Ragusa Ibla « baroquesicily.com - Sicily Stories and Travel Tips from Jann Huizenga

Restoring a Damp House in Sicily: Part 1

February 8, 2010

The building permit for my little dream house in Sicily has finally been issued. I’m wildly happy.

…

Work begins.

Or does it? I’ve taken a job way up in Rome to finance the dream, so I cannot be sure.

xxxxxxx

xxxxx

But I know one thing: the scaffolding is up in the back of the house. A neighbor sends me this picture.

Renovating an old house in Ragusa Iba, Sicily, scaffolding, copyright Baroque Sicly

I am now the neighborhood eyesore. Not at all bella figura. Neighbors whose main entrance is on the alleyway can barely shoehorn their way into their own homes.

“Just a few weeks,” says the project manager when I call to ask how long it has to stay up.

But January turns to February, and February fades into March. I’m preoccupied with my job in Rome. My mason is in the hospital. My project manager busy with an illness in the family. The scaffolding stands forgotten.

I get a call in Rome from my Sicilian neighbor. “Gianna,” she says, “the neighborhood is complaining. People are arrabiati, angry. They’re afraid of thieves climbing on the scaffolding and breaking into their houses. And did you know the permit is about to expire?”

“Really?” I yelp.

I don’t expect what comes next.

“Neighbors are talking about filing a denucia, a formal complaint to the police.”

I take a deep breath and catch the next plane down.

xxx

Driving in Sicily: A Wall Struck My Car

February 5, 2010

I don’t claim to be the world’s best driver. Not by a long shot.

But I never had actual accidents till I started driving in Sicily.

Look at this. It’s the center of Ragusa Ibla. Could you squeeze through these streets?

Narrow Street in Ragusa Ibla, Sicily

I feel little stabs of fear bumping over the S-shaped lanes of Sicilian hill towns.

I’ve torn off a side-view mirror or two. A bumper or two. Never hit anybody, though.

You can’t blame me. There was this one time when a wall came out of nowhere and hit me. Then there was the time a mirror jutting out from a parked Fiat struck my car.

Motorcycle in Narrow Sicilian Street This guy has the right idea. Drive a motorcycle in Sicilian hill towns. It’s really the only vehicle that fits.

Here I am–a straniera of a certain age–trying on a little Vespa for size. What do you think? Should I? Could I? Darest I?

***

Tourist tip: Get full collision coverage when driving in Sicily. But don’t let the idea of driving on the island worry you unnecessarily: it’s an absolute joy to drive on the open road in Sicily. By the way, Kemwel is the cheapest car rental consolidator I’ve found for Sicily. They’re professional and fast about following up on accidents and suchlike. Ask for your AAA, ARP, whatever discount AFTER they quote a price.(Just please don’t mention me or this post if you contact them! Yikes. They’ll never let me rent again. )

Pazienza, a Sicilian Mantra

January 30, 2010

I hire a team of architects.

I fire a team of architects.

I leave my husband in New Mexico and take a job in Rome in order to be “close” to Sicily.

And, oh, what a job it is (why don’t I have any luck with Italian bosses?).

The whammies start to add up.

I hire a project manager (the handsomest of men) with a swagger, cool sunglasses, a Range Rover, a mop of curls, an Etna-like temper and—how best to put this?—a hands-off management style. Which I only learn later. His mantras are Non sono d’accordo and Non e possibile.

My Roman job swallows me whole, but on rare occasions I sneak down to Sicily to prod, cajole, wring my hands, and gnash my teeth. I prowl around the damp house—it’s twice as cold inside as outside—and wonder how it’ll ever be livable. Why in the world is the building permit taking so long?

Pazienza, Sicilians tell me. I’m not a patient person, but I’m beginning to suspect I’ll need some endurance to get the life I want to lead.

What is the life I want to lead, anyway?

A stop-the-world-I-want-to-get-off life, a turn-back-the-clock-a-century life. A new life. A second life.

A friend forwards an email from a British guy who is temporarily living in Italy: “Anyone buying any kind of property in Italy needs counseling. I send my deepest sympathies to the lady in Sicily…”

New Roman friends respond with audible gasps, like in a comic book, when I tell them I’m renovating a house in Sicily. They call me coraggiosa and then laugh themselves silly.

My husband remains reluctant, though not opposed.

Lo and behold, 8 months after I buy the damp old house and after endless phone calls, faxes, and DHLs (my project manager avoids email), I am in possession of a building permit. The legitimacy of my existence is confirmed.

“It’s your Christmas present,” says my best friend on the island, an expat Sicilian-American upon whom I lean like a crutch.

Never mind that the dollar is at an all-time low. Or that our retirement nest egg is about to dissolve like salt in water. Or that I feel I’m flying off a cliff.

Let the work begin.

Is My Existence Legitimate?

January 24, 2010

I had cast myself into a new life with all my heart.

But I’d forgotten my head.

Cold reality soon set in. My new digs recalled the toilets at Penn Station: grimy white bathroom tiles were glued to every available surface. Water stained floors and ceilings.

I dropped by the comune to ask about getting a building permit for a renovation—secretly hoping they’d wave me away with the well-worn Sicilian phrase Non preoccuparsi!, Don’t worry, and tell me to go do as I pleased.

Not quite. A goggle-eyed man in a pink cravat presented me with a garbage pail and a list.

A list so long and bewildering it brought tears to my eyes. I’ve translated it to the best of my ability (italics mine).

I’m so doomed.

graffiti on the back of my house

***

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La Zagara, or How I Was Drugged in Sicily

January 21, 2010

Here’s how I got into trouble.

After teaching a short course in Ragusa in 2002, I’d returned year after year to Southeast Sicily to root around for a little casa. The Fates pushed back with all their might and I finally admitted defeat.

In the spring of 2007, I came to see friends one last time and close the Sicilian chapter of my life. Ciao, Sicilia.

A day before bidding the island farewell, I scaled the long staircase up from Ibla’s Piazza Duomo to see the cupola from on high. After many years cocooned in scaffolding thick as wool, it had reemerged triumphant.

It looked good enough to eat, like whipped cream on a tumbler of granita. I felt a secret joy. Bells tolled, clouds slipped up from the valley. I inhaled la zagara—orange blossoms on the breeze—like a drug.

I turned. There, on an unassuming little row house with a mottled wall and weatherworn door, I saw the magic words: VENDITA.

I saw. I called. I bought. Cast myself into a new world just like that. 1-2-3.

Never imagining for a minute what was in store.

Restoring a Damp House in Sicily: Part 1

Driving in Sicily: A Wall Struck My Car

Pazienza, a Sicilian Mantra

Is My Existence Legitimate?

La Zagara, or How I Was Drugged in Sicily

Shoot Sicily With Me

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