Unlocking the Mysteries of Sicily

         Maybe I should have listened to the guidebooks and spent more time in the north.  I wouldn't be the first visitor to shy away from Sicily, a wild and mystical island beyond the proverbial boot of the Italian mainland.  Perhaps the stereotypes were right.  Perhaps Sicily was an arid land, populated by a smattering of farmers and the Mafia. Perhaps it was home to outlaws, like Lucky Luciano who was deported here in 1946.  Perhaps its people were secretive and suspicious of outsiders like the fictional Corleone family.  I had read enough about Sicily to know that it doesn't have a long history of welcoming tourists, carrying luggage and guide books.  For centuries, the strangers who visited here were soldiers from marauding armies.  At various points in time, this island was conquered by the dominant powers of the ancient world: the Phoenicians, Carthaginians, Greeks, Romans, Arabs, Normans, Aragonese, and Bourbons, and they all left behind rich architectural treasures, such as the Valle dei Templi in Agrigento. 
    
            But then again, our dear friend Nick was born here and he was the reason why my husband, nine-year-old son and I were white-knuckling our way to the opposite shore.  For years, he had wanted to introduce us to his family still living in Ribera, a small town outside Agrigento.  Even after settling in New Jersey, he still came back as often as he could with his wife and son.  We had been warmly welcomed into Nick's extended circle of relatives and friends, who crisscrossed the Atlantic, carrying cans of olive oil and anchovies in their suitcases.  They invited us to parties and weddings in New Jersey and made us feel a part of la familigia. When Nick died of cancer at age 37, we were heartbroken and vowed to keep in touch with his family, including those still living in Ribera.    

           When the boat finally docked, we started our journey to Taormina and then on to Agrigento, where we'd hook up with Nick's relatives.  We drove through miles of mountainous roads, bordered by pastureland with grazing sheep and cattle.  The rocky and arid terrain with smatterings of palm trees was far from genteel.  The tufts of dry grass, scrub brush, and rolling hills reminded me of northern Texas.  Still, as we traveled further east, we spotted orange, olive, and almond tree groves and farms that specialized in strawberries, grapes and other luscious fruit. Hugging the coast, we passed rocky escarpments jutting into the sea, shimmering turquoise in the sun.  The contrast between mountains, farmland, and the sea was breathtaking.    

            As we approached Taormina, we got spectacularly lost.  When we finally entered the city, a succession of one-way streets all took us away from the hotel, which we could spot just a few hundred yards (in the wrong direction) in our rear view mirror. After making a few fruitless circles through the maze of streets still taking us the wrong way, we decided to break the law, even though we had to pass a carabiniere in a patrol car in the middle of the block.  In true Italian style, he looked up at us, shrugged, and waved us on. 

           Hotel Bristol was a vestige from a grand baroque era.  Its lobby was decorated with gilded mirrors and overstuffed brocade sofas in faded splendor.  As a friendly hotel clerk led us to our rooms, we walked down dimly-lit hallways with flocked velvet wallpaper and passed huge armoires and beaded lamps.  I wondered why they didn't install higher watt bulbs.  The clerk solved the mystery when she unlocked our door.  To save energy and money, the rooms and hallways were outfitted with special outlets.  When a key card was fitted into the slot, the lights turned on. 

             As we walked through town, Taormina revealed its charms.  Its narrow streets wound up and down the hills.  Children playing soccer in the crooked alleys called out to us and practiced their English. A few of them had Nick's fair coloring with startling blue eyes and light brown hair, a genetic reminder of the invading Crusaders.  Older women dressed in black nodded to us and murmured "Buona sera."  Around their necks, many of them wore the Catholic cross and the manu fico, a pagan symbol we found everywhere around the island.  It represents a fist with the thumb poking between the index and third fingers, and supposedly wards off evil.  Another ubiquitous symbol was the triskele, a funny three-legged man, his knees bent.  This is an ancient icon of Sicily with its three rocky capes.    
    
             After a walk along the main thoroughfare, the Corso Umberto, we were ready for dinner.  Sicilian cuisine is unique and reflects its multicultural heritage.  Nowhere else in Italy can a visitor find couscous and pasta on the menu, as well as regional specialties such as panelle, a fried chickpea fritter.  We opted to dine at U Busso with its vine-covered facade, friendly staff, and tables decorated with fresh-cut flowers.  After the complimentary bruschetta, I tried the involtini di pesce spada, a local favorite. The swordfish fillets were stuffed with onion, pine nuts, raisins, Marsala wine, Parmegiano-Reggiano cheese, and fresh orange juice.  One bite of this dish, which combined the tantalizing flavors of the sun and sea, and I was hooked.  It was the best swordfish I had ever tasted.  

          The next morning, we were ready to see the sights. The public gardens, adjacent to the hotel, were just starting to bloom, but even so, the scent of damp earth and flowers was delightful.  We continued our walk uphill along a well-worn path leading to a Saracen fort and the sanctuary Madonna della Rocca. The view of the Ionian Sea and the coast was simply stunning. Later, we visited the ruins of a castle built on the site of an ancient acropolis and the Teatro Greco, the second largest classical theater in Sicily built in the Third Century B.C. by the Greeks and rebuilt in the Second Century AD by the Romans.  In the summer, it's the site for music, film and dance festivals.  Only in Sicily can a visitor see such contrasting architecture as Arab mosques, Norman cathedrals, Greek colonies, baroque churches, and medieval towns.  Now I could understand why artists and celebrities came here and lingered, attracted by the stunning scenery, ancient ruins, art museums, cafes, marina, sandy beaches, and mild winters.  Some of my favorite authors and artists had lived here--Truman Capote, D.H. Lawrence, Guy de Maupassant, John Steinbeck, Gustav Klimt, Charlie Chaplin, Federico Fellini, and Oscar Wilde.

      After lunch on a sunny terrace of a local pizzeria and dinner at another fabulous seafood restaurant, I went to bed, thinking of our drive to Agrigento, where we'd hook up with Cathy, the first of Nick's relatives, who managed the Grand Hotel Mose.  I couldn't help but wonder how they'd react to us, perfect strangers, connected to them only through Nick.  Because we were outsiders, they might mistrust us or treat us with restrained formality.  My misgivings intensified the next afternoon when we arrived at the hotel. Cathy had already taken off for the day, so left on our own, we decided to drive to the Valle dei Templi, the famous Greek ruins from the 5th Century B.C.  Walking along a dirt road, we passed five massive temples in sand-colored stone, nearly intact.  Magnificent.  They took on a warm ochre hue at sunset. With Mount Etna in the background providing fireworks, the setting was spectacular.

Afterwards, we ate dinner nearby at Le Caprice where we could stare at the temples while eating tender calamari and sipping the local wine.  For dessert, we drove to Porto Empedocle, a popular seaside town and sampled the gelato.  My son opted to have his inside a brioche.  The combination of the warm, flaky pastry and the cold ice cream was unforgettable.

          In the morning, we were reassured when we finally met Cathy, a slim, vivacious woman who quickly dialed Nick's sister Giuseppina in Ribera.  Cathy had mapped out our itinerary within minutes.  Instead of sending us directly to Ribera, 44 kilometers away, she told us, "You'll never find it on your own.  Take Route 115 and wait for Giuseppina and her daughter at the gas station. They'll take you the rest of the way."  The gas station?   Surely, there was more than one.  How would we know which one?  We had no pictures of Giuseppina and her daughter Nelia and no idea of what kind of car they were driving.  But Cathy sent us off with a reassuring wave and a cheerful "Don't worry."  As we drove along Route 115, we kept watch.  No gas station.  When at last we spotted one, we had to laugh.  In the parking lot, two women were standing by a white Peugeot.  I need not have worried about how they'd react to us.  Within seconds, Giuseppina and Nelia were kissing us and wiping tears from their eyes.  

          Back at Giuseppina's house, we met her husband Charlie, another daughter, son, son-in-law, and grandchildren.

With their fractured English and my stumbling Italian, we managed to communicate so much:  how happy we were to see them; how much we loved Nick, his wife and son; how our son and Nick's were friends; and how we all missed Nick so much.  After wiping their eyes and hugging again, they wanted to know more about us.  I told them Nick and my husband Rich were like brothers and had worked together at the same hospital.  They also wanted to know what we did for a living.  Not knowing the word for hospital administrator, I told them my husband was a "uomo d'affari," a businessman, and I was a "scrittore," a writer.  This news was met with thoughtful nods.  In turn, we learned that Charlie and his son were farmers, and Nelia's fiance Alessandro was studying architecture at the university.  In Sicilian society, honorifics are important and a bit overused.  It's common for people to address each other by titles even when saying good morning or good evening.  "Buona sera, avvocato." Good evening, lawyer might be answered with, "Buona sera, ingegnere!"  Good evening, engineer.       

          Unlike the women portrayed in Mafia movies, Nick's sister, nieces, and cousins managed careers, children and households.  Giuseppina, now retired, had worked for years as a bookkeeper.  Nelia was a hairdresser, and in fact, a customer was waiting for her downstairs.  We peeked into her shop on the first floor of the house.  A slim young woman, her hair coiled around rollers, gave us a wan smile.  We found out why she was tense.  She was getting married that afternoon and Nelia had abandoned her half-way through the appointment to pick us up at the gas station.  No doubt the bride was imagining walking down the aisle in rollers. 

          Instead of treating us with restrained politeness, Giuseppina held my son's hand and stroked his hair.  Linking her arm through mine, she took us on a tour of the town, pointing out the big yellow house where Nick was born and giving us a glimpse of small-town life.  A fruit seller was singing about his oranges and lemons in the piazza.  Apparently, the vendors relied on the strength of their lungs to advertise daily specials. Church bells rang twice on the hour and half hour.  Men and boys played cards on the street.  The older ragazzi rode their motorcycles up and down the hills.  The people strolling and chatting through town wore fashionable suits.  The children, many with dark expressive eyes and curly hair, were coddled and adored.  Dressed like miniature adults, they were outfitted in wool jumpers, flannel pants, and crisp white shirts with embroidered collars and cuffs.The local houses, however, were far less impressive.   Covered with dust and cracking paint, the two-story row houses were indistinguishable from each other.  But once we stepped inside, we were astonished by the marble floors, solid walls, and built-in wood cabinets, which stored dishes and clothing and concealed beds.

          For lunch, Giuseppina cooked mouth-watering veal scaloppini, pounded thin, breaded, and browned in olive oil.  The semolina bread, salad and grated cheese were fresh and delicious.  Afterwards, we visited the local archeological site at Eraclea Minoa, just steps away from a spectacular white-sandy beach.  Not only can tourists walk through the site, but they can also touch the shards of pottery, mosaic tiles, and altars for the Lare--the domestic gods and goddesses.After a walk along the shore, Nelia and Giuseppina drove us to their farm with breathtaking views of the sea and mountains. Their ties to the land were strong.  With much pride, Charlie and his son Gianni showed us the orange groves and farm house maintained by the family for generations. "You want to taste?" Charlie said, reaching up and plucking an orange off the tree.  After a few quick cuts with his pocket knife, he handed out the sections.  Sweet, delicious.

We didn't want this visit to end and neither did Nick's family.  But after another meal and more talk late into the evening, we kissed them goodbye and promised to keep in touch.  On the way back to the hotel, I thought about how lucky we were.  Through Nick, we have connected to wonderful people, who have opened their hearts and homes to us.  Nick's memory lives through all of us.  Through him and his family, I have learned the true nature of Sicily and the siciliani.    

IF YOU GO:

For more information on hotels, airfares, restaurants, and local activities, go to  www.concierge.com.