“Take The Cannoli” — A Sicilian Story
The White Lotus this was not
Ever since Grandpa shoved that first glass of vino under my nose, and Grandma scratched together that first scrumptious batch of homemade ravioli, the land of my family’s ancestors had been patiently waiting for its precious grandson to arrive.
The day had finally come. Move over Don Corleone — the American kid in Deutschland was about to revel in Sicily’s old-world charm.
“We’re here,” I reaffirmed to myself as the aircraft stretched its legs on the runway of Catania airport. I had that nervous, excited feeling one gets when on a first date with the person of their dreams.
All of those Hollywood mob movies and slovenly Italian dinners with the relatives could not fully prepare me for my meeting. This was it, the real thing.
But I needed to remember something for our upcoming journey: “Never go in against a Sicilian when death is on the line.”
As soon as I stepped off the plane, my swagger changed. I had a new kind of walk, one that was in harmony with the Mediterranean appeal of the island but lacking the cunning reserve needed to deal with its inhabitants.
Fresh cheese, pasta and pizza, tasty fish, historic sights, and glorious weather were expected and “ready for the taking.”
