July 3, 2012
They call it the caldo africano, the torpor that has overtaken us. “The sun,” writes Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa, “[is] the true ruler of Sicily; the crude, brash sun, the drugging sun, which annul[s] every will . . .”
I sit at the beach trying to write, but every time I look at my laptop, I get sleepy. Caffeine doesn’t help. I stare out in the direction of Malta.
I am like this boat, too listless to do its job. I’ve developed a passion for the nap, n’abbiamu in Sicilian—literally, “the throwing of oneself upon the bed”—and cannot wait till afternoon when I will fall into a comatose sleep thick as honey.
Why is this woman not seeking shade? Has she fallen asleep over her book?
This fellow still has the energy to languidly rub olive oil over his muscles. Because he is not bronzed enough.
But the only one on the beach who seems to be wholly awake is the sister rushing out to sea.
Is that a bikini rolled up in her hand?
Happy Fourth of July!!!