Under the Sicilian Sun

In June I had a weeks holiday in Sicily to escape the hustle of bustle of Naples in exchange for the hustle and bustle of Sicily.  Taking the overnight boat from Naples to Catania, I left at 7.30pm Sunday night and arrived exactly 12 hours later.   Not a lover of sailing due to motion sickness I found the boat as a mode of transport to be pleasant even though I had the sways throughout the following two days. 

When I left for Sicily the heat had started to intensify and without the build-up and concentration of Neapolitan streets, Catania and the other places I visited; Taormina, Syracuse and Noto, felt hotter.  Given the lack of signage and a map, I found my way with the help of some locals, out of the port into the city centre to the oasis of my accommodation.  Along the way I came across the early morning fish and vegetable markers, prompting me, of course, to photograph the colourful and sculptural produce.  Once at the B&B I showered and was tempted to sleep for a while yet it felt wrong to shun the daylight so I went out again into the streets to roam amongst the Baroque and Rococo style buildings.

Sicilians see themselves as Sicilian rather than Italian.  Sicily looks and feels different, due perhaps to the trace of the Arabic, Spanish, French and Greek cultures that have dominated the small island and other southern places over the centuries.  The benefits leftover from such cultural invasions are often in the food and architecture and Sicily has a reputation for its food.  Given the intense heat I surprisingly didn’t eat as much as I thought I would or wish to.  One of the food consumptions that I saw a lot of was of granita and brioche for breakfast or lunch or even dinner.  The granita is not the one I am used to consuming in Naples, which consists of fresh lemon juice, thickly shaved ice and sugar.  Sicilian granita is finer, more like a sorbet and comes in a range of flavours.  Pistachio is a highlight in Sicily.  A desert bowl of one or more flavours is served with a small knob of sweetened brioche.  For breakfast, it was way too sweat for me and I was unable to finish my serve.  For an afternoon pickup the treat works just fine.  Whilst waiting for two hours in the direct sun for a bus to Taormina I saw the dish served with granita inside the brioche, somewhat like a hotdog served in a bun.   Cannoli is another Sicilian specialty but I’m sorry to say I didn’t make the opportunity to try some.

With the pleasurable benefit of an Australian friend who lives in Catania, I was accompanied by Cezanne and her partner Giuseppe to Mt Etna where from the 1000ft lookout I felt transported to another world due to the dark, resting lava contrasting with zesty green forestation growing fecund in the soil.  Feeling very much in the lap of mythical gods, three quarters of the way up the active volcano, the landscape dominated all the way to the sea, whilst I, perched like a small piece of gravel, felt pitted against the mountains slope whilst viewing the panoramic scene before me.  The crunch of the volcanic rock and dust are a reminder of why so many buildings are constructed from its soil and rock shrouding southern buildings with this darkened, lightweight stone. 

Blood oranges and pistachios are a specialty of the region.  Giuseppe, who farms blood orange trees, said the colour of fruit deepens due to the soil type.  On the way from Mt Etna we stopped at Belpasso for a pistachio arancini.  The arancini dates back to the 10^th century when the Kalbids, a Shia Muslim dynasty, ruled Sicily.  Eating this filling treat, turned into a meal.  The outer crust was crunchy and the pistachio nut gave a slightly sweet and salty flavour.  We then ate hand-made orange rind coated chocolates before departing back to Catania.  An amusement along the way was passing through a place called Mister Bianco, evoking Quentin Tarantino’s Reservoir Dogs.  The name of this town, I was told, is due to a mispronunciation and instead of the real name sounded somewhat similar, they ended up with Mister Bianco and its spelling.

Walking around Catania’s market, one of the largest food markets I have ever seen, my camera could possibly have had a stroke due to the amount of photos I took.  The batteries certainly died from use, allowing me to actually see the produce through my own eyes instead of a lens and purchase some for lunch.  I then walked around in the heat to find a small space in the shade to sit and eat the bread, cheese, olives and artichokes I had purchased, with nothing to be seen.  I kept walking and found myself out of the market area and back at via Etenea, uncertain where to go to next when I found myself outside a McDonalds.  I can hear your gasps already.  The air conditioning was like a siren’s call to a sailor so in I walked, lunch in hand dangling beside me.  The entrance looked like a foyer to an expensive hotel.  Not having eaten hot chips or a hamburger for many months, I started to get excited about my order and more excited about having my body cooled by the air conditioning.  Could I be any happier? - On that day, possibly not.  I ate my food with relish occasionally glancing at my fresh Italian produce sitting beside me in a bag.  The guilt started to build and I felt that I had committed a mortal sin against Italian culture. Despite this I kept eating contentedly.  I’m not a McDonalds eater in Australia, possibly twice a year I would venture into a store.  To be eating such food in the heart of food culture could be the biggest sin I’ve ever committed.

Syracuse was the next place I visited but sadly I did not connect with this town.  Ortiga, an ancient and small place joined to Syracuse via a bridge was pleasant visually to walk around and made up for some of my disappointment with Syracuse.  The streets of Ortiga were narrow and full of interesting shops that opened up into a large piazza with the duomo solidly erected, looking incongruous in such a place yet a monument to life that once was.  The small streets held interesting detail such as woven lobster nets that hung sculpturally above pedestrians.  It was frustrating to be in such heat only to find one narrow entrance to some temporary scaffolding put up for summer that arched over rocks to launch people into the water amongst the floating rubbish.  This was, sadly, too off putting for me to take the plunge. 

The unnerving thing about Syracuse was the amount of men sitting around the streets and at a guess, the ratio appeared to be around 7:3.   The lack of female presences perplexing and I didn’t take to the unoccupied male dominance.  From Syracuse I took a daytrip to Noto, a beautifully preserved town where huge churches and buildings looked deserted against the few locals and tourists who walked up and down its main street.  I ventured down side streets feeling shut out from the life force of pulsing Sicilian culture.  I was told, by a fellow traveller that when he was there the town came to life after siesta where the evening is full of people enjoying the streets and the cooler air and sadly my day trip didn’t accommodate a longer visit.

Taormina gave me great joy, as it was not only visually beautiful but had a clean, cool sea to swim in.  Unfortunately it was my briefest stay and whilst it is known as a tourist town, I was happy to be amongst a more even proportion of men, women and children who strolled around easily.   The town itself sits up high on a cliff face and the water below is accessed via a cable car.  If I had stayed in this coastal delight for a week I would not be able to have a more rounded Sicilian experience and perhaps would have left under some delusion. 

The use of a credit card to pay for accommodation or even obtaining cash from an ATM can be difficult.  My experience was that most places demand cash and dealing with banks to sort out why your card was rejected can be slightly stressful given the connection to survival a credit card can be in a travellers’ life, so, when venturing to Sicily cash up.

On a unified note, I noticed that the constant use of the horn whilst in traffic unifies the drivers of Sicily to those of Naples.  Perhaps it is a way for Southern Italians to release their frustrations of bureaucratic life.  What is puzzling to me is that where Italians demonstrate their anger in some sectors they conceal it in others.  For example, after the boat arrived into Naples port, a hold up of some kind prevented the passengers from disembarking for an hour.  To my amazement, not one peep from anyone, either asking what the hold up was or that they were tired of waiting.  Hundreds of people stood, patiently, holding their luggage, the hands of their children, their domestic pets and their pride until we were released.  All I could think of was chaos, control, chaos, control, Sicily's dichotomy, and perhaps Life’s too.

Ciao

hellsbells

There Is A Season

Pomodoro season

 Italians love to do things according to the rule.  It appears, without question for the most part, that when tried and true rules have been passed down to generation after generation, no one appears to question it even though certain things around these ceremonies and rules have changed and make them obsolete, such as weather.

Still not sure what I’m talking about?  Well, when I first arrived here in March it was the season of spring.  Spring is predominantly cool days with a few warm ones thrown in.  On warm days I dress accordingly.  On warm days Italians dress according to spring wearing warm clothing despite the temperature.  Whilst they’re looking at me strangely, I’m certainly looking back at them with interest.  When in summer, flip flops or shorts are rarely seen on Italians for they continue to present their stylish ways.

Sicilian wedding in June with
not a sweaty face to be seen

Italians don’t sweat someone told me. I still don’t believe it but it appears to be true for they stroll along in their ironed shirts and uncreased jackets, or weather jackets and scarves, with no sign of perspiration.   June is the season for weddings in the southern Italian states and despite the heat and humidity they still dress to impress.

Walking around with wet hair is another offensive.  Understandably, in cold weather it isn’t advisable to walk around with a head of wet hair but it isn’t life threatening either.  My beloved hairstylist, Sandra, finds it unthinkable that I would want to depart from my silky Mary Tyler Moore hairdo, for cost saving reasons, in order to shake my head and walk into the sun for it to dry.  It’s crazy to think that they find it nearly criminal to have wet hair but okay to drive incredibly close and fast near pedestrians.

I was asking a Neapolitan friend about some soft cheese that I first found and tried in a salumiera (deli) in Siena, and how to best devour this gorgeous cheese.  Her response was to put it onto bread (I did that) and whilst waiting for the list to go on it stopped there.  What about pasta? I asked.  Noooo, she said, this is not good for pasta.  But according to my reasonably good palette, it was bloody brilliant with pasta but I dare not tell an Italian how to use cheese or any other food product, despite my successful discovery.  The soft cheese Stracchino is very similar to a goats’ cheese in colour, taste and texture, the expensive kind that you can find in a supermarket often cylindrical in shape and rolled in ash. 

Whilst appreciating and thoroughly enjoying Italian cuisine, I also appreciate the fantastic dishes that have been created because of the Australian approach to fusion food.  Italian food is very traditional but limited should I compare the culinary delights between Italy and Australia.  Italians can be praised for ‘getting it right’ as they pass down regional recipes yet it is limited when comparing such cuisine to countries such as Australia where a range of good produce is used in various dishes.  Each region and sometimes family have a different method when cooking.  Put salt into the boiling pasta water or, wait until the pasta is in the water.  Don’t mix cheese with seafood or don’t put the wrong cheese with a dish.  If you were able to listen to Italians converse it is mostly about food, what they ate and what they will eat.

Cook the right pasta with the right dish.  This one I get.  The incredible range of different pasta could fill a museum and quite possible there is one somewhere.  The brand of pasta also becomes contentious.  I have predominantly been a Barilla user for the past(a) decade but since being in Naples I have been assured that Garofalo, a Neapolitan made pasta, is better.

It is admirable to find that fruit and vegetables are supplied when in season only.  If they don’t have it then you don’t eat it.  The fruit and vegetables are displayed with care and creativity.  A wooden box of deep purple figs sat in a blanket of their own leaves early one morning as I was purchasing breakfast for the hostel.  Their plump little bodies looked as delicate as a sleeping newborn pup.  I felt if I had tried to pick one up I would disturb it.  Despite that feeling, I bought four of them, returned to the hostel and ate two, ripping the oval fruit in half and gorged the sweet, grainy tissue.   Just as an aside – I have noticed that when trying to describe the delights of eating, in my posts on Naples, I then understand how Nigella Lawson is often criticized for saucing it up.  I am a big fan of Nigella as a cook and presenter and have always believed that she delivers her food knowledge in a creative and passionate way, ignoring all of the snide ‘oh, she knows what she’s doing’ remarks.  I confess I have rewritten some of my sentences for fear that they will, without a doubt, sound explicitly sexual.  But food is a sensual thing so maybe I shouldn’t worry too much.

Where was I?  Oh, yes, Italians and their rules.  I love how the fresh produce is grown to a natural maturation so that the flavours are intense and astonish the senses.  One thing I have noticed is that vegetables are cooked in a lot of oil.  Actually, most Italian dishes are cooked in a lot of oil.  I can’t say I am a big fan of the ‘heavy vegetable’ as I refer to it and whilst they are tasty, on the whole, they are far too heavy for my constant consumption.

A fresh crisp salad or lightly steamed vegetables are my preferred way of ingesting vegetarian produce yet seldom is it seen here.  A salad, if ordered in a restaurant, could quite possibly present on a platter as some iceberg lettuce and lemon juice.  Corn and carrot also make appearances on some of these salads that again, aren’t my style.  I suppose I have been spoilt with the variety of produce in Australia and the intensity of flavour in Italy.  Buon appetito and enjoy the season you’re in.

Ciao

hellsbells

O Mio MADRE

Interior courtyard of MADRE Museo

MADRE is an acronym for Museo D’Arte Contemoranea Donna Regina in Naples.  Madre is also the name for mother.  Should you be in Naples and not wanting to walk far from the historical centre with a few hours to fill in with something interesting, MADRE is your place.  The building on approach is bland comparatively to the Baroque and Rococo styles abounding in this city and is possibly classified as neo classical.  Once in the foyer of the building there is not a feeling being interior to the building itself but of an internal courtyard where a truck could easily be driven to deliver works, and possibly does, with the ticket office on one side and a museum store on the other.

MADRE houses permanent and temporary works of art.  Striking me as the most memorable and beautiful are works by Francisco Clemente and Mimmo Palatino.  Each work in the collection has its own room to possible avoid competition from other works as well as providing the viewer with a pure focus on the work.  The collection consists of artists from around the world such as Damien Hirst, Gilbert & George, Anselm Kiefer, Richard Serra and Jeff Koons, to name but a few.

To put this posting in context, I believe that art can be anything that has been created by someone with the intent to provide a message or statement.  It’s not necessarily found in a gallery and can be seen everyday on the streets.  It occurs in our day to day living, in our clothing, in our body language, in our choice of dinnerware, furniture, wall art and books.  All of us present ideas visually as alternate messages to language, consciously or unconsciously.  When I visit a gallery I enter curiously to see and hopefully feel what other people in the global community are saying through their visual statements.

Shlovsky’s 1917 essay, Art as Device said that art is thinking in images, I agree with this and I’m always interested to know what other people think or feel.  What they think and what I think about what they think are where lie some criticisms.  Unable to judge art on technical skill I believe that I intuitively know when something is well crafted and I found most of the works at MADRE to be visually appealing.  I also have a great appreciation for the years of technical training and study by artists of their art form as this too shines through work and can speak volumes.

The third floor of MADRE houses an exhibition titled Still Untitled by artist Sislej Xhafa, pronounced, sis-ly shay fa.  Each work had its own substantial room and the first one room presented a gaffer-taped microphone.  If I could insert a symbol for my eyebrows raising here I would.  The next room housed rubbish spread across the floor; the third, a bag of cement broken open; the fourth, a black bra hanging on a hook; the fifth, a toothpick on a plinth under a Perspex cover; and before exiting to see Xhafa’s final work, a watermelon on a pedestal.  I don’t know about you but I always think of the fable The Kings New Clothes at this point.  I can see a watermelon for its own beauty at the market or on a kitchen bench yet when it’s placed in a gallery I am not sure if someone is sharing their mutual appreciation of the fruit with me, or saying something altogether different and if they are all I can say is, I don’t get it.

Xhafa then held my attention with her final piece: that of a life size rowing boat made of all styles of used shoes titled Barka 2011.  Given the contentious topic of desperate refugees, this work held a powerful message for me despite what Xhafa’s own intention or message in the work may be.  It also evoked memories of images from World War II concentration camps where shoes, clothing, glasses, etc were taken from people who were taken into the gas chambers and sorted into piles.  A traveller who stayed at the hostel wore a pair of beaded sandals throughout her stay.  The day after she left I saw her shoes placed neatly on step of a resident a few doors down.  Perhaps she left them there for someone to take rather than putting them in a bin.  The sandals stayed there for days before they disappeared and each time I walked past them I was pleasantly reminded of the person and her possible good dead but there was also an eerie feeling for me of a departure of life, somewhat like a death.

Separated by a small laneway, the church of Santa Donna Regina Vecchia sits next to MADRE and sometimes houses temporary exhibiting works.  The earliest mention of this church was in 780, which is perhaps why I found such an atmosphere when I walked into its interior. English artist, Rachel Howard, a self-declared atheist, currently has her show of work in this church representing her versions of the Stations of the Cross.  Apart from one of the pieces hanging above the altar (see below) there was no message or pleasure derived from the remaining 12 works and this is where I may lose friendships.  The work looked like someone was deciding what floor stain to use.  The background colour of the works was a cold pale yellow.  I believe colours have their own messages and I couldn’t make a connection to the colour, the brush strokes or anything else that could possibly relate to the Stations of the Cross, apart from the one small work that was incredibly relevant to the exhibition’s theme.

Rachel Howard's Stations of The Cross

The church itself held way more interest for me. A shrine carved to represent Mary, wife of Charles I, resides in this space with seven of her sons below her each holding something different, great clues for the inquisitive mind to find out what they represent.  The openness, colouring and simplicity of the church appealed to me.  It looked and felt ancient and if I had seen in my peripheral vision a brown robe moving into a doorway I wouldn’t have doubted it.

Whilst quenching my thirst at the museum café, the attendant who served me was an artwork himself with the most interesting tattoos, hairstyle and body piercings.  Instead of being hung or photographed he served me, thus proving my point, that art is all around us and that all of us express ourselves in our artful lives mothered by our cultural influences. 

Ciao

hellsbells