Showing posts with label Ragusa. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ragusa. Show all posts

Sunday, June 19, 2022

Ragusa, Sicily: Festival Blues

At the Alta Villa Trattoria in Ragusa,
Sicily, as the St. Giorgio fest rolls
to a finish, you listen to small brass
bands haul their marches through
sun heat up toward the baroque 
cathedral, which manages to seem
at once imposing and cute. It's where

a solid silver ark holds "the bones
of various saints," an old man told you. 
George, the saint that counts, remains
forever young in painted wood, gentle
face, white horse, sharp lance. Later,

in an evening without breeze, everyone's
had about enough of whatever they thought
they'd come for in the festival. A hard woman
with a fish tattoo stuffs her phone in her jeans,
disgusted. She'll argue with anyone who 

wants to and some who don't. A toothless
ex-boxer is spruced up in an official white
shirt and red bandana. The Alta Villa 
Trattoria's mostly for locals. It's a living.
Nearby, the guy who sells hand-made
puppets plays Ella Fitzgerald all day,

so I stay, buying enough coffee & water,
salads &sandwiches, & bottles &
bottles of water to pay my way. 


Wednesday, April 15, 2020

More Than Enough in Ragusa

(southern Sicily)

In Ragusa most afternoons
I sat outside a cafe locals favored.
Iron tables. I didn't feel at home
there but I surrendered
my touristic pose to become
a mere outsider. My presence
seemed to amuse the waitresses,
whom I tipped respectfully.

I pecked at salads, sipped
water and coffee, scribbled,
looked from shade out at hot light
hitting brightly painted walls
and old stone buildings. I
was a large man in a white
linen shirt, and ursine scarecrow.
So much more than enough
that place provided.


hans ostrom 2020