Four Strangers
There are things you carry quietly before you find the right words.
The Blog · Every Sunday
Slow writing from Sicily. One thing a week, looked at closely.
There are things you carry quietly before you find the right words.
A conversation about leaving, returning, and the litter in between.
The taste of fresh clementines and honey on an autumn afternoon. A man and his pack, taking their time, because that’s the way of the land.
Beyond the luxurious Taormina, ten minutes up the hill, there's a bar covered in phalluses. And the view is stunning.
A Hollywood premiere in an ancient Greek theatre. Russell Crowe thanked Sicily in Italian.
Sunday lunch at my mother-in-law's, a four-ingredient pasta, and the opera that gave it its name.
My partner came home with three fish. Then he told me about the man who swam to the bottom of the sea and never came back up.
The Aci towns all share a name, and it goes back to a shepherd, a sea nymph, and a very jealous Cyclops.
Every morning I walk my Jack Russell past the Faraglioni of Aci Trezza, rocks that Homer wrote about.
The Sunday Letter
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