Notes on Travelling to Italy

Franco was born in Italy. He learnt to paint in Rome, and now in his spacious New York Upper West Side flat, some of his many paintings hang in the living room. The photographs that form a mini manhattan on the old piano are no competition for his large canvasses. Above the fireplace, a self-portrait of him as a puppet-master, and in the far corner another one as a clown, this time older, with more gravity. He smokes mini-cigars, completely at home in this dimly lit place, with arm chairs placed at angles good for conversation.

Telling me to visit Italy for its beauty, its food and its wonderful people, he advises that I don't even need a car. There are buses that can bring me to little towns and as long as I look like I'm trying, I could probably get by with pig Italian. There is a faraway look in his eyes, as if in the stream of his consciousness a memory, probably not too distant, floats to the surface of his beloved country. Then as a side note he tells me to stay away from youth hostels and check myself in a Bed & Breakfast instead.

What about Sicily, I ask. The native origin of my favourite Italians Eddie Carbone and Marco (View From The Bridge, Arthur Miller). Also the native origins of my footloose-travel addict EU tutor, Spano.

"Sicily is a lovely place," Franco starts, describing the countryside and its beaches.

"The only problem with Sicily," he pauses, "is that there are Sicilians."