Two Weeks in Sicily. (Not Italy. Sicily.)
After a year of lockdowns, viruses and variants, cancellations, limitations, sheltering in place and other pandemic-related interruptions, with increasing numbers of people getting vaccinated, with travel and other restrictions easing in certain areas, my friend’s boyfriend’s son and his fiancée decided to throw caution to the wind and unpostpone their dream wedding. In Sicily. From whence the groom’s family hails, where the bride and her family live. Already on hold for a year, the couple decided a month or two in advance that yes - despite work obligations and med school exams and complicated covid testing mandates for travelers and extensive last minute planning – they absolutely, positively, unquestionably, wanted to tie the knot in June. This June.
Which would mean a mad dash not only to finalize plans for their story-book wedding (more on this in a bit), but also for family and friends arriving from abroad, needing to make travel arrangements to Italy on a limited number “covid approved” flights with strict testing mandates.
Not fun. Or easy. But doable. Where there’s a will, as they say –
So we all rush to do what we need to do, spend hours on-line planning and preparing, pack our party attire and arrive on the Mediterranean island of Sicily towards the end of June, during a record-breaking heat wave. Days and days of cloudless blue skies, sun-scorched earth, Africa heat. And there we stay for two weeks, frolicking on her shores, eating her foods, seeing her sights, learning her history, meeting her people.
She’s quite wonderful. Unique and amazing.
First thing I noticed: my limited but perfunctory Italian didn’t always work here. Whenever non-Sicilians are out of the room, Sicilians speak their own language which predates Italian, a blend of everything from Greek to Arabic to Catalan to French to god knows what. And speak their regional version of Italian very quickly when we are. Keeping up in conversations was sometimes a struggle, especially when they get spirited, which is usually the case when talking with Sicilians. They are an educated, passionate, proud people who love to brag about their “cultura bastarda” (not my words, but those of Luigi, one of our most gracious hosts), its ancient singularly layered mix of Phoenician, Greek, Carthaginian, Roman, Moorish, Norman, Catalan, Spanish - and most recently Italian - foreign powers that inhabited and/or invaded their island over the centuries. Leaving behind myriad influences in art, architecture, food, as well as language.
Even in faces. Nothing is as arresting and striking as ice-blue Sicilian eyes framed by thick dark lashes smiling from a tanned, olive-toned face. Mamma mia. (Apparently Palermo is lousy with blonds, but we didn’t make it that far west and north.) One of the island's most ubiquitous images, in addition to the three-footed, Medusa-headed, kind of weird Trinacria, is the Moor's head. You see versions of it everywhere: sometimes he could pass for Caucasian, but usually his gorgeous face looks Northern or Sub-Saharan African. (Based on the legend of the beautiful Sicilian woman who, when she found out her wealthy Moorish lover was married and leaving her to go back to his wife and kids, chopped off his head. Which she saves and uses as a planter. So she could see him every day. As I mentioned, they are a proud, passionate people -)
Sicily gets a bad rap in some circles for being “not really Italy.” (I admit, prior to this trip I was somewhat guilty of this line of thinking.) Well, it’s not really Italy. Which is not a bad thing. Italianate in ways, perhaps, but most decidedly its own entity, unique unto itself. In fact, another of our several gracious hosts told us of the persistent condescension, even racism, against Sicily and Sicilians that sometimes wafts over from the mainland. It can get personal.
Oh, and that other thing. For which Sicily is perhaps most famous. On that I’ll say this: we visited the southern and eastern thirds of the Trinacria, from Agrigento to Gela to Ragusa to Siracusa to Taormina and Etna. At no time did I in any way feel unsafe, threatened, frightened, or in danger of any kind. Palermo may be different. But in our travels I and my fellow wedding attendees experienced nothing but the most warm, welcoming, charming, generous, friendly, helpful, if curious, people.
And the food. Dio mio, the food. Yes, every day we spent in the Villa Greca, the beautiful and historic manor owned by Marie and Luigi Greca overlooking Gela’s old port, Lungomare and blue seas, we were regaled by hours-long pranza (mid-day meal) which usually included a mountain of fresh pasta. Now, I do not eat bread or pasta or most carbs at home. Like, ever. Not for, like, decades. But in Sicily, it is all but impossible to avoid them. They are everywhere, all the time. They unabashedly have gluten. And they are irresistible. The semolina bread is absolutely creamy. The breakfast cornettos, plain or filled with ricotta, flakey and just sweet enough. The arancini, chewy fried rice balls with a dollop of tomato/meat ragu and/or cheese at the center. For dessert, brioscia (brioche) laden with lemon granita (ices) which sounds not great but actually, surprisingly, is. And refreshing and light. Or Sicily’s legendary cannoli, or panna cotta or tiramisu, so good and here not as heavy as you would think.
And the coffee. Omfg, the coffee. We had moka espresso brewing literally all day long, and drank it with abandon with no side effects other than utter joy. I’d like to thank my neighbor Cathy, who spent her honeymoon with husband Gus here; she told me about granita di caffe, a usually not sweet soft-serve frozen coffee drink, which if it existed stateside would permanently replace ice cream entirely in my world. Which is saying something. And while we’re on the subject -
The gelato. Oh, the gelato. But I hardly need to wax poetic about the gelato.
And the local wines. Mostly from the fertile soils around Mt. Etna. (All that ancient lava from Europe’s most active volcano makes for very potent land which produces intensely mineral, complex and elegant wine.) After decades as the “base” of wines from other famous regions around the world, Sicilian wines are coming into their own, as delightfully drinkable as any you’ll find anywhere. Dark, full reds (Etna rosso), meaty Nero d’Avola, bright, light whites (Etna bianco), rose, and sparkling. So good. The west is famous for its Marsala, a heavier Madeira-eque wine used for drinking and cooking.
Most evenings my traveling campanions and I - good friend Diana, Diana's boyfriend and father of the groom Emmanuele, and her sister Sandra - were good tourists and had an aperol spritz at cocktail hour. Almost a necessity after a day under the Sicilian summer sun.
Back to pranza: This time-honored Southern European tradition of leaving work at or before 1pm to go home to cook and eat the main family meal is alive and well and practiced in Sicily. Perhaps even more so than on the mainland, which caters these days to a more Anglo-Saxon sensibility of planning your day around work, work, work. So, whether you like it or not, whether you’re a tourist with a limited amount of time to see and do and shop, be prepared to surrender to the rhythm of the island. The outside world shuts down in the middle of the workday for four to five hours while the locals cook and eat, digest, sleep, and surely fare l'amore.
Sicilians insist that preparing pranza is a quick and easy affair. Ingredients are remarkably fresh: the tomatoes (ripe or sun-dried), lemons and herbs were probably grown in the garden, the seafood was plucked from the Mediterranean that morning. Indeed, in under 30 minutes, Marie, one of the owners/hosts at Villa Greca, was able to throw together a meal as good as or better than most restaurant offerings for her husband Luigi (both nearing 80, these two have more energy, spirit and joie de vivre than 20 20-somethings) and the four of us. I was concerned that I would have nothing to eat, as I don’t eat pasta or carbs. After the first taste of Marie’s pranza, that was the end of that; I ate everything with pleasure and, eventually, without guilt.
Yes, there was wine.
Then, around 6pm, the world reemerges from its spaghetti and sex stupor, fully formed and refreshed and dressed to the nines, to hit the center of town and fare una passagiata. Seems the entire town spills out onto the streets and piazzas to shop, stroll, have a coffee or gelato, go to Mass, meet, chiacchiere, see and be seen, until up to 8:30pm when shops close. Many men can be seen wearing brilliant white linen shirts. Sexy as hell. (Had to bring one home for a sexy man I know.) Striking is the number of men seen out on the streets and in the cafes morning, afternoon and evening, talking, doing whatever it is they’re doing, which I couldn’t figure out. Meanwhile, women are less evident, behind the scenes shopping, caring for kids, cooking, and I suppose working.
And then one has to think about cena – dinner ….
More food. More wine. Perhaps another passagiata, in another part of town, after cena. In the seaside towns where we stayed – Gela, Marina di Ragusa, and near Agrigento - it takes place on the lungomare, the street along the sea.
When in Sicily, do as the Sicilians. With so much time and effort going into meals, it’s a wonder there’s time for anything else. It’s a miracle that any work gets done at all. But it does. It may feel to us like farniete, but lots goes on early mornings and behind the scenes. It does in fact make sense to shut down mid day here: it gets hot. Very hot. Better to shelter inside, out of the relentless sun.
In Gela, our first stop, hometown of the bride and groom’s family, so many people we met seemed to be doctors, lawyers, entrepreneurs, architects, business owners and execs. Here and everywhere we traveled in Sicily we encountered helpful, friendly people working in the shops cafes and restaurants, gas stations. Everyone cooks. Everyone roots for La Squadra Azzura, the national soccer team. (The delayed 2020 EURO games took place during our stay. Italy won. Bravi!)
Here we stayed in the stately pink and white Villa Greca, overlooking the blue Mediterranean coast and Gela’s old port. The neoclassic-inspired estate, commissioned by a wealthy local Gelese family, designed by a Neapolitan architect, was built in 1784. It fell into disrepair until 2008 when the Grecas bought, moved into, and began lovingly restoring the main mansion and grounds. They eventually added a fountain, guest house, outdoor kitchen and living/dining area, as well as a sizable amphitheater, where live drama and musical shows are performed in full view of the sea. The amphitheater, and the Villa’s lower levels and grounds, can be rented out for special events such as weddings, a sublime setting for sublime events.
During World War II, the Villa served as a German military headquarters until July 1943, when American troops (let by General George S. Patton) arrived on Sicilian shores. Working with British and local underground forces, the Allies retook the island after 38 days of intense fighting. Marie Greca was there: she remembers playing war with sticks and stone with other neighborhood children as troops with real weapons fought all around them. Casualties were high on all sides, soldiers and citizens alike.
In Gela and Marina di Ragusa, it was caffe, wedding, wedding, pranza, wedding, caffe, wedding, cena, party, wedding, and dancing every day for five days, with a little beach, swimming and soccer euro championship thrown in. All wedding/family, all the time. To be expected with a big fat exciting storybook Sicilian destination wedding that had been simmering on the back burner for 12 months finally set to take place. We visitors had to release any expectations we may have had and just go with the nuptial flow.
For this really was a fairy-tale wedding, one that little girls dream of, one that you might read about in the New York Times Sunday Styles Section or Town & Country Magazine. First, the series of parties before the wedding – complete with exotic locations and music and dancing and food. On the day of the wedding, the beautiful bride kept us waiting quite a while at the grand Baroque Cattedrale di San Giovanni Battiste in Ragusa, a UNESCO Heritage Site, which thankfully was fairly cool inside despite the triple-digit, record breaking temperatures outside. Led only by their flower girl, Daniella and Angelo walked down the aisle to the altar together and were wed by a rather verbose priest in a lovely if lengthy full mass. Amore was definitely in the air.
We then all shuffled to the Villa Criscione, which was more like a palazzo, for the wedding reception, which was more like a feast. On the lawns inside this walled country Renaissance manor set amidst rolling hills, golden fields and trees, we enjoyed cool cocktails and table after table of every appetizer under the setting Sicilian sun. By the time we moved to the inner cortile, where the band was playing European and American pop music and the four-course dinner was being served, we were almost too full to continue eating. But we did. And we danced. And danced and danced, soaking through our tuxes, our gowns, eventually removing layers and fancy shoes. By the time dessert was served, we were all half-dressed and barefoot; even the bride was jacking up her fluffy white skirts to cool off.
It took an entire room to contain the wedding cake and dessert selections. I was too full at this point, though I did manage to force down a thin slice of the delicious wedding cake. You know, for luck.
We were so done by 1:00am; however, the festivities weren’t. We, the “adults” at the grown-up table, shuffled off back to Marina di Ragusa when we saw the band packing up. Little did we know that the DJ would take over and keep spinning until after 3:00am.
Oh, what a night. The stuff dreams are made of. Kudos to Daniella and Angelo for pulling it off so quickly, adeptly, under such strange circumstances.
The next day, various contingents of family and friends drifted to the Marina di Ragusa hotel lobby all morning and early afternoon to meet again, to talk about the wedding, to say goodbye to relatives heading home. The 10:00am check out time was pushed into the afternoon. The impromptu reunion threw our plans to leave early, hit the road and explore beautiful baroque Noto before overnighting in Ortigia/Siricusa, into disarray. We had to skip Noto entirely, and arrived in Ortigia around 4:00pm just in time for a late pranza of salads at an outdoor caffé in the Piazza Archemidese near the Fontana di Diana. Which worked out, as tonight’s cena would be at a highly recommended (by four disparate sources) ristorante with young friends of E and Di in the luminous Baroque pink and white Piazza del Duomo. Followed by a passagiata around Ortigia, even lovelier and livelier at night. And gelato. Of course.
After one night accommodations in a disappointing apartment rental nothing like its Booking.com description (fabulous building, great location though), the next morning we strolled a bit in search of colazione and caffe. We stumbled upon a relaxed open-air café near the Marina filled with locals, offering the fattest, flakiest ricotta cornettos on earth and amazing caffe. Strolled and shopped a bit more before we packed back into the Benz and hit the road. I almost cried, I so didn't want to leave Ortigia.
Next destination: Taormina.
(Sidenote: As a Manhattanite who rarely drives, at times driving around Sicily scared the bejesus out of me. We rented a fabulous white Benz diesel SUV, smaller than American SUVs for sure but comfortable and reliable. We saw a total of maybe three traffic lights the entire two weeks of our stay. Street signage is more of a rumor than an actual thing, so finding places even with a GPS takes a village – everyone in the car working with devices, looking for street names on unmarked streets, trying to figure out roundabouts –
Oy.
As gracious, friendly and accommodating as are Sicilians in life, something happens behind the wheel. Their farniete ("do nothing") turns into fare addesso, (“do it now”) With so few lights, they tend to intrepidly nose into intersections and take their chances merging into oncoming traffic, expecting you to yield and stopping only if absolutely necessary. But usually not. Rules such as “those in the roundabout have the right of way over those coming into the roundabout” seem not to have been translated into Sicil-italiano. So one really must pay attention and drive defensively with the flow. We too had to adopt this philosophy of “go or I will”, or be left permanently waiting for some kind soul to let the clueless tourists merge.
And I couldn’t understand how a people so mindful of their own spazzatura – garbage – could tolerate so much litter in their alleys and on the sides of their roads and highways. At home, Sicilians dutifully separate their throw-away waste into humido (organic, food), plastico (exactly how it looks), carta (paper), vetro (glass and cans), and multi (mixed). Outdoors Sicilians do the same, using five separate color-coded bins. But behind corners and along highways - lined everywhere with beautiful trees flowering big white, pink and fuschia blooms, no less - it can be a free-for-all with papers and trash strewn carelessly on the ground. Which reminded me rather too much of my hometown, NYC.)
Our next stop, perched high on a hillside overlooking the Ionian Sea and Etna smoldering in the distance, is tony Taormina. The chic, gorgeous walled enclave of the rich and famous allows very few cars to drive through its city gates. Skinny stone stairways snake out from its main central pedestrian thoroughfare, leading up or down to tiny piazzas lined with shops and caffes and albergos and flowery cul-de-sacs. Everything about the place is sexy, the pods of beautiful young people, the views, the lights, the scents, the active volcano … and we were in Taormina during its Film Festival, which made it even sexier. Here we shopped, we strolled, we had very expensive sunset cocktails at the Grand Hotel Timeo overlooking the bay and smokey Etna (worth it!); after dinner in town we did our passagiata, shopped some more, had gelato …
On the morning of Day 2 in Taormina, I decided to trek down to Isola Bella, a tiny, perfect, protected island at the bottom of the cliff. There I walked along the rocky beach, jumped into the Mediterranean, and climbed back up to our spacious villa, where we had lunch on the balcony. We then met our local Sicilian guide, Roberto, for a private tour around Mt. Etna. Roberto, remarkably handsome, educated, knowledgeable and engaging, spent the entire afternoon and evening with us, regaling us with myths and stories (did you know the one-eyed, man-eating, cave-dwelling Cyclopes is Homer’s embodiment of Mt. Etna??? And Odysseus was tempted by the sirens’ song through the Strait of Messina??? I didn’t.) In addition to her mythology, Roberto shared stories of Etna, the people’s love-fear relationship with her, and the surrounding area’s geology, geography, history, and present-day culture. The volcano’s sometimes predicable, sometimes deadly lava flow had produced the region’s extraordinarily fertile soil, verdant with olives, lemon, orange, pine, fig and other trees, and as mentioned, vineyards. Speaking of vineyards …
… after a four-hour tour terminating with a climb up and around the lunar Crateri Silvestri, we ended our day visiting Etna with a dusky, scenic sunset dinner at Murgo Winery. Unlike many of the region’s vineyards, Murgo has been around for years. Here we were served three (or was it four?) courses of regional Sicilian specialties – an assortment of meats, sausages, cheeses including a creamy asiago with peppercorns, camponada, grilled vegetables, pastas – all delicious, all cooked to perfection – paired with the right Murgo wine. Sparkling, rose, sparkling rose, rosso, bianco, one better than the other. We ended our day/night with Roberto edified, satisfied, a little drunk and very, very happy, content to spend the rest of our Saturday night hanging out on the balcony of our villa overlooking the bay and the twinkling lights of Taormina.
The next morning, before leaving for Agrigento, Diana, Sandra and I ventured into a still-sleeping Taormina to take a final walk through her still-quiet streets. Taormina has many small churches along her main artery, all holding Sunday services. We enjoyed this subdued, solemn side of the city, when we could really take in the prettiness of her streets, the sweetness of her scents, and drama of her panoramas, without the distraction of her fabulous crowds, shops and restaurants. Arrivederci, Taormina. Arrivederci, villa mervigliosa. Agrigento, here we come.
The drive took a little over two hours. We arrived midday at Villa Volli, the small but lovely bed-and-breakfast between ancient ruins and the blue Mediterranean. Owned and operated by Valentina, E’s sister-in-law, an amazing cook and Instagram Influencer, and her third husband, Giuseppe, an architect. (In this instance, three is most definitely a charm. Valentina and Giuseppe seem an ideal match, professionally, tempermentally and romantically.) Their taste and talent are evident everywhere at Villa Volli, from the pretty gardens and outdoor spaces to the airy and open interiors. Of course, pranza was waiting for us, though we were almost too hot to eat. Villa Volli had only one of its three rooms available, so Sandra and I stayed at a nearby BandB. Not special or charming, just a smallish room with a balcony and a bathroom in an ordinary apartment building, but our hosts, Sabina and Roberto, a local mother and son, were both, and more.
Around 4:00pm we emerged from our mid-afternoon stupor and headed for the beach. But not just any beach. Valentina and Giuseppe bring us to the brilliant, sparkling white terraced cliffs of the Scala di Turchi, the Turkish Steps. Because public access to the Scala was closed due to falling rocks, Valentina and Giuseppe lead us on a slightly circuitous, somewhat slippery and scary adventure over a submerged, uneven slate beach, through fields of seagrass, until we reach the Steps’ snowy façade. Here the stone shelf ends; the sea floor drops into infinity, opening onto the clearest, freshest, bluest lagoon, worthy of any postcard or picturebook. We swam here with the little fishes, in waters warm, then cold, then cool, then warm again –
There’s something about the waters of the Mediterranean in the summer, something that, unlike anywhere else in the world – not the Atlantic, the Gulf of Mexico, not even the Pacific (okay, maybe around the atolls of Bora Bora or the Sea of Cortez off Baja, but that’s it) – restores, excites, replenishes, relaxes, renews. After our dip at the Scala di Turchi, I felt like a new woman. Here my recalcitrant jet-lag finally seemed to dissolve, my simmering nervousness over myriad matters washed away in the crystalline waves. Cool and refreshed, I felt hot as f*ck.
That night Valentina and Giuseppe took us to a local restaurant known for its regional seafood specialties. They ordered for us: cozze (mussels), one in salsa rossa and one in salsa bianca; two types of grilled octopus, a tuna camponara, and my all-time favorite, agrodolce baccala, bittersweet cod. This, combining flavors sweet (honey or sugar) and sour (usually vinegar), flew off the plate, so we ordered another. And another. Four in total. Calfoni! Somehow we managed to fit in an assortment of Sicilian desserts, dissipating any guilt with a leisurely passagiata on the lively lungomare after, which, we assured each other, surely burned off some of that spectacular dinner.
The next morning our respective hosts offered up a delicious colazione using produce plucked from their gardens, homemade tortas (espagnole and limone), toast and preserves, moka caffe. We then joined Michaele, our private guide to Agrigento’s famed Valle dei Templi, Valley of the Temples. For two glorious hours in the blazing July late-morning Sicilian sun, we walked the length of an ancient boulevard devoted to the gods, learning about religious and quotidian life hundreds of years B.C. in what was an affluent and influential Greek, then Roman, city. Michaele was a font of facts, figures, stories and history on the Temples of Juno/Hera, Concordia, Heracles/Hercules, the Twins (I forget their names), and Zeus, the Necropolis, and the 18th century villa and gardens where fragrant lavender grows wild.
After a light pranza, a shower, a much-needed nap, some shopping, a granita di caffe, and a long sunset walk on the beach, we joined Valentina and Giuseppe for a cena under the stars at water’s edge. Another walk along the lungomare ends our day in Agrigento. The next we’re back on the road, returning to Gela, to Villa Greca, to la famiglia Cauchi, winding down as we prepare to return stateside, getting required pre-flight covid tests. Negativo per tutti, fortunamente. (We actually had a bit of a covid scare which I will not tell you about. All’s well that ends well; it ended well.)
No, we never made it to baroque Noto, or even Ragusa Ibla. Or Caltagirone, the town of artisans where all the colorful, hand-painted ceramics you see for sale all over Sicily - including the two exquisite, enormous Moor's heads E bought - come from. Or Piazza Armerina, with it perfectly preserved Roman mosaics. Or Cefalu, the charming fishing village on the north shore. Or the Aeolian Islands, were the lava flows constantly. Or Palermo. Or, or.
No. For two more days we became siciliani, falling back into the rhythm of la vita siciliana: morning moka caffe and errands, a walk on the beach, elaborate pranza with the Grecas and the newlyweds, shopping, another copa of granita di caffe, a passagiata in Gela’s old town, visiting the Cauchi family and friends to say arrivederci as the sun sets. Evening we gorge on pizza watching the final matches of the Euro cup. A very italo-Siciliano finale to a mostly perfect avventura siciliana.
I did manage to smuggle some contraband back home (please keep my secret), some tastes and scents of Sicily: lemons from Valentina and Giuseppe’s tree in Villa Volli, Maria’s pasta recipes from Villa Greca, lavender sprigs from Angelo and Daniela’s wedding, a salumi from Salumeria Lopez (yes, Lopez) in Gela. I’ll never again think of Sicily as Italy. Sicily is Sicily, an entity onto itself. Fully formed, whole, unique. No, I am not Sicilian. But I definitely felt an affinity for its people - i miei cugini - for their insistence on living life a la siciliana, for making every day a slice of la dolce vita. And that’s a very good thing.
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