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No
,
she
assures
me
with
great
seriousness
.
Nor
do
I
resemble
a
pig
in
the
least
.
"
Perhaps
a
buffalo
?
"
This
is
becoming
good
vocabulary
practice
.
I
’
m
also
trying
to
get
a
smile
out
of
the
salesclerk
,
but
she
’
s
too
intent
on
remaining
professional
.
I
try
one
more
time
:
"
Maybe
I
resemble
a
buffalo
mozzarella
?
"
Okay
,
maybe
,
she
concedes
,
smiling
only
slightly
.
Maybe
you
do
look
a
little
like
a
buffalo
mozzarella
…
I
have
only
a
week
left
here
.
I
’
m
planning
to
go
back
to
America
for
Christmas
before
flying
to
India
,
not
only
because
I
can
’
t
stand
the
thought
of
spending
Christmas
without
my
family
but
also
because
the
next
eight
months
of
my
journey
-
India
and
Indonesia
-
require
a
complete
repacking
of
gear
.
Very
little
of
the
stuff
you
need
when
you
are
living
in
Rome
is
the
same
stuff
you
need
when
you
are
wandering
around
India
.
And
maybe
it
’
s
in
preparation
for
my
trip
to
India
that
I
decide
to
spend
this
last
week
traveling
through
Sicily
-
the
most
third
-
world
section
of
Italy
,
and
therefore
not
a
bad
place
to
go
if
you
need
to
prepare
yourself
to
experience
extreme
poverty
.
Or
maybe
I
only
want
to
go
to
Sicily
because
of
what
Goethe
said
:
"
Without
seeing
Sicily
one
cannot
get
a
clear
idea
of
what
Italy
is
.
"
But
it
’
s
not
easy
getting
to
or
around
Sicily
.
I
have
to
use
all
my
finding
-
out
skills
to
find
a
train
that
runs
on
Sunday
all
the
way
down
the
coast
and
then
to
find
the
correct
ferryboat
to
Messina
(
a
scary
and
suspicious
Sicilian
port
town
that
seems
to
howl
from
behind
barricaded
doors
,
"
It
’
s
not
my
fault
I
’
m
ugly
!
I
’
ve
been
earthquaked
and
carpet
-
bombed
and
raped
by
the
Mafia
,
too
!
"
)
Once
I
’
ve
arrived
in
Messina
,
I
have
to
find
a
bus
station
(
grimy
as
a
smoker
’
s
lung
)
and
find
the
man
whose
job
it
is
to
sit
there
in
the
ticket
booth
,
mourning
his
life
,
and
see
if
he
will
please
sell
me
a
ticket
to
the
coastal
town
of
Taormina
.
Then
I
rattle
along
the
cliffs
and
beaches
of
Sicily
’
s
stupendous
and
hard
-
edged
east
coast
until
I
get
to
Taormina
,
and
then
I
have
to
find
a
taxi
and
then
I
have
to
find
a
hotel
.
Then
I
have
to
find
the
right
person
of
whom
to
ask
my
favorite
question
in
Italian
:
"
Where
is
the
best
food
in
this
town
?
"
In
Taormina
,
that
person
turns
out
to
be
a
sleepy
policeman
.
He
gives
me
one
of
the
greatest
things
anyone
can
ever
give
me
in
life
-
a
tiny
piece
of
paper
with
the
name
of
an
obscure
restaurant
written
on
it
,
a
hand
-
drawn
map
of
how
to
find
the
place
.
Which
turns
out
to
be
a
little
trattoria
where
the
friendly
elderly
proprietress
is
getting
ready
for
her
evening
’
s
customers
by
standing
on
a
table
in
her
stocking
feet
,
trying
not
to
knock
over
the
Christmas
creche
as
she
polishes
the
restaurant
windows
.
I
tell
her
that
I
don
’
t
need
to
see
the
menu
but
could
she
just
bring
me
the
best
food
possible
because
this
is
my
first
night
in
Sicily
.
She
rubs
her
hands
together
in
pleasure
and
yells
something
in
Sicilian
dialect
to
her
even
-
more
-
elderly
mother
in
the
kitchen
,
and
within
the
space
of
twenty
minutes
I
am
busily
eating
the
hands
-
down
most
amazing
meal
I
’
ve
eaten
yet
in
all
of
Italy
.
It
’
s
pasta
,
but
a
shape
of
pasta
I
’
ve
never
before
seen
-
big
,
fresh
,
sheets
of
pasta
folded
ravioli
-
like
into
the
shape
(
if
not
exactly
the
size
)
of
the
pope
’
s
hat
,
stuffed
with
a
hot
,
aromatic
puree
of
crustaceans
and
octopus
and
squid
,
served
tossed
like
a
hot
salad
with
fresh
cockles
and
strips
of
julienned
vegetables
,
all
swimming
in
an
olivey
,
oceany
broth
.
Followed
by
the
rabbit
,
stewed
in
thyme
.
