Yesterday night I watched, again after many years, “Il postino” (the postman), an italian  movie with the beautiful interpretation of Massimo Troisi, whose early death happened just after the end of the filming. I don’t want to tell the story of this movie, and I’m not even trying to make a critical analysis of it, not having the needed technical skills. I just feel like sharing my point of view.

Il film è ambientato in una non meglio specificata isola del Sud Italia. Tutte le scene del paese sono state girate a Procida, nel napoletano, mentre le immagini del mare, della spiaggia e del porticciolo sono state girate a Salina, isola siciliana a largo delle coste messinesi.

The film is set in an unspecified island in the south of Italy. The scenes of the village were shot at Procida, close to Naples, while the images of the sea, the beach, the small port were shot in Salina, an island off the coast of Messina, In Sicily.

Salina. Con quest’isola ho un particolare rapporto: c’è qualcosa che mi lega indissolubilmente alle sue spiagge, alle sue montagne, ai suoi paesaggi. Mia madre è nata in provincia di Messina, dove vive tutta la sua famiglia, e dove, fin da piccolissima, ho trascorso le mie vacanze estive. L’estate dei miei dieci o undici anni mia madre, mia nonna e mia zia portarono me e il mio cane Willy in vacanza a Salina: due tra le settimane più belle della mia infanzia. Ovviamente era una situazione speciale, ero con le tre donne che più avevano e avrebbero influenzato la mia formazione, la mia personalità e i miei ricordi. Ogni tanto, ora che ho ventiquattro anni e vivo lontana da mia zia, mia madre e mia nonna rispettivamente 1323, 1653 e 2372 km, penso a come sarebbe rivivere un momento del genere, e non lo so più, e quasi non mi ricordo più come era allora. Come mi capita spesso, non ricordo i particolari, gli eventi accaduti o i discorsi fatti, ricordo solo la sensazione, la felicità di sentirsi, una volta tanto, nel posto giusto con le persone giuste. E tante risate, a valanga, davvero. Non rido mai come quando sono con loro, anche adesso.

Salina. With this island I have a peculiar relationship: there’s something that ties me up to its beaches, mountains and landscape. My mother was born close to Messina, where all her original family lives, and where, since I was a baby, I spent all my summer holidays. The summer of my ten or eleven years my mother, my grandmother and my aunt took me and my dog Willy on a holiday in Salina: two of the most beautiful weeks of my childhood. Of course it was a special situation, I was with the three women who did and will have influenced so much my education, my personality, my memories. Sometimes,now that I’m 24 and I live far from my aunt – 1323 km, from my mother – 1653km, and from my grandmother – 2372 km, I try to imagine how it could be a situation like that, now. And I have no clue. I almost don’t remember anymore how it was at that time. As it often happens to me, I don’t remember details, facts or conversations, I just remember feelings. The happiness of feeling, for once, in the right place with the right people. And lots of laugh, really. I never laugh as much as when I am with them, also now.

In ogni caso, quello fu il momento. Il momento in cui mi innamorai perdutamente dell’isola. E non rivederla per quasi 10 anni non ha fatto altro che aumentare il mio amore e, ovviamente, mitizzare l’oggetto del desiderio. Di quegli amori lontani e un po’ platonici, ad un livello crepuscolare tra la coscienza e l’incoscienza, di quelli che rimangono lì un po’ sopiti, ti strappano un sorriso ogni tanto, ma che non ti sogneresti mai di tornare a cercare.

Anyway, that was the moment. I fell in love with the island. And not seeing it for almost ten years just enhanced my love, and of course romanticize the object of my feelings. One of those love far away, and a bit platonic, at twilight level between consciousness and unconsciousness. Those loves who stay there, soothed, they make you smile once in a while, but you would never dream of going to look for them.

E finalmente, tre anni fa. La mi migliore amica mi porta in vacanza a Salina, in una casa recentemente acquistata da suo padre. E dalla terrazza di casa la vista sul mare, sul porto e sulle altre isole fa rinascere la passione. L’amore diviene carnale, fatto di momenti di estasi legati alla vista di posti incantati, agli odori e sapori che ricordano così da vicino la mia infanzia – anche se la mia madeleine di Proust potrebbe essere qualcosa di molto meno raffinato, tipo il pane con pomodoro capperi origano olio e sale… E se avete visto il postino, e ricordate le scene in cui il postino sale e scende dalla montagna per consegnare la posta, allora non dovrò certo descrivere cosa possa significare guardare il tramonto da quella stessa montagna, da cui si vede Filicudi, l’sola che tende verso il cielo curve che rendono il suo profilo identico a quello di una donna incinta sdraiata sulla schiena, o guardare le stelle da una barca che si avvicina piano a Pollara – nel film “Cala di Sotto”.

And finally, three years ago. My best friend took me on holiday in Salina, in a house recently bought by her father. And from there, the view on the sea, on the harbour and on the other islands revives the passion. The love becomes physical full of ecstatic moments always linked to magic places, to smells and tastes reminding me so much of my childhood – even if my Proust madeleine could be something really not so elegant, like bread with tomatoes, oregan, capers, olive oil and salt… And if you know the movie “Il postino”, and you remember the postman with his bike on the mountain side, then I would not have to explain what it feels like watching the sunset from that same mountain, from where you can see Filicudi, the island whose profile looks like a lying pregnant women for its curves, or looking at the stars from a boat slowly approaching the coast of Pollara – “Cala di Sotto” in the movie. 

Quest’estate sono tornata di nuovo a Salina in dolce compagnia, e la condivisione non ha affievolito la magia. E ieri, guardando il film, vedendo quelle immagini, pensando al postino che registra i suoni dell’isola per spedirli al poeta, era di nuovo tutto lì, l’isola, a cui non c’è niente da aggiungere. Ovviamente c’è molto di più dietro, nel film come nella mia vita, e come quelle bellissime immagini non fanno altro che rafforzare i contenuti più profondi del film, politici e filosofici, la mia estasi per Salina rivela un legame indissolubile con la Sicilia, genetico e affettivo, fatto di nostalgia e ricordi, di rabbia e di sofferenza, di amore e di odio.

This summer I went back to Salina for a romantic holiday, and sharing dod not weaken the magic. And yesterday, watching the movie, seeing those places, watching the postman recording the sounds of the island to send them to the poet, everything was there again, the island, where nothing needs to be added.  Of course there’s so much more behind this, in the movie and in my life. The beautiful images enhance the deepest contents of the movie, politic and philosophic, and at the same way my love for Salina reveals the way I am tied up to Sicily, in a genetic and affective connection, made by nostalgia and memories, anger and pain, love and hate. 

• Lo sai che cosa hai fatto, Mario? Hai fatto una metafora.
• Noooo… Ma veramente? Però non vale, perchè mi è venuta così, per caso…
• Non c’è immagine che non sia casuale.

• Do you know what you’ve done, Mario? You just invented a metaphor.
• Nooo… Really? But it doesn’t count, because I didn’t mean to.
• Meaning is not important. Images arise spontaneously.

Walking through the winding, steep streets of Salina one day with my friends, we come upon a boy with his father—acquaintances of my companions. The boy,  Mohamed, as I would later find out his name, was one of the most handsome kids I’d ever seen. He greeted us in the familiar Muslim fashion along with a gesture I have come to love as the epitome of sincerity, goodwill and gentleness:  the touching of the heart with the right hand.  A few pleasantries were exchanged and then father and son went their way and we went ours.   The sun was so hot that day and the heat nearly unbearable as we made our way up the steep hills .  I could not get Mohamed out of my mind.  I wondered what his life is like in Sicily.

Mohamed

Sicily has a decent Moroccan population  on the island of Salina.  It is a very tight-knit and organized community.  In general, my inquiries coupled with my own observations are testament to the fact that the immigrant and native populations get along very well.  In fact, most immigrants, despite the dearth of work on the island, are quite happy to be there and do not complain of the alienation or maltreatment that immigrants in other places in Sicily are plagued by.  This could be , of course, due to the simple fact that it is prudent to live in harmony on an island—-everyone knows everyone else and live in close proximity to one another, pass each other on the same roads every day and market in the same limited choice of markets.

Sitting in the front yard one day, I see a small handsome face looking at me through the wrought-iron gate.  Mohamed was asking me if my friend, Ramzi, was in.  I told him he was and he came in and sat down  with his hands in his lap and waited.  I grabbed my notebook (never far from me) and began asking Mohamed some questions in Italian.  Polite to a fault, he answered quietly and with a dignity that many three times his age do not possess.  I find out that Mohamed is eleven years old.  He has two sisters.  He was born in Morocco, and came to Salina at the age of eight.    He loves Salina, truly. He tells me.  ”Questa e Il mio posto.” (This is my home/place)

Mohamed speaks Italian  and is learning English as well as Arabic in order to keep his roots to his homeland. Many of these immigrants will return, unfortunately, without skills, to their mother countries, only to become immigrants, once again, in the country in which they were born.  Mohamed, hopefully, will be one of the lucky ones. It is particularly a difficult situation for girls, though.

My friend tells me that he and Mohamed are friends on Facebook and when I feign disappointment and ask him if I can be his friend on Facebook, too, he breaks into a radiant smile and says “Prego!”

He stays for a bit and eats some pomegranate seeds  picked right from the tree in the front yard, out of  glass with a spoon, slowly and carefully.  I look at Mohamed and feel my heart contract:  he has most definitely been raised well.   I ask him if I can take some photos of him. His smile is a shy one, but he quickly agrees:”Si!”  But he won’t really look at the camera which I can’t understand.   He sets his glass down and says he must go home.  He assures me he will come back. Soon.

He is as good as his word and when he returns something is different.   I see he has changed into a fresh shirt and , lo and behold, he has jelled his hair, that now stands up in glistening spikes.  We talk some more and then he gets up to leave. I tell him we will talk again.

It isn’t until after he leaves, that I realize that I failed to take a picture of him in his fresh shirt and his jelled hair.  My friend scolds me with a  disappointed look.  I feel bad. I hope the pictures that I have taken do him justice.  My friend tells me, and I agree, that he predicts great things for Mohamed; he has intelligence and compassion.

A few days later, sitting at an outdoor cafe in the relentless sun, my lemon granita melting quicker than I can eat it, I seem Mohamed, his two sisters and his mother , a serene looking  woman in a soft pink headscarf.  She has just picked her children up from school.  They walk by the cafe and Mohamed’s eyes light up when he sees me.  He waves and calls softly “Ciao!”  Again, my heart contracts.  For all of the stories one can observe and tell about the suffering of immigrants, migrants, and refugees, there are others that are content , dare I say happy.  Mohamed is one among many in a community of immigrants and native Sicilians that definitely  seems to work.

Mohamed’s town

My eyes follow him as his mother, weaving in between cars, guides her children to the side of the road.  Momamed touches his right hand, quickly to his heart.  I touch mine, too, in response.  But he has already turned away.  He puts a protective hand on his younger sister’s back, just as I would expect him to.   They all walk up the hill together.  I notice , with a full heart and  that without fail, they greet everyone that they see.

…is a steep one, whichever route you choose. You can take the official route from sea level in Lingua, mounting hundreds of stone steps to the left of the ravine, up past the house of the Scandinavian journalist far beyond vehicular access, or you can take the road up past the rotting scooter to the chattering Italian Sparrows in the wall of the pumping station.

The visitor-friendly interpretation of British “Country Parks” is still some way in the future here, no doubt because the time when visitors to the countryside had to be discouraged from taking explosives is some way in the past.

With the melodious song of Blue Rock Thrushes and the football-rattle of Sardinian Warblers, you pick your way along a narrow terrace past this ramshackle small holding (to which we sometimes see a boy labouring under the weight of a six-pack of bottled water). The birds are hard to see, partly because they’re cautious and partly because you don’t want to miss your footing and join them on the lower slopes.

Cutting across the dry stream-bed, you climb steep steps for several minutes to arrive once more on a narrow gravelly path with a view out across to the Sicilian coast…

…with Etna smouldering beyond and the Ustica hydrofoil trundling back from Rinella down below…

…through Olives, Capers, Prickly Pair with maybe the buzz of an invisible Dartford Warbler coming from the shadows, maybe the cry of a lone Buzzard for up or the streamlined silhouette of an Eleonora’s Falcon cruising the cliffs in search if migrants…

…till you cut left again across the still-cultivated terraces towards the house.

Taking care not to slip on the friable volcanic ash.

The terrace is silent, apart from a cicada, odd scratchy bird-calls, the whisper of a scuttling lizard and the steady thrum of the hourly aliscafo. Silent and still for hours, days, nights on end.

The Costa family leave the house open for when they go up to work or for an Easter picnic lunch. No-one abuses their trust.

The simple interiors remind me of paintings by Lorenzo Viola.

After a drive along the twisting coast road in pre-dawn darkness, a couple of island-hopping hours on the aliscafo as sun rose above the volcanoes, a panicky rush in hot sunshine to get on the pullman, two hours down a coast both blessed and wrecked by electricity and concrete, five hours in Catania airport sustained by arancini and cannoli, another couple of hours on Easyjet, culture-shocked by the Daily Mail, an hour or so on a train full of solipsist folk plugged into their laptops, and fifteen minutes in my son’s car…we are back.

…and it looks fantastic (I’m talking about yesterday): the rich green, the longer shadows, the unbelievable crimson brilliance of the Hawthorn berries. Birds everywhere! Such variety, such movement. Chiffchaffs and Blackcaps everywhere, hirundines, Siskins and Meadow Pipits streaming overhead, Wheatears hopping about on the beach…

There were birds on Salina, but sparse in both variety and number. Away from the village birds: Tree & Italian Sparrows, Blackbirds, Linnets, Gold- & Greenfinches, Serins, the ubiquitous Sardinian Warblers and Blue Rock Thrushes, you could walk for hours, sweat dripping off your nose, adding no more than Dartford Warblers and Wrens till you got high up when a few Ravens, Buzzards and Peregrines would soar over. All right, there were Eleonora’s Falcons too.

I had hoped for some migrants but these were very scant: a few Chiffchaffs, Tree Pipits, Yellow Wagtails and rushing bands of Swallows. Every morning at first light I’d hear House Martins calling excitedly overhead but could never see them.

I first glimpsed Musa while he was sitting with a friend in a cafe in Salina, Sicily.  He looked forlorn and barely raised his  head when my friend Ramzi greeted him: “Salam Wa Alaikum!”  With some effort, Musa smiled, weakly, responding in the familiar Muslim way: “Wa Alaikum Salam.”  Later, we found out that Musa had just gotten word that his mother had passed away.  Musa Soumah is a native of Guinea and was mourning his mother deeply. It was the latest sorrow piled upon so many  others that he has had to deal with lately.

Musa Soumah

Musa is homeless, but he wasn’t always in this situation.  He had come to Sicily with the promise of a job.  Rather than through a treacherous route across the Mediterranean with the aid of a human trafficker, Musa actually flew into Salina, on his own,  and worked for a time in a hotel on the island.  He was making enough money to support his wife and his seven year old son back home.  He worked hard and had a sense of accomplishment, feeling luckier than most.  But then he lost his job.  And for the past five months, he has been without a job and without a  home—or even a regular place to sleep.

Musa is young, but has the air of someone much older, careworn.  He is very thin, which make his expressive eyes look very, very large.  He speaks softly and slowly, almost as if the effort  to do so is  just too much.  I want to ask him how he eats , where he sleeps, washes himself. Almost as if sensing my curiosity he offers: “I live in places around Salina, like old houses that have walls , but no roof.  Every night I sleep in a different place; wherever I can.”

Out of a small , black shoulder bag, Musa produces his passport, proud of the document that allowed him to travel legally, with dignity.  He allows me to take a picture of it.  The man in the passport, young and hopeful,  is a different one that is watching me look at his picture. I look into Musa’s eyes and smile, but he is weary.   I am not sure if telling his story feels cathartic or if it just brings to the surface the hurt and disappointment he tries to sublimate.

Musa’s Passport

I ask him why he doesn’t leave Salina and go somewhere else in search of work.   He smiles and tell me that he loves the place and he knows everyone.  I can well understand  and cannot imagine the effort it would take him to pick up and leave for another place—and with what resources?  ”I only know the road from the airport to Salina—I know no other road.”

As well, Musa tells me that his employment ended at a “vulnerable” time:  his passport, was due to expire, but he did not have the 300 Euro to pay for the renewal.   And money is a difficult subject.  His brother kept his earnings.  He never saw a dime of that money, realizing that his elder brother used the money for what his own wife and children needed. He said “I am so afraid to ask my brother for the money.  This is a cultural aspect of my culture: the elder brother dominates the others. It is a dictatorship in the home.”  Of his mother, he speaks with unbridled love and admiration, and tells of the sacrifices she made for him and his siblings.   And he credits her, a good Muslim woman, with the reason he no longer drinks:  he promised his mother he would never drink and has, and intends to keep, his promise.   Musa considers himself a good Muslim, and notes that while the Moroccan community on Salina has a mosque he could attend, he prefers to pray at home.  He tells me that the prophet Muhammad was against racism , but sometimes those at the mosque are racist. And then sometimes they treat him okay.

Musa Soumah

Musa seems tired.  Finally, he tells me , ” I am sad.  I am deeply offended by so many things, but I manage to hide it.  I am a foreigner, I can’t go around with an angry and sad face.  If you are a foreigner, you better be joyful, otherwise if you show any negativity or sadness, people won’t talk to you or sit next to you.   It is a very small community and it is better  that I keep them all friends.    But speaking to you I can tell you that I am full of anger, delusion and sadness.   But, I am keeping my smile to use as a passport.”

Complying with federal regulations, the crew stopped the train, but tried to explain it had to be moved because of WHERE it came to a stop! “NOPE! NO CAN DO!”, came the reply …..

Did you see this covered?

UNDER THE OBAMA ADMINISTRATION, Rules are Rules!   And news, is sometimes news …..

It was a normal day in Sharon Springs , Kansas , when a Union Pacific crew boarded a loaded coal train for the long trek to Salina, Ks.   Just a few miles into the trip, a wheel bearing became overheated and melted, letting a metal support drop down and grind on the rail, creating white hot molten metal droppings spewing down to the rail.

A very alert crew noticed smoke about halfway back in the train and immediately stopped the train in compliance with the Governmental Regulations.   The train stopped with the hot wheel over a wooden bridge with creosote ties and trusses.

When crew tried to explain to higher-ups they needed to move the train, they were instructed not to move the train because Federal Regulations prohibit moving the train when a part is defective. Well okee-dokey then, and the pictures tell the rest.

Unintended consequences? Or was it what I used to call “Ma-Bell-Mentality”?

As always the Government knows what is best for us.

No comment necessary …..

REMEMBER, …. RULES ARE RULES!   And the Obama administration has passed on tens of thousands of pages of new regulations, sure to drive businesses across the nation out of business …..

Don’t ever let common sense get in the way of a Government Regulation.   But lest you forget, …. now these governmental czars, and regulators, will decide your health care ! ! !

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Camel Prints in women’s clothing may have read about it in fashion magazines today, camel is the color of the moment. Just look at the slopes or in the high street shops. Everyone is looking camel colored clothes for this fall and winter. The growing popularity of camel is thought to be due to the economy as people are looking to invest in versatile clothing with colors that go with everything. Fashion editors and designers are loving the color that is also sometimes referred to as caramel or beige. Camel coats, capes, coats and dresses are among the parts that are subject to big news this autumn and winter. Woman Bomber: Elegant and comfortable! Women? S jackets are very popular. They are available in different sizes, styles, colors and prices. If you want a coat that will make a statement about your personality, then women? Jackets S could be right up your alley. Women’s Clothing – Skirts best for your body Many people may generalize that the reason why the clothes do not match people is that they are not making high quality clothing to satisfy their customers. But the truth is that there is nothing wrong with the clothes, but the main problem is with people who do not know the right clothes for them. So, before you get the right clothes, it is important that people know the right clothes should be worn to hide imperfections and focus on showing their best resources in the body.

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Birki’s Salina Sandal

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Men Keen Newport Sandal – this article Amazing Outdoor shoes will take a look at the very popular Men’s Keen Newport sandal. Find out the various functions associated with the shoe and benefits of wearing them. How to choose a good figure for women sandals Sandal is one of the oldest styles of footwear available and they last for thousands of years of every class of people from peasants to royalty. Still, many people do not know how to choose the right shoes to fit Trace Sandal your desired summer sandals to wear boots when the warmer weather approaches. This is our chance to stop hiding our feet. Just make sure you choose the perfect pair that will last throughout the summer.

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The City Commission voted unanimously this month to put the proposal to repeal the ordinance on the Nov. 6 ballot.

The commission approved the ordinance in May on a vote of 3-2. The local law bars discrimination against gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgendered people in housing, employment and public accommodations.

Gender Identity means the sense of one’s gender-related identity, appearance, behavior, and other characteristics of an individual, as perceived by the individual or another, and without regard to the individual’s actual or assigned sex at birth. This term shall not prohibit an employer from requiring an employee during the employee’s hours at work to adhere to reasonable dress or grooming standards not prohibited by other provisions of federal, state or local law. (Page 206).

City of Salina Press Release.

News Report.

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Last date: Sat, 08 Sep 2012 10:12:01 +0800

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