June 10, 2010
There are rivers, cascades, torrents of steps in Sicilian hill towns.
 
Ragusa Ibla is a natural gym—better than a Stair Stepper. No wonder the locals live such long lives. It must be the steps (oh, and the olive oil that old-timers drink like water).
I gain no weight here, though I eat like a monster: great bowls of pasta alla Norma, cones of toasted almond gelato, artichoke flowers, deep-fried donuts filled with sweet pistachio cream, wheels of cheese.
    
To the hundreds of steps in town, add twenty-five more in my house. I lie in bed at night, head spinning and spinning. Legs aching and aching. And I’m happy.
***
Does this life look fun to you?
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June 6, 2010
“I know you,” said a tall man with olive eyes as we crossed paths last week.
I racked my brain. Had we met?
“We drink coffee at the same bar,” he laughed. “All stranieri, strangers, are famous here.”
I cringed.
“Do you know Louise from England?”
I shook my head.
He pointed to a low, crumbling building adjacent to the cathedral and pulled out a ring of keys. “The church is trying to sell this building. Do you want to see inside?”
The two dank rooms inside were pigeon-pooped and depressing, but I saw two old chairs I liked in a pile of junk.
“I gift them to you, Signora.”
I politely protested.
“But they’re worthless!” he said.
Old Sicilian church chairs—seats lovingly caned with a thick, rough twine—have been replaced by pews.
Heading up the stairs to my house, a salvaged chair under each arm, I felt another rush of Sicily-love.
There was also regret. Why had he let them go so lightly?
***
ADDENDUM: It’s true that the little church chairs were riddled with wood-munching bugs—tarli, as they’re called here. But there’s a simple solution. My friend Roberta (left) taught me the antitarlo recipe: Buy a syringe at a farmacia, don pink plastic gloves, fill the syringe with toxic goo, plunge it into each and every pinhole (there were millions), then wrap the chair, Christo-like, in plastic and let rest for 2 weeks. Unwrap and enjoy with a glass of Nero d’Avola.
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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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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.”
***
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***
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 25, 2010
Can you say that five times, fast?
Pronounced chic-ly, Scicli is not at all chic, though I suppose you could call it shabby chic. It’s got that vintage, distressed look—complete with a baroque voluptuousness, flakey paint, and mottled sandstone walls.
Go if you like out-of-the-way little gems.
It was a Moorish town a millennium ago, later a Norman one, and was rebuilt in the Baroque style after the 1693 quake. Then Time forgot little Scicli until it was declared a World Heritage Site in 2002. It is slowly waking up from a long torpid slumber.
It has its share of ogres, meant to keep foreigners and evil spirits at bay.
Hike up to the decaying Church of San Matteo if you dare. You’ll be amply rewarded with stunning views: a sapphire sea on your left and a town that looks like a stage set at your feet.
xxx
The best place in town for lunch is Pomodoro, owned by Enrico Gugliotto (pictured here) and his brother Giuseppe (in the kitchen). It’s about a five minute walk from the baroque heart of Scicli (Corso Garibaldi 46, closed Tuesday, 0932.931.444).
And check out the gorgeous Scicli cemetery if you’re into stone cherubs and angels. It’s just outside of town.
[gmap]
Click to leave a comment.
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Readers, can you help me? Will you consider voting for my Sicily photograph in the Islands 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.)
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