A much-beloved joke which pokes fun at European stereotypes always makes me smile: "Heaven is where the cooks are French, the police are British, the mechanics are German, the lovers are Italian and everything is organized by the Swiss. Hell is where the cooks are British, the police are German, the mechanics are French, the lovers are Swiss, and everything is organized by the Italians." Some would say these popular stereotypes are outdated, including the many brilliant (to borrow a favorite British adjective) chefs who now call London home. However, anyone who has been to Italy recently can attest to the still-alive-and-well organizational deficiencies that greet you from the moment you arrive at the airport. While I can't weigh in on their prowess in the love department, I think I have an explanation for the organization problem. They are so busy talking and gesturing that they can't be bothered about running anything smoothly. But if we were to give out a rating for comfort, the Italians would get my vote. This is a country devoted to making you feel comfortable, welcoming you into its warmth with open arms. So when Peter proposed an end-of-December trip to Sicily, I immediately agreed. Immediately, that is, after first confirming that the island of Sicily - the soccer ball being kicked by the boot of mainland Italy - was indeed a part of my country of comfort, and not its own place.

Since we re-watched Woody Allen's film Broadway Danny Rose the other night, I have had this tune in my head. Now it will be in yours. The movie is full of some serious Italian stereotypes, but it's also a very sweet story about forgiveness. "Keep Italian in your heart. Let it always be a part of you."

My connection to Italy began early on. In Trenton, N.J., where I grew up, there was a large neighborhood known as Chambersburg, or "The Italian Section", although I'm sure that's not what the primarily-Italian residents called it. The neighborhood is mostly known to folks born and raised in Trenton, although it did get its 15 seconds of fame as the setting of Janet Evanovich's "Stephanie Plum" novels. It was the home of so many wonderful Italian restaurants serving "pencil points" (penne) with "gravy" (tomato sauce), and the best "tomato pie" (Chambersburgese for pizza). But the real home away from home for the Vines was a place called Antonio's, which moved its Italian food to the outskirts of the city, maybe to get away from all the competition. It was the place where we so often gathered around the table together, first with my siblings, and then with our spouses, and finally with all off our children. Through all of those years, my dad always sat at the head of the table right next to my mom, holding court. The waitresses all knew and loved Dr. Vine. They also knew how many "Eddie Kaplan" salads to bring, that my kids wanted the meatballs on the side, and my nieces always got the tiramisu and the lemon sorbet served inside the fresh lemon. Going to Sicily was like traveling back in time to Antonio's, but this time I was really in Italy.

I consider myself a true citrus connoisseur. These beauties alone made the journey to Sicily worthwhile. I bought a kilo (about 10 large "clementinas") for only one euro. That's a lot of bliss for so very little.

Fittingly, our first stop in our first city (Palermo) was at one of the outdoor markets. The produce (and cheese, and fish, and everything on sale) is gorgeous, the call and response from the stall-owners is raucous, and you just wish you could bring it all back in your suitcase with you. Each tour guide who shepherded us around Sicily was proudest of the agriculture. They all sang the praises of the markets, which they told us provide fresh food at reasonable prices to everyone. In fact, many of the items - not just the produce - were priced at five for a dollar, including the underwear. There are no "food deserts" - places where poor people live who don't have access to anything fresh - in Sicily. Apparently, the soil is ideal for growing fruits and vegetables and grapes for wine, and they have Mount Etna to thank for that. Who knew that volcanoes make for fertile soil?

These artichokes, or carciofi in Italian, were a frequent visitor on my plate during the week. They were shimmering with gold in the market, but are incredibly cheap.

And what about these purple cauliflower? Almost too pretty to eat, but I managed.

In addition to the glorious produce, there were Sicilian pastries to ogle everywhere I turned. The Sicilians seem to have a sweet tooth. I like that in a country, or a region if we are being precise. At our first hotel, we were served a slice of cake with breakfast. On my birthday, it came with a candle in it. And dusted with confectioner's sugar. Just perfect. Then there are the cannoli, the signature Sicilian pastry. We learned from none other than Rick Steves that the very best ones are filled as you wait. The filling is not nearly as sweet as the ones I've tried in the U.S. You can really taste the ricotta. Well worth the trip to Sicily to taste these in their native habitat.

I had to work quickly to get this photo, both because Peter is notoriously camera-shy, and also because I knew he would make quick work of his first cannolo in Sicily (yes, that is the correct word for the singular).

I started this post with some stereotypes about Europeans. In addition to the ones in the joke (about Italians being great lovers and poor organizers) there is of course the notion that many of them are caught up in the Mafia, especially in Sicily. The guides we had all mentioned the continuing presence of the Mafia in Sicily, and said the government is still trying to figure out how to loosen their hold. In Palermo, our guide lamented the fact that some of her clients only want a "Godfather" tour, and aren't interested in the rich history, art, and architecture that abounds. Actually, there is such a thing for Godfather fans who insist on it. We did not. She did point out that the Godfather III scene, when Al Pacino was shot and his daughter Sofia Coppola met her maker, was filmed on the steps of the Opera House, right across the street from our hotel. Many terrific movies were filmed in Sicily, including Divorce, Italian Style (Divoricio all'Italiana) with the ultimate Italian pin-up, Marcello Mastroianni.

I think he is on Isola Bella, the little island I visited and which you will see later in this post.

I think the star of the show here is the sky. The Teatro Massimo in Palermo is the third largest opera house in Europe after Paris and Vienna. I took a tour inside and it was just as beautiful inside as it is out. — I think the star of the show here is the sky. The *Teatro Massimo* in Palermo is the third largest opera house in Europe after Paris and Vienna. I took a tour inside and it was just as beautiful inside as it is out.

While the Sicilians may want us to move on from the Mafia/Godfather associations, I did notice that the street musicians must not have gotten that memo. I do love hearing all of the street musicians throughout Europe. I can't help but think of my dad, who bought an accordion when he was in Estonia with my mom many years ago. An accordion is meant to be played outdoors, I think.

If the only thoughts that come to mind when you think of Sicily are Godfather or cannoli-related, then you need to visit. I learned so much from our wonderful guides, who for some reason were all women. They did tell us that the unemployment rates are over 40% and perhaps they are even higher for men. I'm not sure if the high unemployment rate has anything to do with the continuing presence of the Mafia. Is it a cause of the unemployment? Or an effect? Or would it be even higher without it? We were grateful to our guides - Valentina, Chiara, and Francesca - for their treasure troves of knowledge and sparkling eyes. They explained when and how Sicily was invaded by so many different conquerers, who left their mark on Sicilian culture, and luckily for us, also left their ruins behind. It started with the Phoenicians, then the Carthaginians, the Greeks, the Romans, the Normans, the Byzantines, the Moors, the Spanish, the French. I'm sure I've left some of them out. With all of these folks coming and going, it's easy to see why it's in the Sicilian blood to adapt to new people arriving.

This statue would not be out of place in Amsterdam, where I feel like someone is always scolding me for something. Perhaps the Sicilians wouldn't mind lending it to me?

We climbed the 100 or so steps up to the top of the Palermo Cathedral where it was so windy I had to hold onto Peter (and my iPhone) for dear life. The cathedral is a hodge-podge of different architectural styles, with each new conquerer putting his stamp on the building.

In addition to hosting so much ancient art, the city of Palermo is also encouraging modern artists. Our tour guide pointed out that in many shops, you can see an orange symbol indicating the city is offering the artist a very low rent in order to maintain the shop. We also saw a lot of street art. It's amazing what a little paint will do to brighten up a street barrier. This was the first place I can recall seeing graffiti painted on the sides of churches. Maybe they say a few prayers before spraying. But speaking of brightening things up, I could listen to that lovely sing-songy Italian accent forever, even with the numerous times I found myself a bit lost. I tried to picture what the guide was saying, to help me, but that often proved no help. For example, when Valentina explained that Saint Rosalia is the patron saint of Palermo, and rose to fame when she rid Palermo of the plug, I was puzzled. What type of plug, I wondered, trying to picture this Sicilian plug. In fact, Rosalie allegedly rid the city of the plague, which is a much bigger deal. And at first I heard that the Vikings were known for their sheeps. Hmm. It turns out Valentina was saying, "ships". Of course. Anyway, back to Saint Rosalia. It is considered a huge honor to carry the giant, heavy, golden statue of Saint Rosalia through the streets of Palermo during the feast days in July. And in the heat, no less.

The next day found us hurtling through the centuries, from Roman to Greek times. If you do nothing else in Sicily, I recommend traveling to Villa Romana del Casale to see these mosaics, and to Agrigento to see the Greek ruins in the Valley of the Temples. Let's start with those mosaics. Picture for a moment what you would expect mosaics from the 4th century A.D. which haven't always been well-maintained to look like. Now peek below at the photos. It's astounding to go and see both how vivid the colors still are, and also how well-preserved many of the works remain. The villa was the home of a wealthy Roman noble. You really get a sense of how this family and their staff lived when you see these mosaics, which are like photographs documenting their life and culture. Did you have any idea that women in those days participated in athletic competition, never mind that they wore bikinis?

One benefit to traveling in the off-season, and waking up at the crack of dawn (7 a.m. on vacation - or let's be honest, any day - is in "crack of dawn" territory for me) is that we practically had the place to ourselves. Apparently, in the crowded summer, it gets so hot they have ambulances stationed outside. Since we don't do well in the heat, we won't ever see if that information is actually true. Going when it was almost empty gave me the chance to test out the time-travel strategies from Time and Again, our book group selection for the month. Although I usually don't "do" time travel books, T.V. shows, or movies, I found myself caught up in this book. I was intrigued by the idea that just by picturing yourself in those long-ago times, focusing on the details, you can actually go back in time. So rather than looking at a bunch of mosaics on the ground, I tried to picture myself back in the 4th century, waiting for my pomegranate to be served to me. This is somewhat easier to do when you aren't surrounded by people pushing you in order to get their iPhone lined up. I'm going to use this time-travel strategy from now on when I travel. I'll let you know how it goes.

From the 4th century, we headed back in time to Ancient Greece in Agrigento, Sicily. I felt like I was in Greece, actually.

It's hard to believe that these temples, which date back to the 6th century B.C. are in such good shape.

It's also hard to believe that these two photos were taken on the same afternoon, less than an hour apart. The rainy, quick-changing weather seemed to have followed us from Amsterdam.

The drive from our hotel in Palermo to the Roman and Greek sites was quite long (a few hours), but our guide kept us occupied by weighing in on everything from the agriculture ("Sicilians won't eat fruit unless it has seeds" while Americans tell her all about seedless/tasteless watermelons and grapes), to politics ("Sicily would be rich if we could be independent."). I loved how she prefaced so many opinions with the phrase, "Step by step", or what sounded like, "Step-uh by step-uh". It seems the independence-driven residents of Barcelona may have started a trend. And maybe our guide is onto something and Sicily will at some point try to set out on their own. They do claim to be Sicilian first, not Italian. Stay tuned for Sexit?

A quick word about the cities we visited and safety. The guide books will tell you that Palermo is perfectly safe during the day, but that you should be watchful at all times for pick-pockets and should not venture off the main streets at night. Perhaps given these dire warnings, I did feel much more on edge than I do in Amsterdam, where I usually feel very safe. I met some older tourists from Canada who told me they were so scared off by the guidebooks that they didn't venture far in Palermo at night. If we had followed their lead, we would have missed out on some fantastic dinners there. But it's definitely a much grittier place than many other cities in Europe. You can just feel it somehow as you walk around. We might have walked around at night a bit more than we should have. I'm hardly a daredevil, so you might feel differently. I'm really "a rebel just for kicks now." And how can I pass up one more chance to listen to the beat in this song? It kept me happy when I drove long distances in the U.S. in November.

While we are talking about walking, attention has to be paid to the Italian style of putting one foot in front of the other. I'm hard pressed to call it walking, because there is often very little forward movement involved. Strolling is more accurate. And they zig and zag across the sidewalk as they stroll. And can't really walk and talk at the same time. They have to stop to talk because talking involves a lot more gesturing and theatrics than most Americans are accustomed to. All that stopping often causes traffic jams on the pedestrian sidewalks.

And now a word about talking. We heard so many more phones ringing and loud conversations engaged in than we ever have. Is this an Italian thing? I'm not sure. They don't seem to be texting very often, but rather shouting into their phones, whether at a fabulous restaurant or inside a stunning church. A sad scene unfolded one night when we had dinner next to a couple with their two teenage sons. In a strange reversal of roles, it was mom and dad who were transfixed by their screens, while their sons stared blankly at their plates. Peter calls this the end of civilization. I hope the pendulum will swing back to a happy day when people had conversations at the dinner table. There is hope. On a different night, we saw several French families enjoying dinner together. The children were all at one end of the table, the parents at the other. No screens in sight. And a Russian family seemed to be enjoying each others' company, aided only by a Rubik's cube that the eight-year-old solved with a few quick clicks. An Italian family lingered over their dinner until well past 10:30 with their daughter. A good night for civilization.

I supposed we would just have to learn to tune out the phone conversations. And so we did. Or tried not to have them interfere with enjoying Sicily, anyway. We ventured the next day to the medieval towns Monreale and Cefalu, along the Mediterranean. There was a wedding going on in the Cathedral, which shows that life goes on even when tourists are in town. Our guide said the extensive mosaics covering almost every inch of the cathedral took only 20 years to complete. How is that possible when it has taken them over three years to finish the building near our apartment in Amsterdam?

From Palermo and our day trips from Palermo, we headed to Taormina. Google Maps said this was a three hour drive, but that estimate didn't factor in that our driver would be Mario Andretti. As the hills of Sicily whizzed past me, I wondered if the Italian love for fast cars might be genetic. They do love their Ferraris, Maseratis and Lamborghinis, after all. They don't love to signal, and surprisingly to me, don't seem to honk. They just drive up on the tail of a car in front and swerve to the adjacent lane at the very last minute. Notice I draw these conclusions after exactly one week in the country.

The thrilling ride to Taormina was just the beginning of the adventure. This town perched on the sea is absolutely stunning. It has a long reputation as a refuge for artists of all kinds, and more recently, as a playground for celebrities. Back in the day, Liz Taylor and Richard Burton came there to play. The nightclub where they danced was a former church. Like so many buildings in Sicily, it was repurposed when its original purpose didn't fill the room. It has now been recycled back into a church. Other frequent visitors to Taormina include Audrey Hepburn, Cary Grant, and Sophia Loren. Taormina is significantly more upscale than the rest of Sicily we visited. Maybe things were still at their Sunday-best after Trump's visit to the G7 talks in May. I'm glad to report the town seems to have recovered nicely after such a stable genius came and went.

This was the view from the little patio in our hotel room. Just as gorgeous as any celebrity.

The triangular tile is the symbol of Sicily. The symbol is on their flag, and adorns many homes and shops. We were told a few versions of what the symbol actually means. The common demoninators were agriculture, and the shape of Sicily. The face in the middle is sometimes a sun, and sometimes Medusa. One explanation for the continuing significance of Medusa is that if you mess with a Sicilian, she could turn you into stone, or worse.

I hiked down to the little island to the right, Isola Bella. It has been turned into a nature reserve, and clearly lives up to its name, which translates to Beautiful Island.

We had this Greek Amphitheater almost to ourselves at sunset, once the man barking into a cellphone had the good sense to leave. In another bit of Sicilian architectural recycling, some of the columns from the Greek amphitheater can be found inside the cathedral in Taormina.

Our guide in Taormina pointed out the hidden signs that Jews were once a large and prominent part of Sicilian life. If you look at the top of the church, you can see Jewish stars, indicating this was probably a synagogue at one time. Although our guides didn't know we are Jewish, they all included information about how important and prosperous many Jews were until they were expelled in 1493.

Pickpockets, vestiges of the Mafia, chaotic driving: we've gotten a little far afield from the comfort I promised Sicily would bring. Let's get back to that, shall we? We celebrated my birthday at a restaurant idolized by the New York Times, Osteria Nero D'Avola. As you may have figured out by now, I'm a gal who likes to do her restaurant research in advance of a voyage. Nero D'Avola has everything I want in a restaurant: simple, fresh food, deliciously prepared; a chef who comes out of the kitchen to chat; and, well, a home away from home. This home went from great to perfect when the chef began to play Chopin on the piano at the end of our dinner, while we tucked into some amazing birthday cannoli. When he invited me to play, I almost chickened out, but thought of my Dad - an avid amateur jazz pianist - who would have been thrilled at this turn of events. This was as close to Antonio's - the Italian restaurant in Trenton, N.J. I grew up loving -as it gets, just with better food. While I can't play like my dad, the chef, Turi Siligato, seemed happy with my rendition of Eric Clapton/Derrick and the Dominos' Layla and asked me to jot down the name of the song. Or else he was being very polite.

After such an evening, New Year's Eve had a tough act to follow. In fact, our New Year's Eve began with disappointment. (Luckily, the story has a happy ending). We started off the evening at a fancy restaurant at 9 p.m. This time, it wasn't loud phone conversations that interrupted the mood, but rather a 2-ish-year-old whose young parents gave her their iPhone to amuse her, and she had it cranked to full volume. [Side note to parents of young children: please, I beg of you, either eat early, or get take-out, but don't go to fancy restaurants at 9 p.m. on New Year's Eve with your kids. You will thank me for this advice when you, too, are old and grey and in your late 50's]. We abandoned ship and wandered a bit, until we decided to see if our friends at Nero D'Avola (see restaurant, above) had room at the inn for us. As soon as we walked in, we were welcomed, shown to a table, and made to feel at home. And what's not to love about a restaurant which sends you home at the end of another lovely evening with a large bar of Sicilian chocolate from the famous chocolate town, Modica?

No article about Sicily can possibly overlook the food. While we had some nice dinners, the "street food" is equally delish. Another tip I got from the New York Times piece about Taormina was to get arrancini at a place called Da Cristina. To say that arrancini are fried rice balls just doesn't do justice to these glorious round pillows filled with rice and extras like eggplant, or pistachios (another Sicilian specialty and in just about everything you order), or spinach. So we got three of them to share for lunch one day and sat outside and enjoyed.

Picnic view. The presence of the palm tree was confirmation (along with those arrancinci) that I was in paradise.

Now that we're on a comfort roll, I can tell you about a lunch spot we stumbled on in our next stop, Catania. Unlike Taormina, Catania is a big city, a little rough around the edges, but full of treasures. One such treasure was a tiny little place tucked away on a side street. The name of the restaurant was La Pigna Verde but it felt more like we were in someone's kitchen than in a restaurant. The place consisted of about five small tables, all presided over by an older woman who served, and a man who poked his head out of the kitchen to grunt at her from time to time (the cook). At one point, his torso emerged from the window to the kitchen so he could show off a bowl of fresh anchovies to the table next to us, inhabited by what seemed to be regulars. Minutes later, after the fish were cleaned and fried, one of the regulars ate his anchovies, making what Peter called a "died-and-went-to-heaven face" upon taking his first taste. Other than us, everyone else in this place was a local. We talked quietly so our "American" didn't disturb anyone's digestion.

I had to work quickly to get this shot because I didn't want them to see me taking photos. On the opposite wall was a shrine to what I assume was their grandchildren, with photos of the boys' lifetime highlights like being an altar boy and winning a… — I had to work quickly to get this shot because I didn't want them to see me taking photos. On the opposite wall was a shrine to what I assume was their grandchildren, with photos of the boys' lifetime highlights like being an altar boy and winning a soccer tournament. In Sicily, I'm not sure which of those triumphs is considered greater.

Knowing that our trip was coming to an end, we quickened our pasta-eating pace, eating an enormous plate for lunch and another at dinner, although at the evening meal the pasta was bookended by a starter and a main course. Often, my pasta of choice was Pasta Norma, the signature Sicilian dish with eggplant and ricotta salata. Comfort in a bowl. You can also find Pizza Norma everywhere, and I tried that as well. Also wonderful. Telling you all of this just gives me the golden opportunity to play yet another tune from the movie Broadway Danny Rose. This one is called Agita and it's the best song I know about eating, or to be more precise, overeating. Enjoy!

As I started off explaining at the beginning of the post, Mount Etna is the pride and joy of Sicily. Historically, it serves to organize the dates in Sicilian history as either pre- or post- huge eruption. It's the highest active volcano in Europe and one of the most active volcanoes in the world. Eruptions occur on a regular basis. The biggest downside is that the airport in Catania (where we departed for Amsterdam) is often closed if there is too much ash in the air. One of the largest eruptions was in 1669, and at that point, the Sicilians learned to build trenches to divert the flow of lava away from villages. In modern times, its responsible for a lot of the tourism to Sicily. Like so many others, we first saw Etna from afar. We came to Catania for the last leg of our trip, looking forward to a trip to Mount Etna on our last full day of vacation. Alas, it was not to be. We got up early and waited with great expectations in the lobby. Then we got a call saying that due to high winds, the trip would have to be cancelled. Like all good travelers, we made the best of things, hiding our disappointment from each other as best we could. We walked up and down the city, and climbed to the top of the cathedral to get the view that opened this post.

So what's a gal to do when a much-anticipated trip to Mount Etna is cancelled? Why, she must pay tribute to Saint Agatha. This patron saint of Catania wanted to devote her life to God. A man fell in love with her and when she remained steadfast in her vows, he brutally tortured her, by among other things, cutting off her breast. I tell you this only because it helps explain my story. The Sicilians created a pastry called a Cassata di Sant'Agata, which resembles a woman's breast, as a lasting tribute to Saint Agatha. I was told I needed to try one. I put it off until the last day. Frankly, I felt a bit uncomfortable, especially when I saw the pastry in person. But the people recommending the little tart were all Catholic, so I decided it was all going to be O.K. Indeed, it was a religious experience. If you hurry, you can get to Sicily in time for the feast of Saint Agatha, which from the sounds of it is celebrated with something akin to the fervor with which Americans kneel down and pray to the Super Bowl gods. The feast of Saint Agatha is celebrated every year at the beginning of February.

The server must have misunderstood me, and thought I also wanted my espresso to-go. He neatly packaged up my thimble-full of coffee so I could take it into the park along with my Saint Agatha pastry.

As I previously mentioned, many buildings in Sicily are repurposed when needs and times change. Many former palaces (palazzos) are now offices, or swank hotels, or, in this case, a middle school. I can't think of a population more oblivious to their… — As I previously mentioned, many buildings in Sicily are repurposed when needs and times change. Many former palaces (palazzos) are now offices, or swank hotels, or, in this case, a middle school. I can't think of a population more oblivious to their surroundings than most middle-schoolers, but imagine walking into this building each morning. Inspiring!

This gazebo is in Giardino Bellini in Catania, a lovely park with views of Mount Etna. On a sunny day, it was full of families, folks walking their dogs, and lots of zig-zagging strollers. This is the park where I had my bosom pastry and espresso pi… — This gazebo is in *Giardino Bellini* in Catania, a lovely park with views of Mount Etna. On a sunny day, it was full of families, folks walking their dogs, and lots of zig-zagging strollers. This is the park where I had my bosom pastry and espresso picnic.

Take a last peek at Mount Etna through one of the gorgeous gates leading into and out of the city. Ciao, Sicily. We will be back. Now what do you we tell our friends about visiting? A surprisingly few of our expat friends, who seem to have been everywhere, have been to Sicily. There's always that delicate balance between a place being just discovered enough to feel safe, and yet not so discovered that you are plagued everywhere by Americans with their noses buried in Rick Steves guides and Trip Advisor reviews. Sicily struck that right balance for us: an adventure, someplace we felt like we were exploring, and still full of soul. For me, it hit that sweet spot where it felt comfortable, but still a little gritty. Part of that comfort lies in the food. Certainly, pasta is one of the signature comfort foods we all return to when we need it most. And for me, there was also the comfort of looking around and seeing familiar names everywhere: Farina, DePalma, Messina, Sartori. These are the Italian names of friends who live in or hail from... N.J., of course. In fact, many of the Italian families who settled in N.J. and N.Y. have roots in Sicily. Now back to your upcoming visit to Sicily. I'm sure residents of Sicily feel the tension between wanting to attract more tourists and their dollars (and euros) while still staying true to itself. So my advice to you is to go. They want you there. They still need you. That could change someday soon, so don't wait too long.

A few parting shots:

Frank has to at least put in a quick appearance here, doesn't he?

LIVE

I'll end here where I began: back in Trenton, N.J and my family's favorite haunt: Antonio's Restaurant, scene of so many special dinners. At one of those dinners, then-nine-year-old Rachel passed the time until her pasta arrived by reading my dad some poems she had recently written. He came up with the idea of setting one of her poems to music he would write, co-creating a song. While I may not like time-travel books, I do love the idea that by thinking of all the details of place and people, and sounds and smells, you can transport yourself back to a particular time. Thinking of all those details helps me picture my dad singing this song, sitting at the head of the table at Antonio's. I listen to it in amazement each time: that a nine-year-old could write those astonishingly wise lyrics, that I can actually hear my dad singing and playing the keyboard. "First comes love, and then you'll find the world is yours forever." The song makes me feel like he is here forever.

[This post is dedicated with love to my dad, and to our dear friend Paul. Paul left this world far too early last month. Both of them would have loved Sicily, and Sicily would have loved them right back.]