I was in Sicily, as I was in France, in Spain, in California and in Switzerland. And all this without moving away from my easy chair, just watching cycle races onTV. But they are guiding your looks and presenting the views they choose? Not at all. While the speaker is giving dates about the world-champion, while the breakaway group is floundering like mad and the whole Astana team leads the peloton to catch the runaways, the speaker is praising again and again the phantastic race (you can guess the vicinity of the finishing line by the agitation of his voice), I watch a variety of landscapes and towns, I see the typical Italian mixture of brickwork cut into pieces, dark clothing and reclam-pannels even in the smallest free space. I see the seaside, I admire railways, stations, bridges, tunnels, beaches, sun- and rain-umbrellas, trees of all kind, sometimes in gorgeous groups, others just in blossom, mountainsides, promontories, castles, towers, lighthouses. I gaze in admiration at the Sicilian villas with their statues of saints like battlements on the rooftop. Look! There’s Nepomuk, the patron saint of all tongues, there’s Simon who’s responsible for circumcisions, and there might beTheresa, the protector of orgasms! Now in times of drones and helicopters I even see the rooftops with their water-tanks, the washing on the line, the flowerpots and the crooked chimneys.
In a few days I cross the whole island. I am aware of the nature, the cultivation of the soil and the seasons. It even seems that there on the wildflower meadow – unperceived by the cyclists with their hangers-on – Aides is kidnapping Persephone! But she’ll return from the underworld, even if the TV is shut.
I like cycle races. I like spring.
remainsoftheday 