J'Accuse Siracusa

Siracusa: Wednesday, March 16

Things were going good today. We piled into the Alfa with a self-satisfied perkiness born of days of good eating, sleeping and dishing. Shannon stayed behind to find sausage.
Amazingly, we found parking close to the Archeological Museum in Siracusa, a city that turned out to be only and hour and a half away from our nest, at least with the expert and swift driving of Colleen. I spent a leisurely time in amazement at the vastness of the collection of artifacts on display; the Museo Archeologico Regionale "Paolo Orsi" seems a totally serious, world-class collection of the shards of humanity from 4,000 B.C. onward. Lingering to draw some of the designs that seemed to me to be an inspiration for baroque art (for instance, a Doric frieze with two volutes emerging from a palmetto, elegantly S-curved, from the Villa Minerva), I hung back while Cheryl, Lisa and Colleen headed for the neapolis and what remained of the outdoor glory of the distant past, namely two amphitheaters and a mysterious tall cave.
A bit later, cell-to-cell, I heard that Colleen had had a nasty stumble over at the ancient site and was now headed for the nearby hospital with a damaged left hand. Shortly after, we three non-damaged amice hung out in the waiting room while our friend’s broken ring finger was being splinted. We were all feeling shaky, in sympathy with our wounded buddy, the most competant of us all, who was now amongst the panoply of the mighty fallen at Siracusa. Shannon was kept in the loop with cell-phone updates. We had a second surge of anxiety when she asked, "Well, should I still make dinner?" OH GOD YES, we blasted back. How could she even think of such a cruel scenerio?
On the ride home from Siracusa, with Collen relaxing in the back, hand pillowed on folded jackets, we appreciated Cheryl’s driving expertise, despite a couple of wrong turns that took us out into a major agricultural area, on minor roads lined with the legendary prostitutes awaiting after-work customers. A free-wheeling discussion ensued.
Growing closer, the phenomenal mass of Etna, snow-covered, radiating alpenglow from the setting sun. Smoke feathered upward from the peak. Home was minutes away. Safety.
Shannon fulfilled her earlier promise with a spread that occupied all of us for the rest of the evening: toasted rustic bread, a well-seasoned bowl of minced pomodorini, roasted heads of garlic, fresh baby mozzarella dressed with basil and olive oil, lots of vino. Later, more wine, pasta tossed with a sicilian pesto, a lovely salad AND the promised salsicci braised with onions in red wine. Then, unbelievably, cake and mandorla (the fortified almond wine that tastes sooo good when you are here.)
Colleen took her wounded wing upstairs to bed, thoroughly versed on the communal pain-killer possibilities for the morrow and beyond. She allowed as how she didn’t need anything more for tonight. Who amongst us, did?