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tion of 70s rock, country music, and bad 80s pop. Weekends at "the club" were
interrupted by occasional trips to the third bridge in Ragusa. I don't know what
went on at the first two bridges in Ragusa, but in a row of slowly disintegrating
concrete buildings next to the third, married men could have sex with bored,
middle aged prostitutes who would pretend not to speak any English and
would never ask them to pick up the kids for soccer practice, take out the trash,
or bring them to orgasm. It was the only time in their lives when most of these
men were ever actually honest with a woman.
For the rest of us the island was like a Mediterranean playground.
Jeremy and I went in fifty-fifty on a red and black, 1978, Lancia Fulvia. It cost
almost a million lire, but that was still less than a thousand dollars, and that
little car could move. They do have traffic laws in Sicily, but they only come into
play to determine who is at fault after an accident. No one cares before it happens,
but after an accident everyone always wants to know who is at fault. It was not
unusual for us to be passing a Fiat on a two lane road on our way to the beach
at Marina de Ragusa and be passed at the same time by a maniac Italian driver
who did not care that it was a two lane road, or that there was a corner up
ahead, or that there were three cars heading towards us doing exactly the same
thing.
We spent every weekend, when we didn't have to work, driving all
over the island to look at ruined temples that were hundreds of years old before
the time of Christ, or explore medieval castles, or try and see the mafia trials in
Palermo. We spent countless days at the beach barbecuing and drinking cheap
wine, body surfing, exploring the World War II bunkers, and trying to pick up
Italian chicks at the few "discotheques." I think we saw more of Sicily than most
Italians ever did.
Did you know that there was a statue of a black man breaking free of
his chains on Sicily? The plaque underneath tells the story, in less than 25
words, of how Abraham Lincoln single-handedly freed the slaves in America. I
still have a picture of Jeremy standing on one side of the fifteen foot statue of a
muscular black man who is holding his broken shackles high above his head.
Jeremy can read Italian and was walking forward to read the plaque
when he tripped over a rock and smashed head first into the statue - but he
never hit. His forehead was on a collision course with the hard rock base
underneath the muscular figure when the statue leaned forward and caught
Jeremy in his arms. Then he lifted him to his feet and they stood in the middle
of the square shaking hands and looking into each other's eyes. The statue
straightened up just as I snapped the picture, and, as far as I know, it never
moved again.
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