Once out of Rome or Milan the flight takes you along the coast reminding you what a beautiful penninsula this is , the mountaings, the infinitely long coast, the agriculture. About 30 minutes into the flight that barely has time to offer water to it's passengers you realize that Italy is not Rome or Milan or Venice or Florence as the states are not NYC or LA. We are over Sicily. It's like entering the orbit of a planet whose spring is tentively emerging from an ambivalent winter, the pointed hills form a cradle for the sea that marks our approach to Palermo. It looks deserted. There is no evidence of human life, no cities are seen from the flight route, it appears an exclusively agricultural and fisherman's Island.
It is December 25th, all self respecting italians are already at home with their loved ones dipping the panetone into asti and sopping up the sugo with the sesame coated semolina loaves we simply can not find elsewhere.
The flight from Newark to Rome is calm. No one is rushing. But the passengers are different from the usual dual passport holding nonni , the teenagers with nike shopping bags, laquered hair and chinatown gucci sunglasses. These folks are not particularly going to Italy.
They are connecting through Rome to Istanbul, Prague, Russia. These folks are flying away from the holidays. They are definitively outside of the holidays, walking in the space between inhale and exhale. They are watching us rush to family, rush to enjoy, to celebrate, arriving tired, incomplete and anxious. My fellow travelers though, have ascended.
Every moment in line, rushing, watching the baggage carousel adds insult to injury. I am being kept from my husband. 20 minutes at the baggage claim, we are told that American luggage is in another part of the luggage carrousel.
Finally by the time I get my luggage on the cart, rush to the exit,I have had it. I shoot a look at the customs officer, and say, do I put the luggage through? He says, yes. I shoot another look, which one, … va bene, just that one. Thank heavens, hoisted once more on to another rolling table, no beeps, bells or whistles. I am through.
Through the doors. So few people left to greet the remaining passengers. Those American passengers retrieving their luggage with me were mostly tourists. No tour guides to greet them, no cousins to escort them home.
And there he is , hands in pocket, the grin that holds back the tears. We never can look at each other fully when I arrive. This usually happens once I am in the car. These akward here not here few minutes that get me to the car, I don't know what to notice first. But the options are often the same, Iam framed by some part of the parking structure we walk through to get to the car, bright unobstructed sunshine complimenting the moistness of the impenetrable sea . Today the ground is moist. It rained while I was in flight.
I kiss him and get in the car.
These separations are not unusual, sadly. I notice he seems pale and weary. His health seems to be stressed this time, a bronchial infection that required daily shots of super antibiotics, his mother' month hospital stay for an operation to remove the hernia that sprouted when he was born- 40 years ago, the stress of living with her knowing she is the reason I was gone. He looks abused. He looks like a mammone. There is no hiding that we have both gained weight and although I can't see it, I am sure I look my masculinized female self that is so American, after all.
I am sure I look as pasty, unkempt and distressed as I feel.
This time it took me 4 months to make the trip home.
Since I had quit smoking just before I got on the plane, I treated his Diana Rosso with grave respect. On our best behavior-let’s not f**k this up-it’s been 4 months- he notices and kindly suggests that I may prefer that he not smoke in the car. I sweetly demur and finally we take each other in, and honestly, the clouds part just a bit more and we hug. The side to side in the car over bucket seats, avoiding the parking break, and man have we gained weight hug. That hug.
The car smells of roasted peanuts. How odd, like peanut butter. Ah yes, the 5 loaves of the bread, the sesame coated semolina loaves. The bread.
Heading home.
The mother is at home cooking. Pasta con with carne al forno. ( a dish I can not bear for the peas that in this season are frozen or canned) And this time it is without the peas- a concession to me.
Franco's sliced homemade artisanal salami is displayed on my gift, the santa plate that is never actually given to me. The mother says, "this is your gift and I am using it already. Ha haa."
Her preparations are excessesive and overly manipulated. A great cook at one time, the dishes are anxious. We are 8 for dinner, my sweet favorite Li Pira, Michellina is due and one of her daughters family.
I change into a dress, making an attempt to be sensual in some capacity. It is hard, but being hard does me no good.
So I am home with the Butcher. That's great.
And there are cannolis made with Sheep's milk Ricotta and that's great too.
All contents copyright 2004-2011. All rights reserved.
