July 19, 2010
Sicilians love their mare in summer. There’s been a mass exodus from the inland baroque towns; everyone’s hit the beach. The odd thing is that when Sicilians “go on vacation,” they travel en bloc, with all their friends and neighbors. So Ragusani move 15 kilometers away to the summer village of Marina di Ragusa for July and August; Modicani move to Marina di Modica; people from Noto go to Marina di Noto—you get the picture.
“Why would you want to go on holiday to a place where you don’t know anybody?” asks a Ragusan friend when I express surprise at this herd behavior.
Those who can’t afford a second home in Marina pitch tents on the beach and mingle with extended families from sunup to sundown, gobbling up gelato and platefuls of pasta alla Norma. Just before the Festival of San Giovanni Battista on August 29, everyone migrates back to Ragusa, as if a mighty shepherd is herding them all back at once.
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June 29, 2010
Assai megghiu addivintirai si a la morti pinsirai, goes an old Sicilian saying. You’ll be a better person if you think about death.
The walls in Sicily are bulletin boards of death, so there’s ample opportunity here to think about it.
The black-bordered papers called necrologie are everywhere. Ciao Nonno Salvatore one reads. Bye Grandpa Salvatore.
A guy with a brush and a pot of glue rides around on his motorino plastering necrologie around town.
My Sicilian-American friend Mary, who has lived here for twenty-some years, says she was “freaked out” by the “morbid things” when she first arrived, but I find them endearing. They celebrate you all over the neighborhood for months, even years, while all we Americans get is a tiny newspaper blurb for a day.
Li morti aprinu l’occhi a li vivi, say the Sicilians.
The dead open the eyes of the living.
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June 19, 2010
Sicily’s shutters:
Defenders against the brash sun.
Mysterious louvered eyelids.
Guardians of secret lives.
Shutters here are called persiane (Persians).
The hot ghibli winds have blown in from the Sahara, along with sand. Come mid-afternoon, you close the shutters tight and lie down in a dark room on cool sheets. Guilt-free. Everyone else is doing it, too.
Later as the sun begins to drops, the village wakes and, one by one, le persiane creak open.
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June 1, 2010
They came and took away the festa lights today.
Thank goodness the fun is over. Three whole days of it. The piazza resembled the midway at a Texas carnival: balloons, candy apples, cotton candy (zucchero filato).
Fireworks scaring to death—literally—the poor pigeons (carcasses all over town), large whorls of purple smoke ruining my laundry, wildly peeling bells at all hours of the day, our fêted patron saint (San Giorgio) paraded again and again through the tangled streets, three evenings of piped-in You’re Nothing but Hound Dog, three nights of blinding explosions that screeched like anti-aircraft fire—with sparks so close I was sure my house would melt. Via San Giorgio!
Great fun! See for yourself!
You can’t accuse Sicilians of lacking enthusiasm or the grand gesture.
And tomorrow’s another festa (della Repubblica)!
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