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The myths are real. Those legends of gods and goddesses, nymphs and heroes are true. I’ve seen the proof; anyone can. The directions are simple: go to Sicily and you’ll discover the playground of gods and a people proud to tell you the games they once played.
The Sicilian countryside does not sprawl; it seduces your senses, arouses your spirit and envelops you whole. It happened to me while travelling west by bus. Within minutes of our group’s leaving the cliff-side fishing town of Cefalu, a pair of square-shaped stone outcrops drove straight up to the sky, breaking just shy of white clouds. The cliffs gave no warning, no foothills. Only stray boulders littered them in the fields below. And just as abruptly as they appeared, the cliffs faded.
There are many moments like that in Sicily, where time passes differently, and awareness changes. As Nino, our hazel-eyed and dimpled-cheeked driver took us further west, it happened again.
A few miles past Palermo, Dave Ambrose shouted, "Stop the bus! Stop the bus!" Nino pulled over and, laden with cameras, we spilled out of the bus and into the fields. I bounded across the road, climbed up an embankment, ducked under a string of barbed wire, and then had to sit down.
I
was surrounded, by emerald-green wheatfields with speckles of lemon-yellow flowers
stretched across rolling hills. The hills rose from the coast and collided with
mountains that seemed to be the only things keeping this paradise from floating
away with the breeze. Flocks of sheep dined on the greenery, old stone farmhouses
crumbling behind. I sat completely still, and felt as if I were falling into
the land.
Nino honked the horn and it was time to go. The sound of clicking cameras reminded me I hadn’t taken one picture. I took three on my way back to the bus, knowing I was holding everyone up, but I had to capture that moment on film. I ducked under the barbed wire and bounced across to the bus. The bottom of a cigarette in her hand, our tour guide, Rosa, waved me back. She must have seen the questions in my eyes, for it wasn’t long before she answered them.
The land we had just driven through, Rosa explained, was the home of great legends. They hold that when the Greeks came to Sicily they ran into the trappings of three devious nymphs. Angry with the nymphs, the gods confined them to Mt. Olympus, where they could cause no more trouble to the mortals below. For 280 years the nymphs remained at Olympus. Then one night, they flew down to earth, scooped up the blackest soil and picked the most beautiful fruits and flowers, carrying them all in a basket as they flew back to Olympus. But on their way, the three nymphs crashed into Apollo, who was carrying the sun into morning. Apollo dropped the sun, but caught it again. The nymphs weren’t so lucky. Their basket tumbled into the Mediterranean. The angered gods created the worst storm ever and sent it to the nymphs. It missed them but spun the basket out of the water. So the gods sent a second storm, which blew the basket into the island of Sicily. The three nymphs were sentenced to hold up the three corners of the island for eternity as their punishment.
I believed Rosa’s story. I had seen the proof myself. I had heard the cliffs and boulders speaking to me before Rosa explained they were no ordinary rocks, but the remnants of Medusa’s severed head.Long ago, an irate Athena threw the snake-covered head onto the island, warning that anyone who harmed the island of Sicily would forever be turned to stone.
I can’t deny what I saw and felt in the fields of Sicily. I have nothing physical to show for it and I can’t give you my experience. But I can say, if you go there, you’ll know what I’m talking about.
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