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February 22, 2010 … … of a house in deepest Sicily? … of clouds and earth and stone?
Of lying under a fig tree with days wide as an ocean? … Dream away… There are so many broken-down homes in Southeast Sicily waiting to be tamed. Waiting and waiting for you. 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.
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 Click to subscribe. (It’s free.) xxxxxx XUWMQDU6YUJN 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.
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 *** Thank you for reading! Won’t you please subscribe? (It’s free.) January 12, 2009
A reader emailed to ask me about Arab influences in southeast Sicily—in addition to the majolica mentioned in my last post. There are so many leftover traces! I want to share a personal story. Do you see the man on the left, in the baseball cap? That’s Emanuele, assistant to my beloved (new) stonemason, Giorgio, the cap-less fellow, who warbles Sicilian love songs as he works, though that’s beside the point.
Here is a typical exchange between Emanuele and me: Me, shaking his hand: A domani! See you tomorrow! Him: Se Dio lo vuole, if God wills it. Me: I think you’ll be able to finish tiling around the bidet. Him: Se e la voglia di Dio, if it is the will of God. When I first met Emanuele, I’d just returned from Morocco, where Inshallah, God willing, is a constant refrain. The fact that he used the same refrain astonished me. Curiosity got the better of me and I asked if he was Muslim. His eyes bulged from their sockets at this suggestion, and his head jerked back on his thick neck (an Arab gesture for no.). Gianna, no! Ma che dici! Sono cattolico! Sono proprio, cento percento, cattolico!”
Scratch a Sicilian, I heard somewhere, and you’ll find a Saracen. Never mind that the two-plus centuries of Arab domination of the island ended more than a millennium ago. ***** NOTE: There’s a new book written by Alfonso Campisi, Ifriqiyya and Sicily: A Mediterranean Twinning, that retraces Sicily’s Arab history, but I haven’t been able to find it online. For a good summary on Arabs in Sicily click this link to Best of Sicily Magazine. |
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