Sweet Ricotta Ravioli
Today we had a bit of a climb to get to Ragusa. If you look up Ragusa on good ol’ Wikipedia it says that the town is located on a high hill. I will tell you, from someone who got here on a bike, they weren’t kidding!
Under a Sicilian Sunset
Another day cycling through Sicily. I have likened these trips to eating an excellent bag of potato chips when you are very hungry, not just hungry, but a maddening craving for something crisp and salty. You look at the bag only to realize that it isn’t that big, certainly not large enough to fill the need. With every savory bite, you realize that you are getting closer to the inevitable end. An unsatisfying completion that terminates long before your desire is sated.
“Il bar più a sud d’Europa isole escluse.”
We were barely on the road when we stopped at an abandoned farmhouse. The farm had been made into a museum. Apparently, someone who had found some Roman mosaics and were chipping away pieces destroying them and obscuring the story these treasures told. As I understand it, someone had started farming here when they discovered what was under the ground. It reminds me of something a friend once told me. According to him, there is so very much history in the ground that every construction project uncovers something from the past.
Arrival
Today, after a very long day of travel, we arrived in Syracuse, or more correctly Sircuasa. I am referring to the original in Sicily and not the one in central New York.
Italians, The First Latins!!
Several years back I was having dinner with a group of people. At one point during the meal, a woman at the table began to rant against Latins. The Latins this. The Latins that. All manner of shortcomings were ascribed to Latins. Clearing my throat, I noted that I was a Latin. “You’re not Latin! You’re Italian,” she snapped.
Are Italian-Americans Italian?
Are Italian-Americans Italian? People keep telling me we aren’t. When I say I am Italian, Italian-Italians, those born in Italy, look at me with suspicion and scoff. American Uber-patriots chide me, telling me that I am American. In their minds, to associate myself the culture of my forbears is close to treason. With so many people telling me that I am not Italian, I cannot help but wonder if Italian-Americans are Italian.