Restoring a Damp House in Sicily, Part 3

March 1, 2010

The roof’s been fixed; the rain’s been staunched.

Old Terracotta Roof Tiles on a Sicilian House, copyright Jann Huizenga

xxx


…xxxxx

xxx

xxx

I turn my attention to the interior of the house.

Please find me some old stones, I implore. Vi prego. There must be stone under the many layers of plaster and wall tile. Let’s expose it!

“What do you need old stones for, anyway? asks the project manager, tossing his head impatiently. “If you want stone, we can put pietra finta, fake stone, on the walls.”

Fake stone? Could he be serious?

“It’ll be faster and cheaper than looking all over the house for old stone. It looks better, too.”

“But,” I wail, “I love old stuff! We don’t have old stuff in the Stati Uniti!!!! That’s why I’m in Sicily!”

I long to wrap history around me like a well-worn cape. Sicilians, having lived among ruins for millennia, want to shed the old cape for something flashier.

***

A week or so later, I get a call in Rome. “Non c’e pietra.” There’s no stone.

I’m stunned.  This is an old Sicilian house. There has to be stone. Or have I managed to purchase the one and only stone-free house in all of Italy?

***

There’s a new twist to the plot. My husband decides to travel from the U.S. to far-flung Ragusa Ibla to see for himself what’s going on. It’s the first time he and the house will meet—nearly a year after I’ve bought it—and I’m nervous. His interest in the project has not been keen. What’ll he think?

When he arrives at our mossy-smelling home late one afternoon, there’s rubble wherever you look. He wears a fixed frown and raises an eyebrow.

Then he hunts around for a tool. There’s nothing in the house but a vintage can opener. He climbs a ladder in the salone and starts scratching at the vaulted ceiling. He claws away with his rusty little can opener until fingers start to bleed.

“So who says there’s no pietra,” he yells from atop the ladder. “Look at this.”

Peeking through the plaster is a hint of beautiful stone.

Ceiling of a Sicilian house undergoing restoration, copyright Jann Huizenga

x

He comes down from the ladder and steps onto the balcony with a wan smile. Plaster has settled into his hair. The sky is full of evening light; the bells toll as if they’re going mad. The small smile transforms into a dual-dimpled grin.

x

San Giorgio Cathedral at dusk, Ragusa Ibla, Sicily, copyright Jann Huizenga

Click to leave a comment.

Click to subscribe. (It’s free.)

Do You Dream . . . ?

February 22, 2010

… of a house in deepest Sicily?

… of clouds and earth and stone?

Stone Farmhouse in a field in Southeast Sicily, copyright Jann Huizenga

Of lying under a fig tree with days wide as an ocean?

Dream away…Abandoned house in the countryside in southeast Sicily, copyright Jann HuizengaAbandoned house in a field in southeast Sicily, copyright Jann Huizenga

There are so many broken-down homes in Southeast Sicily waiting to be tamed. Waiting and waiting for you.

For Sale Sign on Old Sicilian House, copyright Jann Huizenga

Leave a comment.

Click to subscribe. (It’s free.)

Restoring a Damp House in Sicily, Part 2

February 19, 2010

Scaffolding on a Sicilian House, Copyright Jann Huizenga


I scale the scaffolding to inspect the newly-patched roof tiles. Resentment tugs at me—a feeling that my husband should be the one crawling up these monkey bars, not accident-prone me. Why is he 7,000 miles away, on terra firma, while I’m alone in this strange land?  The truth is, the foolhardy idea to renovate a house in Sicily was all mine. But couldn’t he feign a little more interest?

I keep climbing. Anaïs Nin’s words run through my head: Life expands or contracts in proportion to your courage.

It’s cold up here. The house—at the summit of Ragusa Ibla— takes the full brunt of the cutting tramontana blowing south from snowy Mount Etna. The rocks at the edges of the roof are meant to keep the old terracotta tiles from flying away in the wind like a cloud of pigeons.

Antique Sicilian Terracotta Roofing Tiles, Copyright Jann Huizenga

The finished roof, excruciatingly slow as it has been, looks gorgeous in the amber glow of late afternoon. But what do I know. Will it keep the rivers of rain outside? Will the damp house one day be a dry house?

Antique Terracotta Roof in Ragusa Ibla, Sicily, Copyright Jann Huizenga

Earlier in the day I’d rushed down in a panic from Rome because a neighbor had told me my scaffolding permit was about to expire. A denuncia against me—an official denouncement to the police—was under discussion by neighbors. None of my brushes with officialdom in Italy have been good; I’m especially nervous about being on the wrong side of the law in a country where even a bounced check can land you in the slammer.

But in true Sicilian fashion, disaster has been averted just in the nick of time. Fifteen minutes before the permit expires, my project manager tracks down a friend in the comune.

C’e l’abbiamo fatto!” he enthuses, winking and brandishing the new papers. “We did it! It’s been extended. You’ve got to have friends in Sicily.”

Yes, you’ve got to have amici. A truism that becomes clearer to me each day. A friend of a friend—a virtual stranger—has, with astounding Sicilian generosity, donated all the materials for the next phase of the project: the plastering of leaky exterior walls.

Old Terracotta Roof Tiles in Southeast Sicily, Copyright Jann Huizenga

But will the wall work drag on forever, like the roof did?

Will I give neighbors another reason to denounce me?

Will my  husband ever come to Sicily? Will he ever want to see this old house?

xxx

Click to leave a comment.

Click to subscribe. (It’s free.)

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

Leave a comment.

Click to subscribe. (It’s free.)

xxxxxx

XUWMQDU6YUJN

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.

Roman Gypsy

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.

House Renovation in Sicily

Leave a Comment.

Click to subscribe.

Site Meter BlogItalia.it - La directory italiana dei blog