This article and accompanying Bertoon appear in today’s edition of The Malta Independent on Sunday.
One of the top selling books in Italian bookshops this August is called “Scusami ma ti voglio sposare” (I’m sorry but I wish to marry you). An apology before a request to marry would seem unusual unless one is of the idea that marriage as an institution is more of a punishment than an ideal situation. Again, the question of “marriage” is dealt with from the point of view of current Italian legislation on the matter and not in abstract.
The title is funny in itself and of itself – even if one fails to agree or disagree with the basic import of its statement. It’s a bit like saying, “I’m sorry we’re going to have to fly abroad” – a weird statement until one learns that flying abroad involves low-cost carriers that force you into an immediate heightened sense of consciousness as to each and every gram contributed to your inflight baggage (hand or checked-in). You see, normally you would not be sorry to have to fly or go abroad, but flying with low-cost carriers can have the abnormal effect of removing part of the fun of travel.
All this gripe because as I type during my last few minutes in the rented villa on the outskirts of Mazara del Vallo I still have on my mind a bottle of cinnamon grappa that is surplus to the overall weight limit of the group of six who will be boarding the plane from Trapani to Malta in a few hours. It kills me to have to leave it behind and I can only thank god that the ridiculous suggestion of charging passengers according to their weight has not already been taken up for I fear that the copious amounts of delicious food consumed here would have had an adverse effect on the excess bill charged by the unobliging ground staff employed at arms length by the kings of consumer dissatisfaction.
Mazara
Mr Manzo, the architect whose family own the magnificent rented villa (and who suspects that the Knights of Malta had something to do with the management thereof at some point) had suggested a quaint shop in town to buy home made artisan ceramics to take to Malta as a souvenir. When we did find the shop in Via Itria in Mazara it was immediately clear that the architect’s suggestion was not a frivolous one. The couple who ran the shop and who hand-made all the goods had an impressive range of products on display. Even the least interested of ceramic non-enthusiasts could get lost in a whole new world of designs and historic patterns brought back to life by this artisan couple.
Punters interested in the ceramics could even avoid being ridiculously overcharged for extra in-flight weight by shipping packages from the Mazara post office straight to their doorstep. Anyways, I mentioned Mr Manzo with the owners and they confirmed that he was one of their prime patrons who never missed an opportunity to buy his wedding gifts from their establishment. There we go again. Weddings and wedding gifts. I couldn’t help but wonder about the recurring theme -from the bookshops in the various towns, to the wedding gifts in shops to the weddings being celebrated in the boiling heat in churches – marriages seemed to be an underlying theme on the holiday.
Akragas
Even in good old Akragas (Agrigentum, Girgenti or as Mussolini would have it : Agrigento) we ended a dehydrating visit of the Valley of Temples at the feet of the gorgeous and imposing temple to Juno (Giunone) goddess of love. It was at this temple that happy couples of Magna Grecia would come to celebrate their union and possibly consummate their marriage among the lovely olive and almond trees in full view of a splendid Mediterranean horizon. It was “thanks” to the Catholic Church that this particular temple was still standing intact. Most other temples had their stones removed and used to build one of the ugliest harbours I’ve ever seen – Porto Empedocle (now enjoying a mini-revival thanks to one of its famous sons – Andrea Camilleri).
As I was saying – the intervention of the church to preserve the temple was not exactly philanthropic. What was done was that the original structure was altered and a church built thereon – which meant a new lease of life was blown into an otherwise threatened edifice. Of course there were no MEPA permits issued at the time and the non-governmental entities that would save any remaining heritage would come much later in the form of an Englishman named Alexander Hardcastle who built his villa in the middle of the valley before funding much of the archaeological operations.
Mothya
Or Mozia, is the island off the coast of Marsala. It lies off the salt plains and windmills that decorate a surreal coastline. Mozia is best known for its Phoenician remains. Every step on the west coast of Sicily serves as a reminder of our own history on our tiny island. From the various inheritances of the much revered Count Roger the Norman liberator and his prolific daughter to the different references to Phoenicians and Greeks this is a home away from home. Same, same but different.
We stuck to the west coast for most of the holiday. The Sicilians here are down to earth and traditional. In other words they are lovely. Fishermen and farmers who earn their living in the same way as their forefathers populate most of the coast and it is hard not to feel a strong assimilation with these people. What marvels me is how we can be seen to be at odds with the sons of the Siculae whenever there are battles at sea for fishing rights or whenever we are passing the proverbial parcel wherever immigrants are concerned.
Which reminds me. Before the news of the tragedy at sea came out, a survey by Bankitalia was on the front pages of most papers here. It turns out that immigration has not only been healthy for the economy but it has also benefited female workers and graduates in general. As more of the lower end of the scale is filled by immigrant workers, previously immobile classes of workers have been moving upwards in the scales. I doubt we could generalise such situations but it surely gives us something to think about.
Birgi to Paceville
I must apologise as from now for the disjointed nature of this article but I have had to type it in small bursts as my last day on the island of the Trinacria progressed. At this particular moment my body is close to freezing point as I sit under the industrial air conditioning at Gate 7 of Trapani Birgi airport waiting for the inevitable stampede to the numberless seats aboard the plane.
That was then. This is now… a few letters away on paper, a couple of hours later sitting in my Paceville flat having survived the thirty-five minute flight between tropical Trapani and an equally hot Malta. I barely have time to catch up with all that has been going on during this week I have been away from the net. Barely, as I see it, no news is good news but I also have time to notice that the usual set of punters are spraying the comments sections of the various online papers with the usual odd bits of trivia and nonsensical pontifications.
They do form an interesting distraction from the boring old cliché argument about the church’s place within a political discussion on divorce. If we have not got it until now we will never really understand it. The party that has been a willing bedfellow of the church and its invasion of a secular republic’s way of doing things might have much to answer for in this matter but it is useless for anybody to feign ignorance of the basic rules of a secular state. In any case this is not the topic for the hot summer weeks that should be populated with nonsensical “funny season” bits of information.
San Vito
I am hard put to find an actual topic of interest at this time of the year. It might be the full immersion in Siculan holiday mode, it might be the dearth of anything worth discussing beyond the weather itself or it may simply be the onset of the incredible midsummer lethargy. Whatever it is, it has gotten hold of my usual insanabile cacoethes scribendi (incurable urge to write) and given me a strong dose of what I usually call writer’s blog.
Which should only mean that it’s time to let the news happen as it is. Without the comments of the amateur blogger turned distracted punter. Without the cynical and sarcastic comments about the constant onset of Maltese relativism. Without the snide remarks and the obscure references. In short, less J’accuse. At least this time round.
I’ve got to finish recharging the batteries before the new season begins. I’ve brought over loads of books after my peremptory visit to the Italian bookshops. De Crescenzo’s “Pressapoco” and Keen’s “Amateur.com” are top of my list, along with a bit of Camilleri and Sciascia. This time I plan to spend a good part of my holiday in Gozo. I hear the beaches are nice, the food good… and the golden ducks… fantastic. Anybody who thinks otherwise is a stinky mafioso.
Daily posts resume on www.jacquesrenezammit.com/jaccuse as we lap up the last of the summer sun on the island of Calypso. Look out for a possible, not so spontaneous J’accuse rendez-vous some time next week as announced on the blog.
