Miri Park

When my best friend and fellow dance major Irada said, "Don't go to Sicily. It sucked," I paused. I'd just been accepted into a journalism class to go to Sicily, and I wanted to make sure I made the right decision for my last Spring Break.

I asked Irada to tell me more, so we arranged a later time to talk in depth about her experiences. Irada and I have known each other since Freshman Orientation at UMass, Amherst, and we have shared just about all: passion for dance and art, being roommates, driving cross-country.

Because I am of Korean descent, and she is of Tunisian descent, we often divulge cooking secrets, cultural revelations and thoughts on race and identity. When I spent a summer in Korea after my sophomore year, I vented my cultural shock to Irada. Likewise, after she spent this past winter visiting her father's family for the first time in Sicily, she came to me.

She'd found the island of Sicily beautiful, but Tunisians comprised its lower class, like US immigrants of Hispanic descent. Irada noticed it while hanging out with her 23-year old cousin, Sousen. Sousen and her best friend Laura both hold the same job. Sousen makes $1.77 an hour while Laura makes $7.00 an hour. Sousen's house has no heat, no phone or TV. Laura's has four levels, with two phones and two TVs. Sousen's brother works as a street clown, where he can earn more money than washing dishes; Laura's brother is an interior designer who designed the top floor of their house. Irada had seen racism, although growing up American tends to blind people to it. Because of her experience, I decided to keep an eye open for it when I went to Sicily, too.

* * * * * * *

After a great flight, I stepped off the plane in awe of the Sicilian landscape. An enormous rock towers over the Palermo airport. The grass was green, the air, clear. Maybe I was just excited to finally breathe fresh air after our 18-hour excursion from UMass to JFK/New York, to Milan/Malpensa, and finally to Palermo.

During the drive to our first hotel in Céfalu on the northwest corner of the island, our spunky tour guide Rosa introduced herself and her country, Sicilia (See-cheel-ya). To get us thinking about its rich culture, Rosa asked a rhetorical question: "What is a Sicilian?"

She continued, "We must look at the past, because the past makes you what you are."

I listened to her brief history about how civilization after civilization had conquered Sicily, and how their remnants remain in the architecture, food, music, and language. Marveling at the rolling, hilly land, orange and lemon trees, artichoke and olive fields and random automobile junk yard, I began to wonder how this beautiful country caused so much anxiety for my best friend.

During the week, we traveled to 20 cities, stayed at three different hotels, frequented four different bars, and packed every single moment. But I couldn't help feeling an uncomfortable duality. For Irada's sake, I'd determined to get to the bottom of racism in Sicily. Yet I felt obligated to enjoy every minute, too. It wasn't until the fifth day in Sicily that I realized my efforts to defend my friend were fruitless.

By the seventh day, I was at peace with my vacationing/student self. After spending the day touring Céfalu, Enna, and seeing Greek temple ruins lit up at night, we retreated to the Hotel Tre Torri of Agrigento for dinner, rest and relaxing. Later, six of us sat around a small, circular table. I began talking about race and racism at UMass. Christina, a Chinese-American woman, and Litza, a Puerto Rican-American woman, and I were saying that there's a diversity problem at UMass, and that for people like us, who don't associate with the ethnic organizations on campus, it's hard to find a place to fit in.

When three of our Caucasian counterparts tuned in, there was awkwardness. The white women thought UMass is a diverse community, and that minorities segregate themselves. And from that moment, I parted from the question of Sicilian "racism." If I couldn't break down the racial situation at my University to my fellow students, how could I do more?

Our seventh day was phenomenal. It started off with the Teatro Massimo Bellini in Catania, the most luscious theater I have visited. It dripped in red velvet that framed cherubic ceiling paintings, antique light fixtures, detailed moldings, statues, five tiers of balconies, and a raked stage. "The Colonial Theater in Boston pales in comparison to this place!" I thought.

Here, I let go of the tension from trying to find the "truth." Here, in a theater, the forum in which Irada and I work, I felt opened and inspired, and subsequently settled into an unexpected peace. Maybe it was the soft lighting, or the padded quiet accompanied by the soft strains of musicians warming up. But it dawned on me that Irada would understand if I didn't come back with the answers, or even agree with her about Sicily and racism. In that theater, I knew a common ground.

After leaving the theater, we walked into the hubbub of the outdoor market. My girlfriends and I greeted old, smiling, wrinkly faces that parted the way for us to see: legions of fish. The vendors posed and smiled for us when they saw us through our cameras. Smiling, laughing, making our way through the crowds I basked in the warmth of Sicilian humanity. I waited for our group to reconvene in the square in front of the market, and I noticed a group of schoolboys gathered at the foot of a monument.

When I could no longer ignore the boys' glances and gestures at my camera, I made eye contact with one of them. I pointed at my camera, they embraced one another, posed, and I snapped the photo. Feeling good, I shouted, "GRAZIE!" All 12 yelled back, "PREGO!"

Later, on a big, purple snow tube, we conquered Mt. Etna, then ate a home-cooked Sicilian meal at Club Nonna Vita, a local restaurant on Mt. Etna's side. When we determined the wine was excellent, the chef offered to sell us bottles vinted in his winery, and we bussed downhill to buy the Mt. Etna wine.

We stopped as the dusk settled on Etna. I went to talk to an observant old lady standing in her yard. I wanted an orange from her tree, just to see what it would taste like. After fumbling for words, and gestures, and getting Rosa's translational aid, the old lady grinned and opened her gate to us. She led a friend and me through the most beautifully overgrown garden.

While we walked through tall grass and wildflowers, and past an aging wheelbarrow, I tried not to bounce into her slow, meditative gait. The smell of citrus filled me as we approached the trees. The woman began to pick, and pick, and pick, and pick, and pick and dropped each orange into her apron. And even though we tried to tell her we only wanted a few, she just smiled and continued, methodically picking. When she decided she was done, she turned around, her apron heavy with oranges, and began plodding back to the road.

I stood there, mouth open, lump in-throat, and tears welling up. Her generosity floored me, but instead of crying my eyes out, I sprinted past her to get my backpack so she could unload the oranges. I ran back to her, filled my bag, thanked her profusely, and went to show off my treasure to the rest of the travelers.

I went to Sicily, looking for the bad. I left with a collection of magic in memories of the Sicilian people and those with whom I traveled. I learned that wherever I go, I may encounter racism. It's human nature to separate people into haves and have-nots. But it's the people that surround you who make you comfortable, and an experience worthwhile.

I got back, revitalized, and I called Irada to fill her in. She seemed pleased to hear I enjoyed Sicily so much. Then I mentioned I'd easily go back every year for a vacation.

"Hmmmmm," she mused, "I think I'd go back with you. You know, to see it from the other perspective." I smiled.