The Island of Traditions
I scuff dust off my beloved leather sandals. It doesn’t matter though because I think I have just landed in paradise. Scopello. The unforgiving Sicilian heat is producing drops of sweat all over my forehead but the dry wind that blows from the sea makes it bearable. We can see the Mediterranean from the upland where our AirBnB is located.
“I’ve never seen such a deep blue in my whole life”, my sister exclaims. I look over to her and can’t help but notice how splendidly she fits in with the landscape. Her olive-coloured skin and curly dark hair blending in with the vegetation and the terrain. She is an extension of this island. She is in her element.
The owner of our little house for the next week is going over the general information regarding this newly-refurbished farmhouse with my dad. His name, as is common in Sicily, is Vito and his tanned skin matches better with my sister’s than mine. He drives an old light blue Panda and wears jeans with flip-flops. An alternative fashion guru, someone might say.
My dog has already started chasing wasps while my attention is drawn to the myriad of different flowers that surround the pool. Lavender, daisies, geranium and so on. An explosion of various smells and colours. The bees are banqueting with their nectar already.
Vito is gone and we can all dive into the pool now. I throw my dress away and jump in. The fresh water hits my heated cheeks. I open my eyes underwater. I would rather end up with red eyes than miss this magic. The sun rays tease the water creating a sparkling dance, and I swim my way across this encounter.
Later that night, my dad cooks some octopus and fish steaks on the grill. A simple, traditional recipe. A spray of olive oil, salt and and parsley and it’s done.
“The local fisherman caught them this morning. He said to let him know how good they taste”. The typical Southern Italian patriotism over food. The pride of an angler. The octopus is so delicate in its texture and flavour that it melts on my palate. It’s delicious and everyone’s mouths and stomachs nod in agreement. The old man wasn’t wrong.
The cicadas are still singing at the moon, while me and my sister lay down on the hammocks, lulled by their music and the warm lemon-scented air. Over the gates of our garden, the countryside is preparing itself for sleep, maybe the shepherds are already deep in their slumber, ready to rise up and stretch their sleepy limbs at dawn. But bugs and insects, like our singing housemates have no hurry to go to bed. They will keep exploring all night long.
On Monday morning, we drive to Palermo. From where we are staying the Sicilian capital is only half an hour away, but we set off quite early to beat the chaotic traffic and avoid the day’s hottest hours. Driving in this city is a jump into the unknown, you never really know if you’ll leave it without causing an accident, or how long you will spend stuck in one place. My dad always says that “If you know how to drive in Palermo, then you’re a true driver”. My mum says you need a thousand eyes because cars and mopeds will speed past you from every corner and any direction. People honk and scream for cutting up each other’s road, or for going too slow or too fast. Sometimes motorists end up getting out of their cars and starting an actual fight. Other times relatives or friends might spot each other in their vehicles and stop in the middle of the street to start a proper conversation, oblivious to the sound of the other cars’ complaints. The rule in Palermo is that there is no rule.
We go for lunch in the oldest and most famous bakery in the city. The Antica Focacceria San Francesco. We order the classical arancini alongside the lesser known schiticchi, panelle and crocchette - fried bits of Sicilian street food that use all the local ingredients.
Later, Dad takes us to the Ballarò market. He knows his way. This island is where my grandad was from and we proudly carry our Sicilian last name around the world. It’s like taking a step back into the 1960s. Most of the people here are habitual customers, they know what they want and which stand to get it from. An old couple is intently analysing a pig’s thigh. Their backs are bent, but their eyes, although obfuscated and protected by thick lenses, are still trained to find the best slice. A few steps further, there is the busy working mum who is quickly securing herself the freshest vegetables to serve her family tonight, and a group of old men who are just strolling around, savouring each minute. Then, there are the merchants, who are shouting at the top of their lungs from every corner to attract the attention of the passers-by. “Pesce fresco” or “Signora, guardi quant’è grasso ‘sto maiale”. The sellers are tanned and covered in sweat, their hands are rough in different ways depending on what they are selling. Wrinkly if they are fishermen, always busy with their hands in the water, callous and covered in dirt if they are farmers, tough and covered in blood if they are butchers. The smell is chaotic like the place, a mixture of contrasting aromas. The nauseous stench of fish overlaps the aged smell of cheese. I look up above the coloured tents that protect the stalls from the beating sun, and I see a woman with her little granddaughter, looking out from their small balcony. Me and my sister smile at the both of them and the grandmother says “Come on Chiara, say hi to these girls”. And the child’s puffy hand lifts up to wave at us. There is truly a variety of palms in this place.
[This travel writing piece was used for academic purposes and later published on The University of Manchester’s Faculty of Arts’s journal, Polyphony, issue 1]
