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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.
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)! *** May 29, 2010 I’ve cooked up the idea of installing in my kitchen a tile baseboard (called battiscopa, literally hit-broom) with a floral design. It’s going to be more than twice as high as a normal Sicilian baseboard. When I explain my brilliant idea to the project manager, he knits his shaggy eyebrows into a scowl and gives his head a sad shake. “No, Gianna.” I get a whiff of his strong aftershave. “Perché no?” Why not? He shoots me a look you might give a very slow learner. “Non si fa in Sicilia.” It’s not done in Sicily. Oh. I search for the right words. I tell him the ceiling is very high “e a me piace i fiori.” And to me pleases the flowers. “Non si fa,” he repeats with steely authority. It’s simply not done. Does he think one non-traditional battiscopa will throw the whole island out of whack? This isn’t the first time I’ve run smack into the Wall of Tradition. Sicily is a culture that values the Old Way, the Way of Granny. I adore this about the island, really I do. In fact, I’m restoring my house in the Way of Granny. Mostly. I’m preserving and enhancing whatever is old. The floor tiles I’ve chosen for the kitchen are traditional Sicilian ones made in Palermo. The floral tiles are also an old Sicilian motif. But I just want to tweak things a bit here and there, add my own little spin. In the end, I defy the project manager. The new stonemason masterfully installs the butterscotch-colored daisies while crooning Sicilian love songs. “Beh, non e brutta,” the project manager concedes when he sees the battiscopa. “It’s not ugly.”
*** *** Readers, can you help me? Will you consider voting for my Sicily photograph in the Islands Reader’s Choice poll? Here’s the link. The link will bring you to a photo I shot of a Sicilian woman in Capo Passero (in the extreme southeast corner of Sicily). You can vote by clicking on *My Favorite* underneath the photo. (I could win a photography course and you could win a camera!) GRAZIE MILLE! (To see thumbnails of all 22 photos in the competition, click this link.) May 9, 2010
Love is the crowning grace of humanity, the holiest right of the soul, the golden link that binds us to duty and truth… Francesco Petrarch (Italian poet, 1304-1374) *** Buona Festa della Mamma!!!!! April 8, 2010 The men in my town are good at sitting around.
I like this; it makes the streets feel homey. Retired guys gather at circoli, men’s clubs, like the above circolo for operai (workers) in Ragusa Ibla.
The Circolo di Conversazione for noblemen is on Piazza Duomo. Note the heavy brocade drapes and the fact that the aristocrats lounge on wooden chairs instead of plastic ones. Inside swing old cut-glass chandeliers.
The Circolo di Conversazione is across the street from the fishermen’s club. Someone told me the two groups never mingle or even exchange a buon giorno, but I’m not sure if that’s true.
Tourist tip for women in Sicily: don’t let the fixed stares of sitting-around Sicilian elders put you off. They’re curious, bored, sweet as pie. I started a conversation with these members of Circolo San Giorgio—yet another club in Ragusa Ibla—and the men responded with Old World courtesy, eager to use their schoolboy English to discuss New Jersey cousins, American politics, and World War II, when the Allies charged through the area during Operation Husky. They even invited me inside!
I wonder what the wives are doing while the husbands are sitting around. *** |
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