Summer 2014, Bella Figura

June 15, 2014

I went to a wedding the other night on my church steps.  I wasn’t invited, of course, but what I love about Sicilian weddings is that tourists and others can stumble through the church while the wedding is underway and hang around afterwards. Weddings here are fashion shows. (And the bride wasn’t the only one in lace.)  Sicilians may be experiencing serious economic woes, but you’d never know it judging by their glad rags.

 

Sicilian Woman in Orange Dress, copyright Jann Huizenga

Sicilian Woman in Black Lace Dress, copyright Jann Huizenga

Yellow nail polish and gold rings on 6 fingers

Young Sicilian Woman in Lacy Dress, copyright Jann Huizenga

Sicilian Woman in Pink Shoes, copyright Jann Huizenga

Sicilian Woman in Red and Black, copyright Jann Huizenga

I’m sure her nails and lipstick are red too.

Sicilian Couple, copyright Jann Huizenga

Young Sicilian Couple All Dressed Up, copyright Jann Huizenga

 

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The Man in the Pink Coppola, Part 2

August 28, 2011

Bella Figura in Sicily, copyright Jann Huizenga

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So after obliging me with a mini photo-shoot, the signore in the pink cap takes off. I walk up and down hills to another part of town.

 

 

Bella Figura in Sicily, copyright Jann Huizenga

Note the wrist and waist decor.

I find a house dripping with flowers–some real, some plastic. I start poking around, trying to separate reality from illusion. It’s still early morning; the light is gold.

Sicilian balcony, copyright Jann Huizenga

Out steps a man from a doorway. That manStill in his pink cap.

Ciao, he says. Do you like this building? Yes? Wanna have a look inside?

I hesitate for a split second then follow him in.

The first room is dark, lit only by an enormous psychedelic fish tank–a swirl of purple lights and brilliant tropical creatures. A few chairs line one wall.

Salla d’attesa, he says. Waiting room.

Waiting for what, in God’s name?

We enter another room. It is festooned with masses of plastic red roses, vines dangling from the vaulted ceiling and curling over the walls.

In the center of the room stands an examination table.

A stethoscope hangs from a hook.

“Are you a doctor?”

“Sí, internal medicine.”

I try to hide my surprise. “You’re an interesting man!” is about all I can muster.

Then I’m back on the street, regretting that I haven’t even asked his name.

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