Written on a bar napkin, Catania, Sicilia

You can see why. You can feel it, sitting in the Piazza di Duomo.

(View from my balcony in Catania)

It's the kind of gritty, old, strange city you want to soak in, contemplate, but you don't want to turn your back on it.
(Random ruins in the center)

A different country, altogether.

(the market)

Open markets in back alleys, unwanted eggplant and artichoke trimmings tossed aside, onto the street, to rot grandly in the oppressive sun, like the structures around them.


(Beef and veal on a street stand)

Butchers slam cleavers into hunks of meat and shout at customers over the incessant din. Is it just me, or does everyone have shifty eyes here?

(Piazza di Duomo)

You catch their gaze, but for a minute they continue piercing you with their eyes, as if you give them the same eerie feeling they give you. They walk slowly here, hands in pockets, as though they're waiting to see everyone else's cards before revealing their own.

(Dinner)

Thick crust pizza, doughy, tomatoey, delicious. Cheap, like everything else. Espresso, an amazing cannoli. Food is good here, maybe it has to be to offset the vibe. My waiter scurries to bring my order, glancing up from under his eyelids at his boss, the guy in a nice suit pacing the caffe, the one who pulled out my chair.

Across the piazza, a shell game and some sandals for purchase. Cheap beer. Crowds of old men waiting out the day on the steps under the elephant obelisk, the landmark. They all have intense looks, watching the moves of every person in the vicinity.

(Catania Duomo)

As of now, I am unafraid, but startled by the change of scenery, the vast difference between this city and the rest of Italia. You can feel the centuries pressing down on her people, see it in their tired looks, though they amble slowly. You can see it in the glorious decay that walls you in, Catania's intensity, she, the source of the organized crime that has plagued more cities than just this one.

An Indian man walks by, wearing the most ridiculous earmuffs I've ever seen, and I stifle a laugh, as there's no hint of cold in the air.

(graffiti on the side of a church)

A tourist walks by, worried look on his brow. His fanny pack makes him too obvious, a target for the onslaught of pickpockets the information office warns you about.

The graffiti adds to its er, charm.

Perhaps its the dive bar of Italia, the one you visit for cheap drinks and kicks, but where you're afraid to touch anything.

Bienvenuti in Catania, Sicilia.

Tomorrow, the other end of the spectrum, Taormina and Siracusa.

Buena notte, ragazzi.