Sundays according to some dogma that shall remain nameless in these posts are supposed to be days of rest. For some, they are, and as a result some of my favourite pastimes, like food shopping, are largely unavailable in this, otherwise glorious, part of the world. Sans easy access to bustling markets and no-nonsense grocery stores with blessedly affordable wine, we are forced to plan our meals with a 48 hour horizon to carry us through Saturday and Sunday. Thus, we awoke on Sunday with a fridge stocked with surgical precision to take us exactly to Monday, with maximum nutrition and minimum waste, and went out to not only again tussle with the Greeks, but also meet up with an old childhood acquaintance (who happened to have died horribly some 1,713 years ago).
The Greek Theatre called the Necropolis of Pantalica is within easy walking distance from the southern main drag (Corso Gelone) in Sircusa. I suspect there are only so many of these ruins I care to visit. Yes, they are spectacular in their own right, magnificent even, but it’s a struggle for me to muster up a genuine emotional response when walking beside the roped barriers, gazing towards gray blocks of sandstone jutting out of the underbrush. Pathetically, to amuse myself, I slithered stealthily towards English-speaking tour guides to absorb some of the emanating tidbits purely for the sport of it. Once we had had just about enough of the school groups of just delightfully somber teenagers that in no way ruined the atmosphere of the human ear-shaped cave of echoes known as the ear of Dionysos, we left to visit the Santa Lucia, a saint all Swedish (probably European) schoolchildren celebrate on December 13 in eager anticipation of Christmas.
Lucia only lived to be 21, but her story and the impact she continues to impart is immortal. I suspect it was the power of the aggregated memories from yesteryear that had dialed up my expectations, or perhaps it was the tragedy of her death, certainly considering the circumstances and manner in which she perished that made me hope for a monument that would match these emotions. Instead, once we started walking back I turned my back to a modest and non-descript chapel surrounded by graffiti and a flea market peddling plastic trinkets that seemed to come with a one-way ticket to the landfill.
We suspect we caught them on a bad day though and will be back when our impressions aren’t limited to the exterior.
[/et_pb_text][/et_pb_column][et_pb_column type=”1_3″][et_pb_image admin_label=”Image” src=”http://[2600:1f13:e3b:9100:ae18:b451:18d2:e990]/wp-content/uploads/2017/04/resize_IMG_20170409_115217.jpg” show_in_lightbox=”off” url_new_window=”off” use_overlay=”off” animation=”left” sticky=”off” align=”left” force_fullwidth=”off” always_center_on_mobile=”on” use_border_color=”off” border_color=”#ffffff” border_style=”solid” /][et_pb_text admin_label=”Text” background_layout=”light” text_orientation=”left” use_border_color=”off” border_color=”#ffffff” border_style=”solid”]Citrus trees abound on Sicily. This particular tree grows on the grounds of the Greek Theater ruins. Taller people than I (using some telescopic contraption, I suspect) have picked everything within reach.
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