On the sixth day,
God accomplished his work
And, pleased with all the beauty
He had created,
He took the Earth in his hands
And kissed it.
There, where he put his lips,
That’s Sicily.
Renzo Barbera, Italian Businessman,
in typical Italian exuberance
When asked where we were headed next, we always said “Sicily” instead of Italy. Even in our total naiveté, we sensed the two weren’t fully interchangeable. Perhaps Sicily is supercharged Italy or Italia distilled. And I say all these hyperbolic things while fully acknowledging we ran off late at night into the safe harbor of Cefalu and barely peeked out again.
Our first full day was Easter and we woke up to heavy rain, occasionally emphasized with lightning and unscored by thunder. I spent my day writing cozily, ignoring everyone else. Easter dinner was at a pizza place the front desk recommended, just 4 minutes away. The 30 minutes it took us to figure out how to navigate and park still counts as a success for us because it ended with no tickets and a bottle of delicious local wine.
We ate authentic Sicilian pizza to honor the Resurrection. Unfortunately, it turns out we are barbarians. Since then, I have learned that Italian pizza is served whole, not sliced. There, we cut our pizza into slices and dove in. Being Americans, we were the first group in the restaurant since it wasn’t even 8pm. Then couples and groups drifted in, and as they got their pizzas, I realized everyone else ate theirs with forks and knives. Ah, well. Here’s the thing about traveling Americans: we’re loud, friendly, easy-going…and generally tip well, making sure that fellow countrymen get warm welcomes from waiters around the world no manner how terrible our manners.
Needopedia 