Here’s the view of the small valley below the path that cuts from Pirandello’s childhood house to the garden and boulder where ashes lie (and the ashes of some other Italians, as tells Prof. Gavioli interesting story). It was looking out over the valley, walking back to the bus after visiting the tomb, that we saw a flock of sheep being herded by two pastors—one in the front and one in the back (this one can barely be made out in the picture)—through the small grassy hillside and past a set of railroad tracks into the distance. I was naturally impressed by the scene because it was the first time I’d seen the herding of a flock, and it stuck with me even more because it contrasted in several ways to the rather Biblical images I have of shepherding: the shepherds were dressed like normal civilians; the backdrop was not some idyllic landscape but not-too-distant rows of high-rise buildings in either direction, in the picture’s backdrop and behind us on the path; and the sheep, even the last few stragglers, continued over the railroad tracks as if it were pasture. In mind were the Italian class’s talk about the conflict between civilized modernization in which northern Italy prides itself and the more rural life of southern Italy: I could see the conflict physically manifested before me and how, just as the sheep and shepherds went on, life seems to go on despite or alongside the intrusion of new things. Fresh in mind, too, were some of the lines in Book V of the Aeneid, and I could imagine these two young pastors as a couple of the many Sicilian youth from the countryside who, eager for pride, entered the footrace sponsored by Aeneas.

At Leonardo Scascia’s native town of Racalmuto, we visited a museum within a small castle that once served as a lookout post and warning light for a communication and defense system put in place with the allied neighboring towns. Beneath us, for example, lay a church which, never completed but still in use today, stood roofless beneath the open air. During the tour, the local guide walked us into the room where they kept all the town banners of recent years, of various kinds of depictions of the townspeople and its patroness, Mary. As he told us, the banners have a story behind them: Every year, a new banner is placed atop a wooden structure 20-30 meters tall (if I remember correctly), not unlike the miniature one depicted in the picture. A contest is held: all the eligible bachelors of the town’s families fight their way to the top, to grab the banner and claim victory and pride for their families and for themselves, since success basically means becoming a town celebrity and, in the eyes of its women, exceptionally attractive. By the way, when the guide said “fight,” he meant it: beside a ban on weapons, everything goes. In melding into one the town’s culture, tradition, religious beliefs, social and class and family and gender dynamics and identity, the contest somewhat resembles the ones held in Book V of the Aeneid, where folklore and personal and local pride come together. Too, the fact that the victory of a rare female contestant in the 80s resulted in social upheaval and the suicide of several of the losing male contestants, i.e. that men and women have clear roles in the town: reminded me of the stark separation in Book V, until the very end, of the wandering Trojan men and women and their respective (appropriate) activities.

Rather un-fantastic, this picture represents the more mundane aspects of our trip: in addition to sleeping in hotels, we spent a good chunk of our time on the bus, always as a group but sometimes individually and sometimes together. The protractible seats served us well as we slept, listened to music, or thought restfully, and their proximity made it easy for songs and conversation and games of “Contact” and “VMASH” and joking around and making fun of Kim (not too meanly), and at one point even a small presentation on the Aeneid. The adjacent windows lent us their view of the passing scenery and people, which, in the city and in the country, provided our imaginary pictures of Sicily, perhaps too influenced by the stereotypes of its ideally bucolic nature, with real nuances. And, let me not forget our driver, Carmelo: a native of Palermo whose good-humored personality I got to enjoy through conversation, and whose driving deftness made a quick impression on us when, on our way to Erice or Segesta, he and a fellow passing bus conductor skillfully wedged their way past each other and converted the narrow road of a quaint Italian town into a slow-motion two-lane highway.