the school. 

Anyways, I am feeling relieved to have made this decision, and cannot wait to see everyone at home. And I can drive when I get home. That's pretty awesome.

Zander

Modica Chocolate Festival

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

Some Fun

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 

Some Emilia Romagna Trip Pictures