Thursday, 8 October 2015

A plea for compassion towards Refugees - 1881

A letter to the Editor 1881.

Almost 125 years ago a letter appeared in the Sydney Morning Herald which is as apt today as it was then. It was a plea to the government and community to show compassion for a group of refugees escaping poverty in Europe and who had experienced a terrible fate. These were my Italian ancestors. The writer’s name was Isaac Ellis Ives, a wealthy businessman (owner of Argyle Bond Stores fronting Circular Quay) who was later elected Lord Mayor of Sydney. He wrote:

Sir, the collapse of the Marquis de Ray’s expedition to New Ireland, and the terrible sufferings arising therefrom, as depicted in your issue of yesterday (24th March), are terrible to contemplate.
New South Wales in all matters of charity has always shone as one of the brightest jewels in England’s crown; the colour of the skin has not been asked, but it has been sufficient for us to know that fellow-creatures were starving, and our money has been brought forth in abundance.
With upwards of three hundred souls starving at our very door, shall it be said that we refuse them aid? I think not. This is not the time to ask if they were right or wrong in giving up their homes to seek new ones. That they are starving there is no doubt; and, as the City of Melbourne sails at noon, there should be no difficulty in raising a sum of money to be forwarded by her towards the immediate relief of the sufferers.
I am prepared to give towards this object, and have promise of an equal contribution from a friend.

Argyle Bond, 25thMarch 
Isaac Ellis Ives

In late March 1881, Henry Parkes, Premier of NSW and Colonial Secretary agreed to allow this group of Italians to land in Sydney and be granted permission to stay. A vessel, the James Paterson, was dispatched to the French Penal Colony of New Caledonia (Noumea) where they had taken refuge. They arrived in Sydney on April 7, 1881.

Tuesday, 22 September 2015

Italian Literature - a taste.

I’ve recently returned from Italy. My third visit in as many years. The regular visits arise from my interest in exploring my Italian roots. This material has become the focus of the novel I’m writing. It’s also introduced me to some great writers.
There’s no shortage of people writing about Italy – how many more Italian travel memoirs can there be? The large number is understandable when you begin to explore the many layers of culture, history, food, language not to mention regional differences in this relatively small (compared to Australia) country.
My first forays in my Italian obsession were via travel writers/observers such as Tim Parks’ Italian Ways and his marvellous Italian Neighbours. There are many others. Even George Negus wrote one – The World from Italy. I then explored some history and politics via David Gilmour’s The Pursuit of Italy and Australian Peter Robb’s Midnight in Sicily which exposes the role of the mafia in contemporary Italian politics. A great read.
I only began to read Italian-born fiction writers recently. The three of most interest to me thus far are Naples based Elena Ferrante, Sicilian Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa and Italo Svevo from Trieste.
Italo Svevo, looking dapper.
Italo Svevo, looking dapper.

These three are about as diverse as you could imagine. They explore dramatically different era’s regions and themes. Ferrante sets her stories in the poverty of Naples (what a wonderfully mad city) and her quartet of novels span fifty years from 1955 to 2005. Lampedusa explores Siciy between 1860 and 1910 and Svevo‘s novels are set in Trieste in the early 20th Century.

All three writers have fascinating personal stories. Ferrante is Naples born but has never been identified. She writes under a pseudonym. Lampedusa died at the age of 61, a year before his one and only novel, The Leopard, was published in 1958. Italo Svevo only achieved literary recognition and mainstream publication in his sixties (he died in 1928 aged 67). Svevo (born Aron Ettore Schmitz), by coincidence, also wrote under a pseudonym.

Lampedusa was the son of an aristocratic family and The Leopard tells the story of the demise of the old ruling class as Italy moves towards a united country in 1860 (Gabaldi has just entered Marsala to begin his campaign). Told with an honesty and an acceptance of the inevitability of change, it tracks the decline of the House of Salina through the eyes of the Prince of Salina and the rise of his nephew, Tancredi, who opportunistically supports the new order and ‘marries down’ in marrying the beautiful peasant Angelica whose family is on the rise, thus securing his future. Written without sentimentality or nostalgia it offers a wonderful insight into power and humanity and to a Sicily still recognizable more than a century later. At its centre it is deeply poetic.

Svevo was also a late bloomer. Of German Jewish background (his mother was Italian), he was born in Trieste in 1861 and married into a business family (industrial paint). He wrote from a young age and self-published a number of novels in his twenties and early thirties but, achieving little success or recognition as an author, he stopped writing and devoted himself to the family business. It was not until his late forties that he again began writing. This occurred as a result of his chance meeting with a young James Joyce who came to live in Trieste as a twenty five year old and whom Svevo engaged to teach him English. Joyce lived and wrote in Trieste over a period of ten years where he completed Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man and began early drafts of Ulysses (Leopold Bloom is said to be based on Svevo). Joyce was long gone by the time Svevo again self-published his novel Zeno’s Conscience in 1923 but it was not until Joyce’s French agent published a translation that it was acclaimed as a comic masterpiece. Svevo died soon after (1928) in a car accident. Described as a pioneer of the psychological novel in Italy, it follows the life of a hapless young man as he stumbles into marriage, infidelity, business, all the time with a preoccupation with his health and death. Written as an account as told to his psychiatrist, it is a gently self revealing portrait of a character in constant conflict with himself. It is packed with wry humour.
Ferrante, the last of the trilogy of writers, writes about the lives of two friends Lila and Elena, one bright, beautiful and feisty, the other, highly intelligent but in awe of her beautiful friend. Set in the backstreets of Naples in the 1950s My Brilliant Friend is the first of four novels which follow this pair over a fifty year period. One is destined to escape her working class origins, the other becomes a survivor in a harsh social environment dominated by family. The writing in My Brilliant Friend is rich and sensual and beautifully captures the emergence of these two girls as they grapple with the realities of poverty, family and community expectations, and the constraints of gender in their journey towards adulthood and independence. The Italy of the fifties is raw and palpable.
Of course there are many more novels set in Italy – Hemingway’s A Farewell to Arms for one and our own Venero Armanno (The Volcano) another. Italy is such a great country and a country of many great reads.
© Steve Capelin 2015

The Novel - a reading from

Brunswick River - winter
Have not written here since my return from Italy but it doesn't mean I haven't been busy - including a couple of georgeous weekends at the beach.

Here's an update.

  • Wrote a review of Italian books I have read in the past while for the Avid Reader Bookshop website.
  • Did a reading from my work in progress at Avid Reader as (part of) the support act to Gail Jones talking about her new book "A Guide to Berlin." Exerpt of my reading below.
  • Interviewed Shirley Barrett at Avid Reader about her new (first) novel, "Whale OH!", about whaling and killer whales and the Davidson whaling family set in Eden (NSW) in 1903. Very funny, touching, illuminating. Shirly has been writing and directing film and TV for the past twenty years (South Solitary, Love Serenade). This book began life as a script but she couldn't get the finance to make it so she has become a novelist. She was great to interview.
  • Have almost finished the second draft of "Paradiso". Its been a hard slog at times but I'm confident this draft is a big improvement on the first. Next draft will be even better.

Here's the piece I read at Avid. I chose a fairly quiet piece. I wanted to feel comfortable standing and reading in front of fifty people. I must say reading exerpts aloud is a great way to hear the writing clearly. I discovered that some of them were clumsy and uneven in places; in others the rhythm just didn't feel right; others were good but not stand alone pieces. It was an interesting and challenging exercise.


Papa looks at me and smiles and then looks at the bonfire which is now a raging volcano cracking and snapping as it accelerates towards its climax. I take his hand.

 ‘Look Domenico. Which way are the sparks flying?’ I look to the peak of the fiery mountain and see a spray of sparks explode from the top.

‘Which way is that?’ I ask pointing to the far side of the square. They are blowing away from us, neither towards where I know the mountains begin nor towards the sea, which I know lies to the south. ‘Is it Milano and the River Po in that direction?’ I ask.

I have learnt the geography of my country from maps on walls and views out my classroom window. Maestro Carros takes us out into the school grounds and has us face the mountains. ‘This is north,’ he tells us. He has us imagine we can see Venezia to the south. He teaches us north and south and then tells us that even further south lies Roma and the ancient civilizations. And further south still is the Kingdom of two Sicilies where Italians speak another language, eat different food and have black hair and dark skin.

To the north lies Austria and beyond the mountains, countries with many cultures and many languages until there is nowhere left to go. Only ice and frozen waste. Maestro Carros does not tell us much about the east except to say that if you go far enough you reach the lands of China and of silk and spices. And even further lie the islands of the Pacifique, undiscovered islands of mystery and magic.

He has never been east of Udine but of the west he has many stories.  He tells of getting lost in the richest streets of Milano, of travelling on steam driven trains between cities, of lakes as large as seas and of his own home, once part of Italy, now France.

‘Milano is west?’

‘Yes’ confirms my father.

‘So the sparks must be flying…’ and here I stop and face the invisible mountains and repeat my compass points mantra. If I raise my right arm it points in the direction of the disappearing sparks.

‘It’s east papa. They are travelling east.’

My father hesitates.

‘Another unproductive year with another poor harvest,’ my father observes. ‘The signs are clear. We will not be here to see another summer Domenico.’ He says this calmly. We both look towards Mamma and Marietta whose aprons swirl as they move between tureen and table, ladling out portions of hot soup. I wait, but there is no more information forthcoming. He pats me on the shoulder and pushes me towards the food.
Vecia has disappeared in the smoke and glare of the inferno. Someone calls out and we turn to see a flare of light as she is engulfed in flames and, for a moment, is lifted above the fire and she is gone. 

Saturday, 25 July 2015

For the Linguaphiles - Cape'in / Capelin / Capeƚin

At the family reunion in Italy we were being told that our name was pronounced Capelin (three syllables with equal emphasis all three syllables) and/or Cape'in. The locals insisted in pronouncing it in two ways one of which dropped the L which was very confusing. Well now I understand.
Cape'in is the Venetian pronunciation.
I've been searching for some Venetian vocab to use in my
book and yesterday came across a site devoted to the Venetian Language -
alphabet, pronunciation, dictionary etc all in English.

I had found a word that I wanted to use but it had this strange symbol in it ("ƚ" ) - so I was searching to find out how it would be pronounced and ..........

There are two versions of L in Venetian. One is the standard L of English and the other ("ƚ" ) with a line through it, has a sound which is described as between L and E (see below). So the Venetian spelling of our name would have been Capeƚin, the "ƚ" pronounced like a very breathy (aspirated) "hey" or perhaps an aspirated "ee" - Cape'in. Here's an exerpt from the Venetian alphabet and pronunciation website:
l same as English, "l" as in "lean", "lamb"
ƚ typical Venet, semi-vowel, pronounced between a full L and an E (without the tongue touching the palate)

Also in Venetian the "a" is pronounced as the "u" in "gut" so phonetically possibly Cup/hey/in or Cup/el/in rather than Cap/hey/in or Cap/el/in

Friday, 17 July 2015

Three Amici - fourth and final instalment

Part IV
        At Agrigento under a hot sun beating down on the Greek ruins of “The Valley of the Temples” I came across a flock of goats. A breed indigenous to Sicily or brought here so long ago by the Greeks or Phoenicians that no one knows their origin. Like all migrating tribes who stay long enough (and two thousand years might be enough) they have laid claim to be local. The word for goat in Italian is capra and this breed went by the name Capra Falcone. Nicky had told me a story of her Italian grand mother and her teasing ways. She showed her love by giving her grandchildren unflattering nicknames.
        Nicky had earned the soprannome of “little goat”. Not capre but cradule or a similar word in her Campanian dialect. Nicky knew the word but struggled to spell it. If you’ve read the Leopard you might remember that the family of nobles is referred to as “Falconeri”. My creative mind (and my lack of linguistic knowledge) had assumed this to be connected to the goat theme I was developing. So like any untruth told often enough it became a truth for me and was the link that helped make sense of the three of us. Nicky is stubborn, Don Fabrizio, the Prince, had a certain cunning in him and we, all three, had been sometime survivors in situations of adversity – all traits we shared with goats. In truth it is more likely that Falconeri is the bird than the goat. The bird of prey. The falcon. Still for all intents and purposes it had the effect of keeping something alive. A link. A way of feeling that the grand odyssey hadn’t simply vanished. I hadn’t completely fucked up. There were still goats. Perhaps I was the real kid (pun intended) in this story.
It turns out that the goat “Falcone” is named after an Englishman with the surname Falconer, who was instrumental in reintroducing them to Sicily – but why spoil a good story?
Part V
       My last night in Marsala. For the second time I found my way to the family trattoria (Il Gallo e L’Innamorata – The Rooster and the Lover) which my host Titziana had recommended. I was seated at my favourite table – centre stage. This was to help the other guests understand that here was a man with no friends. I ordered the tuna. It came. If there is a food heaven I was in it. Cooked simply in olive oil, lightly seared on both sides and topped with grilled zucchini and a puree of Sicilian mint. Not just any mint I was informed by the waiter when I enquired (I had thought it might be pureed fava beans which I had been served in the north which were quite a revelation as well). My knife revealed deep red flesh which peeled away without resistance and melted in my mouth, a rich delicate flavor. Bellimisso. My sad solo dinner had been transformed.  I slept well.
Part VI
       ‘I’ve been sick as a dog. High fever. Haven’t been able to get out of bed since I got back’ said the email. I’ve come into a bit of money,’ it continued; ‘a debt repaid and some back-pay from MOON (the restaurant where Nicky works). I’m feeling flush with funds. If I recover I’m thinking of joining you in Palermo. What do you think?’
     ‘Blood of Madonna’ (there’s a bit of 19th Century cussing in The Leopard). What was she thinking? ‘It won’t happen’ I told myself. ‘Just a thought flying through her fevered head’ I thought. But in the back of my mind I held on to it. How good would that be if we managed to finish the adventure together? The odd couple reconciled.
       I put Nicky out of my head and set my coordinates for Palermo. For the first time I decided to take the motorway. I needed to be in Palermo to meet my host at 2pm. I figured I couldn’t afford to dawdle. I made one stop. At Segesta there’s a Doric temple sitting alone in a field. It’s almost intact, though it was never completed. High above on a ridge sit further ruins and a fantastic Greek Theatre which perches on the edge of a precipice overlooking the dramatic landscape below. The climb was long and hot. The signage and explanations overwhelming. Why are tourists fascinated by piles of rubble and long winded explanations by experts making their best guess at what might have been? The best structures are worth retaining of course but a lot of it could be recycled and put to good use (I think the sun was beginning to affect me). After all it took a lot of effort to quarry it in the first place and now it just sits and bakes in the sun and gets stared at by uncomprehending Germans. Philistine you’re thinking? I’m not the first to think of this. Much of these old cities were built from former city walls and the like.
      Dropping off the car in Palermo was more complicated than I’d hoped. My Tom Tom took me on a joy ride around the city and finally delivered me to the correct address. ‘You have reached your destination’ it told me. ‘Thanks’ I said as I double parked the Peugeot close by the “Budget Car Rental” sign. To cut a long story short I had arrived just as they were shutting up for the afternoon. I ducked under the half closed roller door and announced my arrival.
       ‘Come back at 3:30’ I was told. ‘We are shut. We have nowhere to put your car.’ A loud groan was all I could muster. ‘Sono Australiano’ I said as if this explained why they should vary their opening and closing hours.
‘Can I park somewhere close by?’
‘Not possible’ he said.
      Blood of Madonna. What was I supposed to do? Drive around Palermo aimlessly for two hours and risk my life and my sanity? I seem to have the knack of arriving at places at this time of day. ‘Where are all the people?’ my friend Loani asked when viewing my Facebook photos. ‘All asleep or having a long lunch’ I said. Something I, too, would have preferred to be doing.
‘You can leave it there if you like,’ he said ‘and hope that the police don’t come.’
‘I could keep my eye on it for you,’ he offered.
‘Grazie grazie si si si grazie.’ I spluttered, jumped a cab and got to my accommodation with a few minutes to spare. Angela explained everything. I logged onto the internet and there was a message:
‘I’m feeling better. Expect to see me tomorrow night around six.’

Part VII
       Nicky wears thongs. She had a fit when I first called them that. “Flip-flops. Not underwear’ she said by way of clarification. Tomasi’s Don Fabrizio would never be seen in thongs (not that the rubber version had been invented in 1860). Peasants wear thongs. Australians wear thongs, it’s part of our national dress. In Queensland you can wear them all year round. Some people don’t own shoes!
‘Bring some shoes’ I texted her. There’s a lot of walking to do in Palermo.’
NIcky arrived in thongs. Pink thongs, worn into the shape of her feet with lines of beading tracing the straps towards her big toes. In Italy flip-flops can be a fashion accessory but never “pluggers”. Nicky’s were “pluggers”.
        There’s a difference between being in someone’s company and sharing a sense of purpose with someone. In Palermo we didn’t have a car. She didn’t need to navigate. I didn’t need to drive. This deprived us of the opportunity to relax into each other’s company over the solving of our navigation problems. We walked together, decided what to see together, but something had shifted. She was a little removed. I was less inclined to speak of things that might smack of intimacy or affection. I wasn’t sure. Maybe it was just sensing that something might have changed, had become a self-fulfilling prophecy.
I shared my second (more mawkish) set of lyrics with her – all about mirrors not telling the real truth and the urge to smash them to become independent. She sang me a song she was writing which was inspired by our shared odyssey. It was very good.
       We wandered. We ate. I was the navigator this time - she confessing to getting lost in the aisles of supermarkets and on roundabouts. She spluttered and coughed. I apologized for being three times her age in a city full of young people partying till dawn. We found all the good places. She exchanged phone numbers with boys she met as we went. We were back to being a twenty-one year old and a sixty-five year old. ‘Who cares,’ she said. ‘Friendship can be between any two people.’ And I was right there with her on that.   ‘Who cares?’ I thought. Who was judging? Certainly not the locals.  
         She was only in Palermo for one day. She said it was worth it. It was great to have someone to share this mad city with. And conversation over meals – what a treat. On the last night we dined with a Dutch/English family (husband, wife, son and his Sicilian girlfriend) who we’d only met that morning. They took us to a restaurant neither Nicky nor I would have dared to enter. The seafood was sumptuous (and our host paid).
        Then we walked the old city till 1.00am. The streets were a heaving mass of people of all ages. La Kalsa, the old Arab quarter which has remnant buildings and squares which have never been touched since they were bombed in WWII was alive with bars and street food and music.
In the morning we drank coffee and ate almond croissants. We packed. Nicky sang me a farewell song from the top of the steps to her loft bedroom. I know it all sounds very sweet and it was. We knew it was coming to an end but neither spoke about it. Angela, our host, arrived with the cleaner in tow to farewell us and we left. Me to catch the bus to the airport, Nicky to walk the old city one last time to the station to catch the 2.00pm bus back to Syracuse.
        We shared the Italian double kiss and off she went. This time she looked back. The last I saw of her was those thongs flipping their way across the square dragging her bag in their wake.
       I’m writing this as I sit in front of the Opera House in Vienna where I have a 10 hour layover on my way home. There is a simulcast of a ballet being broadcast to a giant screen for the locals in the square. Classical music ebbs and flows around me. Vienna is beautiful but way too clean and neat after Palermo.
I begin to write a farewell line. I write: ‘Thanks Nicky. Grow old slowly. Enjoy the ride.’ And suddenly I choke up. Tears well.
       I am taken by surprise. I wonder if I should delete this ending to the story. I feel pretty exposed. I also wonder if this is too “sentimental”. I am trying to avoid that sin but I think that if the emotion is real how can it be sentimental. I‘m not looking for sympathy. I’m more interested in understanding what I am learning from this experience. I am simply writing an account of the journey, of our relationship. My interest is in ‘How am  I changed by this two weeks?’  
        ‘Time to go home.’ I say to myself.  You can never be twenty five again or even forty five. You have a wife and family.’ Accept the passing of whatever you might be afraid of losing.
        On the plane home I try to understand what it was that triggered such a strong response. I think of my mother lying on her death bed. The sense of loss and regret that I felt at the time. Loss at the imminent end of her life and regret at never having had the intimate connection with her that I had with my father. At never having succeeded in crossing that boundary. It feels a little the same. Loss and regret.
        I think of Tomasi’s story. It seems eternal. His writing is one of someone who is embedded in Sicilian life, not an observer. In his novel, the setting is mostly in the 1860s when life and relationships and power are changing rapidly. He sees his nephew fall in love with Angelica, an exquisite beauty from an uneducated family; her rough father destined to become a wealthy and influential member of the “new” community. Don Fabrizio, the Prince, also muses on loss and regret. Loss of his power and influence, loss of the old values, the old ways and, in some of the most honest and beautiful passages on the loss of his youth; a regret that his nephew Tancredi “had tasted that flavor of peaches and cream which would always be unknown to him” At the end of the novel, some twenty years later, we are witness to the final days of Don Fabrizio’s life as it ebbs away. Tomasi writes about death as a poet. A penultimate chapter devoted to the final days and hours of Fabrizio’s life: “life flowing from him in great pressing waves”.
        Nicky says that Sicilians are obsessed with death (and loss); always in fear for their mortality, full of hypochondria and the impossible dream of eternal life. Having a relationship with death from the moment of birth. Maybe I share that with them My Italian genes playing out. No! I am confident the dream is universal. I’m kidding myself.
       I think about how different it is when you’re emotionally connected to an experience rather than merely an observer – family, love, death, pain. Sicily has been much more than a series of beautiful towns and tantalizing meals. With Nicky’s assistance I have crossed the cultural line. In my own strange way I, too, am now emotionally connected to Sicily. I have become more than a tourist.

Monday, 29 June 2015

Three Amici Part III

View from Agrigento apartment
I did say I fancied her. That may have contributed to her panic.Of course when I say fancied I mean I complimented her on her beauty and confessed that the younger man in me found her very attractive. Well, the older man too to be honest.

When I look at photos from the trip; of me and of her I can understand her panic.Richard Gere I am not. I can't seem to find that "best" camera angle to capture my inner beauty. Perhaps the lens is telling the truth? I did sulk for about five minutes then headed out to buy a navigation device as a replacement for her. For about 100 euro I got a "Tom Tom" to replace Nicky and her iPhone. How fickle one can be.

Over the next five days I had a ball. First the fishing village of Sciacca with the beautiful piazza set high above the fishing fleet and the Mediterranean. It's a magic word Mediterranean. I never tire of the idea that I am sitting beside a body of water with such history and such  a sense of romance.

In Marsala I found my second home where I could lick my wounds and steady myself. I decided to make it my base for a few days. I had a simple but lovely apartment in an old palace refurbished by the owners. Two big rooms and the most bizarre bathroom and shower I've ever experienced. The hot and cold tap for the shower was in a different room. You get the picture.

The days were great: sunny, friendly, surprising, delightful, great food and art. I fell in love with ugly Marsala and she loved me back. From here I visited Erice, a thirty minute drive away and shrouded in moody clouds..The evening meals were painful.There's nothing quite so forlorn than sitting at a table set for four by yourself in a restaurant full of people celebrating friendship and family in a language you can't understand. It seemed there was always one table vacant and it was always in the very centre of the trattoria. I felt like a fish in a bowl observing the life of others, opening and closing my mouth not in conversation but only to accommodate my fork making its return journey from my plate.

Nicky and I exchanged emails. I apologised for my role in her panic; she (patronizingly) said she was happy I was having such a good time "Hadn't she told me that I would." She confessed that she had fled to Piazza Almerina and the donkeys in the mountains rather than face her friends in Ortigia and their inevitable comments: "I told you so." " It was a stupid idea." She never told them the truth. I did find some satisfaction when she told me she'd had to sleep on a camp-bed in the disability toilet for two nights.

She writes songs. I could hear some Nora Jones in her voice. She didn't know the Ravi Shankar connection (I'm presuming you do). Like I said she writes songs so I sent her some lyrics.


I met this man under the moon in Ortigia
He said let's split we can travel in my car and
If asked why we did it we'll call it our seizure.

His brain was in tune, No sign of dementia
My guitar is my best friend I told him day one and
It seemed to make sense, so began our adventure.

I am a gypsy
I was from the start
I need my own spaces
A song in my heart.

The days went so smoothly, the sights they were stunning
Modica and Noto,  Scicli, Armerina.
Moltalbano was nearby, he saw me tan sunning.

My feet they were hurting, my itches were stinging
We talked about Tolstoy, my love of Keith Richard
Age makes no difference it's all in the singing.

I am a gypsy
I was from the start
I need my own spaces
A song in my heart.

And then came the day that had too many churches
Escape urged within me I could not resist it
I needed to breathe and to fly with the breezes

Was it something I said he asked me in horror
It's just my free spirit I said in reply
It was great on the road but I run without sorrow.

I am a gypsy
I was from the start
I need my own spaces

A song in my heart.

She didn't like it much. She writes lyrics much better than I do. She has poetry in her.
And what of Lampadusa my other travelling companion? He succeeded in providing the thin gossamer thread that continued to connect we three - the tourist, the escapee and the noble Sicilian.


Favignana Tuna Cannery Museum