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