Family, Olives and Summer in the City.

It's been a long time since I updated, but I haven't had an awful lot to say...

Today was really nice.

I've been feeling awful, still - nauseous, exhausted, slightly feverish - so I just went out 'for a while' to drop of Ella's birthday presents at Coffee. Of course, even though I'd cancelled on Natalie and her housewarming - Jason and I both pulled out because we were generally not up to it (I'm not sure of his exact reasons) and I felt quite bad - 'a while' meant several hours.

On our way to Russell Square, we stopped at a shop called The Olive Trail, and ended up doing an olive oil tasting. Neat olive oil, in wee little cups. Drinking it. Sniffing it. Finally, mixing it with 15 year old Balsamic vinegar and discovering that it was delicious. I spent £35 on the stuff.

I bought a bracelet as well - brown leather thong with two olive wood balls on it and a sliding-fasten, to adjust the size. I put it on my wrist over my maple leaf (which still needs touching up), to complement another side of my heritage (granted, the olives are Greek, not Sicilian, but my family own an olive grove that my siblings, cousins and I used to play in, as children).

Ella, Elise and I then went on to a small Italian restaurant and sat outside having a light meal, while England flunked out of the World Cup. The owners brought us lemon liquer to make us feel better when we lost.

After that, Elise and I wandered down Charing Cross Road to Trafalgar Square. On the way we encountered the entire Metropolitan Police Force and some defiantly cheerful football supporters, who none the less seemed rather keen on terrorising passengers on passing buses, by pummeling the sides as they went by. There were also a lot of Pride people around - and a few Canadians as it is Canada Day, but being Nice People, the Canadians celebrated yesterday, so as not to interfere with the procedings. We made the realisation at this point that if terrorists wanted to make a real impact an awful lot of their favourite targets were in the same vacinity.

Anyway, we walked down to St. James's Park, sitting first on the grass opposite the home of the Household Cavalry, and then by the lake where lots and lots of very stupid ducks were loitering around, trying to scab sandwiches off of the tourists. A couple had even brought the kids to cute it up, like the Hovis advert.

Also discovered, was a really cute restaurant and bar on the bank of the lake. It has outside tables, sells cocktails, and has lanterns and blankets on the grass for those not eating.

I need to go on a date there. It was such a beautiful and romantic setting. No offence to Elise, but I'd rather have been there with Philip, who is my second ever watercooler crush. :) It's not even that badly priced - £15-23 for a main isn't that bad. I was expecting closer to £35.

After about an hour sitting by the lake, we returned to our respective homes. Spurred on by the olive oil and thoughts of my grandparents, I called my dad. He was so pleased to hear from me. He's trying to run a restaurant and help raise four-month-old twins - and a five year old, and has been so busy and exhausted. He's never been very good at keeping in touch, although I know he doesn't mean to be - I'm just the same as he is - and we talked for a while. I called him at work, and he took a break to call me from his car where it was quieter. Then his battery ran out. Apparently, he kept talking for ten minutes before he realised the phone was dead (evidently, my smarts do not come from his side) and then called me back from inside again.

He's talking about us going to Sicily, next year. My grandad (Nonno) has Parkinson's and both he and Nonna are getting old - we all need to go out there and see them before one of them croaks it. They always phone, begging me to go to 'Casa mia - vostri cugini li aspetta!' - or something in correct Sicilian dialect (Italian, Greek and Arabic hybrid - technically a language in itself, Sicilianu, but generally accepted as a dialect of Italian) - in a peculiar, sing-songy tone. Well, I say 'they'... Nonna does. Nonno says, "Ciao, ciao. Come stai? Benne? Bravo, bravo... Ciao... Ciao..." and that's it.

It's lucky, really - my Italian is so limited, these days... I used to be fluent. I keep meaning to learn again... Sometimes, I find myself surprised at how conditioned I was by attending Sunday school and stuff in that sprawling Catholic village halfway up a mountain... I kept wanting to buy a cross pendant in the olive shop, today... I'm not even Christian.

But yeah, my dad wants to get all six of us under the same roof, at some point. Which would be nice, except Berti is a borderline psychopath, and the issue of my mother will inevitably come up at some point and then there would be violence, and I don't want to have to kill him... Still, I'm apparently making progress with Cristian, because he asked to visit me - which dad was pleased about.

I hope we do get together, soon. It feels like I'd have a bit more of a family if we did.

I will leave you with this... :

Collesano (the first house I lived in, in Sicily, and the place where my dad was born is circled):


The local beach and fishing village - Cefalu. Yes, Thelemites - the same place:

Mysterious Coincidence and Miracles?

In a bizarre coincidence, after yesterday's reminder of my roots - I'm watching an Italian man who has travelled the whole of Italy... climbing Mount Etna. I've been to Etna.

Fortunately, my family are from the mid-north coast/mountains, hundreds of miles away from Catania.

He also ended up stopping in Palermo (where else) and I didn't realise before, how bad it is there. I knew it was a dangerous place - even for those of us with Important Relatives (especially so) - but much of the centre of town is poverty stricken and partly rubble from WWII bombings, still.

I'm fairly sure I must have known this, because I dreamed about it some time ago, but it's a little shocking to realise the effect the Mafia can have. Money was poured into Mafia-approved projects, instead of rebuilding the damaged centre...

Zio Michaelangelo and his family (cousins Ciara [Kee-ar-ah], Laura [Lah-ou-wra] and Zia Mariangela) still live in an apartment in the upmarket area, as far as I know. My family is so Mafia, right, that I remember when I lived out there and Ciara - at about six - stuck a fork in her little sister's hand. Mind you, the villagers in my family are all bakers and stuff - so you'd better watch out or you'll wake up with a grossini on your pillow.

But yes... I'm going to write this stuff down - all the things I remember - over time. Like falling down my Nonni's stairs and thinking that the effigy of the Madonna in the mountain alcove across the road outside the window was laughing at me. I still have the dent on the back of my head...

Funnily enough - not far along the mountain they built walls to stop chunks of rock falling on to the main mountain route, below. On the day we arrived on holiday, when I was eleven, everyone was leaning over the terrace on my grandparents' country 'house' (it's a shack on some tomato terraces, with a vinyard and olive grove attached) gushing about something to my dad. It turned out, two days before we arrived, a figure of the Madonna had begun to appear, standing on one of these walls, shortly in front of a large, jagged rock further up the mountain. People were hysterical. It was a miracle!

One night, my father took me, my siblings, Cristian and Roberto (Berti), and Ciara and Laura, for a meal at a pizzeria halfway up the mountain. The main things I remember about that are the eating outside in the woods and being given a free dessert pizza made of tinned peaches, gelatine and icing sugar...

But! On the way back, we stopped on the road at the very north edge of the village, directly under the wall - and there she was. A life-size figure, with a black hole for a face, and her arms held out in a gesture that was either, "Come, my children..." or, "COME ON THEN, IF YA FINK YER ARD ENUFF!". Her robes were swaying just slightly in the breeze. It felt like a real person. It looked like a real person. Everyone standing around watching - for there were loads, as this was only the fourth day or so since she first appeared - was gazing, awed up at the mountain. She was only feet away.

I'm not even a Catholic, and I wasn't at eleven, either. But I believed then that it was a woman standing on the mountain - it was some significant figure, there for a reason - she certainly wasn't an illusion from the rock, which was actually several metres above, as my dad insisted.

And you know the reason we know she wasn't the rock? Because two days after we left - the exact same amount of time she arrived before we did - the vision of the Madonna... vanished. The rock is still there.