Mission Impossible

Do any of you remember the old TV program, “Mission Impossible”? My sister (who was oddly passionate about the theme song, as a child) and I watched the episodes regularly, which starred Peter Graves, Lesley Ann Warren, Lynda Day George, Greg Morris, and Leonard Nimoy. I was especially fascinated with episodes involving disguises, particularly if face changes were involved. Highly specialized technicians would turn Lisa Casey (Linda Day George) into another woman, only for her to dramatically peel off her fake face (usually in an interrogation room) to show who she really was.

I want a highly specialized technician for my own purposes.

Where Giovanna, Elena, Mariella, and Fina have applauded my Italian language skills and made the ASL sign for “sort of” with regard to Joe’s, his deficit is at least reparable. Where he has me beat is how he looks, which is to say, he looks Sicilian. I mean—look at the guy. People here have mistaken him for their family member at first glance.

And I’m a #!%@! straniera. Again today, I got stopped, while at the park with Ettore. I now have full-on hate for that word. And I’m sick of it. In no way am I unprivileged or dealing with one iota of a black person’s struggle, but the situation here—being judged prematurely, based solely on how I look—inches me just one step closer to feeling what it must be like, every single day. And what can I do about it, short of plastic surgery or using Lisa Casey’s disguise artists? Nothing. I know I’m singled out, wherever I go, because of how I look. It’s a little exhausting.

As if it’s not exhausting (but adorable) enough chasing a two-year-old…

Or anyone else…

Joe joined us at the park today, where my 5th or 6th straniera label was applied by a portly gentleman who resembles Joe’s Nonno Stefano. Joe told him so, and produced a photo to prove it. We chatted with him for quite some time, while I pushed Ettore in the swing. Nobody here has a problem walking up, saying hey—you’re not from here, and that one (pointing at me) looks like a foreigner. What are you doing here? The guy we met today was at least pleasant, and engaged us in conversation about his time in Milan, talked about the amazing products of Sicily, and said Joe’s grandparent’s town was a good seaside spot. In the end, he took our hands, saying it was a pleasure to meet us. Maybe this is my job; turning one opinion at a time. I say bravo to those who approach me and ask. They too, get the opportunity for new friendships and understanding. Having been through a divorce and all the chicken-poop “friends” that went with it, I applaud this method of the honest Biancavillans, who approach and ask to hear you out. Nonetheless, I still hate the word straniera.

On the way to the park today, we stopped as usual to wave hello to the statue of St. Francis. At that moment, a Franciscan monk walked in front and crossed the street. It’s the first time I noticed that there is a monastery right there!

And at the park, it looks as if my name is known (rare!), but they spelled it the other way; with an “i” versus an “e”.

This afternoon, I napped, and looked at potential Wednesday drives to take with Nikos.

I wanted to get Rachi a Confirmation gift before we left town, so we walked to the jewelry store. People were in queue on a Monday evening, outside the door and onto the sidewalk.

I got her some Mickey hat/ear-shaped silver earrings. 

On the way back, we stopped for yummy fatty pork chops Joe bought at the macelleria, then to a new vegetable stand so I could buy eggplant. I did buy an eggplant, but then saw these peppers. I had temporarily forgotten about the corno peppers here. I love them, especially with pork chops! Joe grilled, I pan-fried; with salad and bread, we ate like royalty.

Next time we’re at that butcher, however, I’m buying their ground pork with assorted exterior flavors to choose from—carmelized onion, pistachio, pomegranate seeds and pepper, and more. They look like pastries. With meat. They have to be good.

As we were cleaning up, Elena texted to say come down; Vincenzo’s brother (her uncle) is here. We met Salvatore and his wife, Grazia, who live in Adrano. They confirmed that my favorite bakery there (Cafe Europa) is ottimo. They were here to meet baby Matteo and bring a gift. Salvatore looks a lot like Vincenzo, but “senza pancia,” he said, motioning to where he was missing a more filled-out profile compared to his brother.

Ettore was awake and being, as he likes to say, a crazy monkey. Someone I know was fueling the fire…

Tonight, I finished cleaning up and getting a few things ready for Nikos’s visit.

The air is balmy but there’s a lovely breeze on the balcony. And that is the vantage point from where I’ll sign off.

Good night!