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But
Syracuse
,
the
next
day
,
is
even
better
.
The
bus
coughs
me
up
on
a
street
corner
here
in
the
cold
rain
,
late
in
the
day
.
I
love
this
town
immediately
.
There
are
three
thousand
years
of
history
under
my
feet
in
Syracuse
.
It
’
s
a
place
of
such
ancient
civilization
that
it
makes
Rome
look
like
Dallas
.
Myth
says
that
Daedalus
flew
here
from
Crete
and
that
Hercules
once
slept
here
.
Syracuse
was
a
Greek
colony
that
Thucydides
called
"
a
city
not
in
the
least
inferior
to
Athens
itself
.
"
Syracuse
is
the
link
between
ancient
Greece
and
ancient
Rome
.
Many
great
playwrights
and
scientists
of
antiquity
lived
here
.
Plato
thought
it
would
be
the
ideal
location
for
a
utopian
experiment
where
perhaps
"
by
some
divine
fate
"
rulers
might
become
philosophers
,
and
philosophers
might
become
rulers
.
Historians
say
that
rhetoric
was
invented
in
Syracuse
,
and
also
(
and
this
is
just
a
minor
thing
)
plot
.
I
walk
through
the
markets
of
this
crumbly
town
and
my
heart
tumbles
with
a
love
I
can
’
t
answer
or
explain
as
I
watch
an
old
guy
in
a
black
wool
hat
gut
a
fish
for
a
customer
(
he
has
stuck
his
cigarette
in
his
lips
for
safekeeping
the
way
a
seamstress
keeps
her
pins
in
her
mouth
as
she
sews
;
his
knife
works
with
devotional
perfection
on
the
fillets
)
.
Shyly
,
I
ask
this
fisherman
where
I
should
eat
tonight
,
and
I
leave
our
conversation
clutching
yet
another
little
piece
of
paper
,
directing
me
to
a
little
restaurant
with
no
name
,
where
-
as
soon
as
I
sit
down
that
night
-
the
waiter
brings
me
airy
clouds
of
ricotta
sprinkled
with
pistachio
,
bread
chunks
floating
in
aromatic
oils
,
tiny
plates
of
sliced
meats
and
olives
,
a
salad
of
chilled
oranges
tossed
in
a
dressing
of
raw
onion
and
parsley
.
This
is
before
I
even
hear
about
the
calamari
house
specialty
.
"
No
town
can
live
peacefully
,
whatever
its
laws
,
"
Plato
wrote
,
"
when
its
citizens
…
do
nothing
but
feast
and
drink
and
tire
themselves
out
in
the
cares
of
love
.
"
But
is
it
such
a
bad
thing
to
live
like
this
for
just
a
little
while
?
Just
for
a
few
months
of
one
’
s
life
,
is
it
so
awful
to
travel
through
time
with
no
greater
ambition
than
to
find
the
next
lovely
meal
?
Or
to
learn
how
to
speak
a
language
for
no
higher
purpose
than
that
it
pleases
your
ear
to
hear
it
?
Or
to
nap
in
a
garden
,
in
a
patch
of
sunlight
,
in
the
middle
of
the
day
,
right
next
to
your
favorite
fountain
?
And
then
to
do
it
again
the
next
day
?
Of
course
,
one
can
’
t
live
like
this
forever
.
Real
life
and
wars
and
traumas
and
mortality
will
interfere
eventually
.
Here
in
Sicily
with
its
dreadful
poverty
,
real
life
is
never
far
from
anyone
’
s
mind
.
The
Mafia
has
been
the
only
successful
business
in
Sicily
for
centuries
(
running
the
business
of
protecting
citizens
from
itself
)
,
and
it
still
keeps
its
hand
down
everybody
’
s
pants
.
Palermo
-
a
city
Goethe
once
claimed
was
possessed
of
an
impossible
-
to
-
describe
beauty
-
may
now
be
the
only
city
in
Western
Europe
where
you
can
still
find
yourself
picking
your
steps
through
World
War
II
rubble
,
just
to
give
a
sense
of
development
here
.
The
town
has
been
systematically
uglified
beyond
description
by
the
hideous
and
unsafe
apartment
blocks
the
Mafia
constructed
in
the
1980s
as
money
-
laundering
operations
.
I
asked
one
Sicilian
if
those
buildings
were
made
from
cheap
concrete
and
he
said
,
"
Oh
,
no
-
this
is
very
expensive
concrete
.
In
each
batch
,
there
are
a
few
bodies
of
people
who
were
killed
by
the
Mafia
,
and
that
costs
money
.
But
it
does
make
the
concrete
stronger
to
be
reinforced
with
all
those
bones
and
teeth
.
"
In
such
an
environment
,
is
it
maybe
a
little
shallow
to
be
thinking
only
about
your
next
wonderful
meal
?
Or
is
it
perhaps
the
best
you
can
do
,
given
the
harder
realities
?
Luigi
Barzini
,
in
his
1964
masterwork
The
Italians
(
written
when
he
’
d
finally
grown
tired
of
foreigners
writing
about
Italy
and
either
loving
it
or
hating
it
too
much
)
tried
to
set
the
record
straight
on
his
own
culture
.
He
tried
to
answer
the
question
of
why
the
Italians
have
produced
the
greatest
artistic
,
political
and
scientific
minds
of
the
ages
,
but
have
still
never
become
a
major
world
power
.
Why
are
they
the
planet
’
s
masters
of
verbal
diplomacy
,
but
still
so
inept
at
home
government
?
Why
are
they
so
individually
valiant
,
yet
so
collectively
unsuccessful
as
an
army
?
How
can
they
be
such
shrewd
merchants
on
the
personal
level
,
yet
such
inefficient
capitalists
as
a
nation
?
His
answers
to
these
questions
are
more
complex
than
I
can
fairly
encapsulate
here
,
but
have
much
to
do
with
a
sad
Italian
history
of
corruption
by
local
leaders
and
exploitation
by
foreign
dominators
,
all
of
which
has
generally
led
Italians
to
draw
the
seemingly
accurate
conclusion
that
nobody
and
nothing
in
this
world
can
be
trusted
.
Because
the
world
is
so
corrupted
,
misspoken
,
unstable
,
exaggerated
and
unfair
,
one
should
trust
only
what
one
can
experience
with
one
’
s
own
senses
,
and
this
makes
the
senses
stronger
in
Italy
than
anywhere
in
Europe
.
This
is
why
,
Barzini
says
,
Italians
will
tolerate
hideously
incompetent
generals
,
presidents
,
tyrants
,
professors
,
bureaucrats
,
journalists
and
captains
of
industry
,
but
will
never
tolerate
incompetent
"
opera
singers
,
conductors
,
ballerinas
,
courtesans
,
actors
,
film
directors
,
cooks
,
tailors
…
"
In
a
world
of
disorder
and
disaster
and
fraud
,
sometimes
only
beauty
can
be
trusted
.
Only
artistic
excellence
is
incorruptible
.
Pleasure
cannot
be
bargained
down
.
And
sometimes
the
meal
is
the
only
currency
that
is
real
.
