by Jann Huizenga
All she wanted was a work permit.
“Signora,” reads the message in Italian, “we request your presence at Police Headquarters for fingerprinting on February 11.” This is great news: I applied for a work permit six months ago, and Roman authorities are finally getting around to making me legal. My eyes skid to
by Jann Huizenga
They built Albania’s socialist state and were made to feel special—then they grew up and tore it down.
“I built that block of flats,” says Lule, pointing past a disemboweled Fiat to a boxy tenement where litter has drifted into hillocks around the entryway. We’re just off Skanderbeg Square in the crumbly center
by Jann Huizenga
The secret to life can be found in a wild Sicilian plant.
“Ne ho travato uno!” crows Signor Battaglia. “I found one!” Six pairs of female eyes turn his way. Signor Battaglia, a Sicilian from Central Casting, stands rooted like the ancient carob behind him, his wooden cane planted firmly on a carpet
by Jann Huizenga
Sicily reminds you what it means to be human.
On a flawless autumn morning en route to the market that hugs Ecce Homo Church, you round a bend into a narrow lane and come upon a pair of anziani, ancients, engaged in conversation. A shaft of sunlight illuminates them like a klieg light.
by Jann Huizenga
It took Sicily to teach her about fashion.
The best thing about my short-term rental in Ragusa, Sicily is that it comes with a cleaning woman. Lucia arrives every Monday morning sporting a strand of pearls, heels, and a pencil skirt. She doesn’t shed any of them, neither while mopping the stone floors
