Cefalu, Sicily After breakfast, Myra and I walked along the crescent shore around the Rock of Cefalu into a Roman town that was hidden from view by this huge head-rock jutting across the west side of the hotel onto the edge of a bay. Colorfully painted fishing boats lay on the sand like beached whales just out of the waters reach. Date palms adorned the narrow streets as we walked towards the town’s main street. The walkway was paved with small round stones set between rows of black bricks. Overhead balconies reached across the path as if to touch each other. Some held freshly washed garments to dry or bedding that was hung out to be aired. Droplets of laundry water dripped down onto the path as we ventured into the heart of Cefalu. All streets seemed to lead to the plaza in front of a Norman-built Cathedral. We sat in the square below the cathedral steps next to a pair of thriving palm trees. Smells of fresh baked bread mixed with cigarette smoke and an over-flowing septic system permeated the air. I bought a prickly pear from a plaza vendor. The fruit was sweet, very juicy, and fleshy with small, dark-brown seeds. Two balding men sat on a bench across from us silently talking; one man waving his arms and then the other man answered with a few hand signals. Each took turns speaking with a distinct, enthusiastic Sicilian emphasis using their gestures as if they were words of a hip-hop song. Three young women walked arm in arm through the plaza passing our iron chairs going up the long flight of steps leading to the cathedrals entrance. A faint odor of soap trailed behind them as we watched their lock-step ascent into the building. The balding men stopped talking and followed the women with their eyes. As soon as the women faded from view the men became animated in conversation once again. I was beginning to understand the language. Although, what the men said with their eyes was a more a universal language than a purely Sicilian one. But they did it with a greater intensity and sparkling pleasure than in any other country that I’ve ever visited. A couple we met at the Cefalu hotel, Bernice and Al, asked to sit with us for the in town dinner. Suddenly I realized that I was happy. Then I recalled an article from The New Yorker that cites a study by “Nobel laureate Daniel Kahneman, reporting that people’s four favorite parts of the day features sex, socializing, dinner and relaxing.” Well, I thought three out of four was a high mark on the Kahneman scale. I was going to mention the article but got involved with the menu instead and forgot why I was so happy. The dinner quickly turned into a group tasting banquet with each of us suggesting an item or two or in some cases three. It was decided to begin with mushrooms marinated in olive oil. Bernice asked, “What kind of oil comes with the mushrooms?” The waiter said, “Please don’t ask.” “Why?” He turned and looked at Bernice; dark eyebrows were raised above his eyes and said, “Mainly, we use Sicilian oil. But for the mushrooms Moroccan oil is unsurpassed.” His face was thin and expressive, with large gray eyes. “However,” he said, “Not to worry, I’ll bring Sicilian oil with the bread where it works best with the flavor of the flour.” He wore a blue and white stripped apron open across the back. I could see red and black food stains on the apron where he had wiped his hands. “Enough with the oil already,” Al suddenly said with both his hands waving in front of his face. “At this rate we’ll never get to eat.” Everybody laughed; even the waiter and we began calling out our food desires. “Broccoli and ricotta cheese, broiled with a crunchy crust,” requested Myra. “Eggplant sautéed with anchovies, and a dish of baked ziti in tomato sauce,” called Bernice. Al and I ordered antipasto with grilled eggplant, heart of artichoke, salami, sun dried tomato and red peppers. As an after thought I ordered a portion of fish served in a paper napkin. Al said, “What’s the matter, you’re not used to eating out of a plate/” Myra said, “As hard as I try I can’t break him of the old habits his mother taught.” Bernice said, “Yes. It was very difficult to change Al’s strange eating methods.” Aristotle didn’t write anything about fun and happiness being connected, but I thought they were related in some way, exactly how I didn’t know.