Valderice for a moment brings me back to the hinterland of Tuscany, with an approximation of the Apennines, but is simply the name of one of the many countries dispersed and dissolved in the heat of paesologia Trapani, in the south profound and extreme of Sicily and dry ice. The road leading to the town of Trapani resembles a funnel, a network of traffic jam and transverse waves of inputs that lead to mixed and solitary places, passing through. Sicily This is the crossroads of algebra landscape that unfolds through this cone of land that juts out towards Africa and towards the vacuum that is where the grapes are allowed to dry over the fences of the powder, and the mountain is a cramp in the middle of the hunger that stings the stomach, a thick restless and painful surrender until the end.
the border with the lands of the language of Marsala Superiore sea licking the edges of the houses who look bravely forward, while the dunes of salt in a twinkle twinkle linear, almost wet, the track fades in the dust because of colorless' shadow mountains blazing and show off the scar inflicted by the marble dug without scruples. The landscape recalls the stiff back of a woman, but also a colorful desert at times, a barren and arid area by the reddish color dry ride on which any strong fantasy windy and muggy. On curved side that juts out directly to sea, the sharp rocks accompany the croutons into a hairpin road that clings throughout the province of Trapani. San Vito lo Capo is the last town before the nothing, as well as live only the mouth of the Black Sea.
Mr. Culicchia continues to repel water and shoveling mud that has invaded its pastries. All swear that not all this rain was coming down from the 76 '. The city is proven and has removed his hat. Now it looks really surreal, is gray and beautiful, sweaty and defeated. Proven. Disheartened. The streets of downtown are elegant and composed, as well as churches, the clock and the cathedral, while the sea, nervous and excited, keeps beating so obsessive on the sides, on the docks and on the sand, like a boxer before launching the attack to the face continues to hit on her hips. Away from the center were the smiles of the people and a small port, battered and dirty.
Selinunte and Segesta. A New Gibellina Sicily has the face instead of glass, a bouquet of white transparent mask, sad charm, full of bright colors and a strong voice that disturbs the courage of this land, so serious and far. New Gibellina is another woman sitting on a sidewalk that you pull the skirt up until her knees. Belice is a desert of pain, covered by the frost of silence apical and colorless, stained by the rough and porous concrete, anger paste that has just swallowed the tears, a time there was the old country and today is the memory impaired by a sign carved deep into the earth quartered nails that still shine with white enamel. Forty years after the sun peels the houses, roads fade, erode the saturated colors and scents of this square that has lost the light and has struggled over it. New Gibellina is white, as the memory that does not exist, like the face of fear that still stands and open-air museum is little more than a graveyard of art that exudes drive and dismay, sadness and sweetness. Passion and nostalgia.
