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I like to smile. So imagine my surprise when I found myself in the friendliest place I had ever known, concerned about smiling. Smiling -- a gesture so simple. Yet in Sicily, it can become an unintended invitation.
I do not understand Sicilian men. They are, to put it in a simple and vulgar way, like frat boys on crack. They are not shy or subtle. They are interested in you, and they will make it known. All you need is a pulse. All they need is a chance. Your smile is that chance, all they need to approach you.
And they will do anything to get your attention; whistle, kiss in the air, call at you in Italian or English.
"Hal-lo," their slow words meticulously pronounced incorrectly. "Molto belle. How. Are. You?" This is followed by a string of Italian, which, if translated, would need to be censored. The behavior begins at the onset of puberty, usually 12 years of age, and ceases when breathing does. Young does not equal innocent for Sicilian boys.
They’ll even do it in the presence of girlfriends. The slap to the back of the head that’s sure to follow doesn’t deter them in the slightest. They laugh off the whole ‘misunderstanding’ with a shrug and a handsome smile. I suspect even the presence of their dying grandmother wouldn’t stop them: they’d drop the old hag faster than you could bat your eyelashes.
They love you, for you are American and, for that reason alone,
you are loose.
And the worst thing you can do is react. To even look in their direction is to beg their attention. So, like your mother always told you, girls -- just ignore them and they will go away. Well, not exactly. They won’t go away, but you can. Keep walking, pretending they never said anything or pretending they sincerely think you are beautiful.
So there I was, going from town to town, frowning, scowling! I found myself relating to a photograph I found after our trip: An American Girl in Italy. A beautiful young girl is walking through the streets of Italy, clutching her shawl, as every set of eyes lock on her. I avoided eye contact, acting as submissive as they think me to be. Like her, I walked quickly when alone, and stuck near the few males in our group, despite my unfamiliarity with them.
All
to avoid these vultures. They do circle their prey. Then they close in
for the kill. At first, it seemed funny as they drove their little mopeds past
some girls, took notice, and promptly turned around for another try. But soon
the humor faded, because they did not.
On the other hand, Sicily is home to the most gracious, hospitable, endearing people I have ever known. Their kindness and generosity are astounding; I smile at the thought of those I met.
Nino - the kind old man who owned a gift shop in the hotel. He gave every girl a heart charm and invited us all to his main shop in town. There he gave wine, discounts, and kisses.
Another Nino - our bus driver; without him we would have been lost, or maybe still stuck on a mountain where our bus’s hydraulics broke, until he fixed them and then apologized to us!
And Rosa - sweet Rosa, our tour guide, who opened our eyes to a new culture, her way of life where toilet paper is a luxury, olive oil soap is great for the skin, and there is no dancing on Friday nights.
Sicilians have a more pleasant outlook on life than Americans. They believe in life and pleasure before work and money. They are not driven by the compulsive need to collect things that so many Americans suffer. They have all they need to survive, no more, no less. If they feel like closing the store early to enjoy a sunny day, they do. Everyone goes home at one for feast and a siesta. They return to work around four. Their approach to life furthers my theory that, if everyone took a nap every day, the world would be a happier place.
As a photographer, I get many funny looks. Try taking a camera to a Long Island train station and you’ll understand what I mean. People who see a camera immediately get defensive. They turn their backs, frequently checking over their shoulders, paranoid and suspicious of a violating lens. Not Sicilians. They consider posing for a photograph a pleasure and an honor. The older men are especially thrilled. They stand a little taller, flashing a charming, well-worn smile. "Una photographia? Si! Si!"
On
our last day of touring, we stopped to take pictures of Mt. Etna at sunset,
an old woman standing at her gate, watching us. When some in our group asked
to photograph her, I followed them into a little Eden of orange trees, where
we stood, helpless to her charm as she picked oranges and held them in her apron.
I thought she did it for the pictures -- but she did it for us. When her apron
overflowed with oranges, she led us back to the gate. She asked, in a mix of
Italian, English and sign language, if we had a bag. She was giving us her oranges
with joy in her face. She refused the small amount of money I tried to give
her. There was no convincing her otherwise. Tears welled up in our eyes as we
told her gracias, molto bene, molto belle holding our hearts
to explain how deep our feelings were. We each hugged and kissed her goodbye,
as if she were our own dear grandmother
Sicily is a land where you feel the warmth of the sun and the people, equally, radiating through you: where you can be lost in an unknown town with an unknown language and feel like this is where you have always belonged. It’s the place you spend your life seeking, and if you must leave, longing to go back. So is it a smile or a scowl? Open arms welcoming, or a defensive posture, arms wrapped around to protect? Sicily is an overwhelming mix of sweet and sour. But I think the sweetness is more powerful.
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