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By Melissa J. Eaton
Driving to Erice with a group of 42 travel companions, the bus winds
back and forth on the many roads that look like the switchback folds
of ribbon candy.
With every turn something new and amazing can been seen through the great
picture windows of the bus. Passing by little farm houses, easily
overlooked while
looking at the rows and rows of olive and lemon trees, . The bright
yellow fruit pops
out, drawing our eyes’ attention on this dreary overcast day. Coming around
the corner I get my first views of the Monti Madonie, the Madonie Mountains. “Stop
the bus!”
Piling out into the gray morning light, I see that the true colors
of the landscape are even more brilliant than I thought looking
through the bus
windows. It
must have been a sight watching almost forty people hobbling up a hill,
attempting to sprint to the top to get the best pictures of Sicily’s amazing landscape,
our feet sinking into the soft fertile soil. The mountains surrounding me were
white from rocky summit to pointy tree line. The light snowfall from the night
before looked like confectionary sugar softening the rough rocky peaks.
Splashing against the roadside a sea of lush green wheat grass ripples
in the breeze, and the sun, playing peak-a-boo with us, spotlights the
surrounding
valleys.
The green of the grass is not like anything I have ever seen in the United
States, not even on the best-groomed golf courses. The sight of it takes
my breath away.
Standing alone on the hillside is an abandoned house. The light
casting down through the missing roof illuminates a surprise hidden
within its
walls.
Coming around the corner and going into the door I see a magical field
of wild flowers
growing among the lush green of the grass. It seems like I have discovered
a little hidden treasure within the Sicilian countryside to which I
am the only
witness. Well, me and the other 30 students who have invaded this house’s
solitude. It fascinates me to the point where I can’t stop looking at it.
The crumbling walls are all that remain of this mysterious structure that stands
guard over the valleys and hills beyond. I could sit and look at it all day,
exposing all its secrets, exploring it, but it’s time to go. The bus
has to move on, delivering its 42 passengers to Erice including myself, a drawback
to group travel.
All over Sicily and the world there are corners. Corners just waiting
to be explored and that is just what I do on my trip. Walking through
the
little hill towns
and larger cities I am as curious as a cat, wanting to know what
was is around every corner. The narrow streets, almost entirely
empty at
siesta
time, feel
especially mysterious. I always feel a little cheated when it is
time to turn
back to the bus before I had have had time to explore what is around
that corner just up ahead of me, but I don’t want to be the one to hold everyone
up, or be left behind and risk missing a whole new place with all new corners.
I
find amazing things around many corners and a few dead ends around others,
but my hunger to explore is not satisfied until I have at least looked to see
what
is there.
Climbing up above the valleys of vineyards and olive groves the
streets clear of the stucco homes with terra cotta roofs, we leave
behind
the narrow streets
to go to Segesta, one of the western most points of our trip. From
the bus we walk up a small hill, our shoes crackling over the blinding
white
gravel.
The
familiar scent of sage drifts on the wind teasing my nostrils with
its comforting smell. Coming around the bend at the top I am confronted
with
the foreboding
structure of Segesta’s Greek Temple looming over me. The closer I get the
more ominous it becomes, stretching high toward the sapphire blue sky. A strong
breeze whips through the temple’s columns, running around its corners,
and throwing my hair in every direction.
Around the front corner of the temple is a pair of benches, standing
alone beneath a low tree, its branches shrugging over and protecting
them from
the elements.
No one occupies them. The bright sand and white pebbles blind
my eyes forcing me to squint as I look past the peaceful benches
at
the green
patchwork
blanket that forms the landscape below, stretching as far as
I can see in all directions,
and disappearing at the horizon where dark storm clouds are forming
over the Madonie Mountains.
Leaving behind the island’s western half, with its olive groves and Madonie
Mountatins, we head toward the almond groves and Peloritani Mountains of Sicilia’s
eastern coast. The roads wind through the bleach white limestone mountains from
Syrcusa up to Taormina’s ashen hillsides. Taormina, the most beautiful
Sicilian town I explore, grows out of the hills above Noxus formed by Mount Etna’s
lava flows. The hotel we are staying at is on one of the cliffs looking out
over the ocean. Its walls are a bright orange like the flows that seep down
from Mount
Etna. The bus has to swing around turns like the curves that edge lasagna noodles
on streets that are barely wide enough for two cars to pass each other.
While walking one evening in Taormina, eager to explore this
beautiful town’s
corners and discover its hidden treasures, I come upon a corner that catches
my attention. Light emerging from around it illuminates the dark alleyway. Looking
up as I round the edge of the building I am greeted with one of the most beautiful
sights ever revealed during my corner treasure hunts. A wide walkway of steps
leading up to a street beyond is lined with orange trees. Lights from apartment
windows are casting a warm golden light on the orange trees that sag from the
ripe fruits’ weight. Centered in the path are the ghoulish faces of four
fountains spitting water into puddles. Lights shining on them create odd shadows
making the ghouls look friendlier then scary.
A pizzeria that I find around one corner has a pretty little
outside eating area. Mismatched tables and chairs are arranged
under a
loose weave of
brown vines
that serve as protection from the sunlight. It looks a
lot like any other outdoor eatery in town during the day. The
treasure of this
corner hunt
is only revealed
to someone walking by after dark.
Coming around the corner at night I meet an entirely different
scene. Woven amongst the vines are small white Christmas
lights twinkling
above the
tables. The glow
from the pizzeria’s interior helps to light an orange tree growing just
on the edge of the patio. It’s peaceful at night, with most customers
inside. The whole scene makes me smile thinking how it would be a perfect setting
for
a first date. A couple could sit eyes smiling at each other, while the lights
twinkle around them. They get to know each other better talking in low voices
while sharing a spicy olive pizza.
About halfway between the pizzeria and the fountain steps
is another corner. Something about it interests me. It
may just
be that it
is a corner to
some place I have yet to explore, then again it may be
because the corner is rounded
instead
of squared off. It is not the edge of a building, but
rather a smooth rounded wall providing a boarder to someone’s property. Walking by it several
times peaks my interest in it and finding time I decide to explore this mysterious
corner. Coming around the corner I am excited by the prospects of what I am
finding.
The tall wall of a building is clothed by a tightly woven series of emerald
green vines. Coming around the gradual corner I find myself face to face with
a gray
stucco wall. Slightly disappointed by the dead end I turn back to go explore
more corners.
This is not the only corner that I come across with a
disappointing ending. Following a street up past the
Corso Umberto I
(one) and Porta Messina,
I walk past the
Roman Odeion, a small roman auditorium, and around
another corner. The streets become more and more residential,
but not wanting
to admit I
am not finding
anything of interest I continue on for several blocks.
Finally, I realize that there was
nothing up here but run down homes and feeling let
down again, I turn back towards the Corso Umberto I to search
out new
corners.
A day trip from Taormina takes us up on Mount Etna
where the streets wind back and forth, traveling
up 2000 meters
above
sea level.
Just below the
1000-meter
mark we come around a corner and a large abandoned
hotel comes into view. The occupants and owners had
left it
to be attacked
by Miss
Etna during
a lava
flow years before. The hotel’s windows were missing and the stucco finish
on the walls was beginning to crumble away, but the building was there. The
lava
had flowed around it, sparing it.
Our tour guide Rosa, who is more like a mom away
from mom than just another tour guide, tells us
how the
people save
their
houses from
destruction.
She says that
you have to believe in the saints and ask them
to save your house. If you don’t
they will not help you and your house will be lost. Rosa tells us the hotel
owners must have believed in the saints since the building is intact.
As we round another turn I look out the window
into a snow covered ravine of lava between the
road’s curves. The rough lava forms had been cooled
to black long before. I am amused by the sight of a cluster of trees growing
up
through the lava. I look closer trying to see how it could be that they are
still growing; they seem too tall to be recent growth. Then I see it, sticking
up out
of the rock, barely noticeable since it is ash-stained the same color as the
rock, the roof of a small house.
The house’s roof and two gable windows without panes are all that remain
above the flow. Inside I see debris and more cooled lava reaching almost all
the way to the top of the room. Someone calls out, “Hey look at that!” Rosa
turns to look out the window and find what the person is talking about. “Ok
everyone, I want you to look out to the left now. See that house down in there?
The owners didn’t believe in the Saints so their house was not spared.” A
few people who hadn’t noticed the house murmur in astonishment as the
bus climbs higher still.
Around 2,000 feet Giovani, our bus driver,
pulls the bus into a parking lot. Getting
off, I look
around me. For
as far as
I can
see beyond
small gift
shops is the sharp cooled plum-black lava.
Rosa calls to us to follow her around a
bend, and up and over the loose mounds. It
is here we see steam rising out of the rocks
and
Rosa starts
to
dig down
through
them. Here at
2,000 feet
the air
is cold and my hands begin to get numb. Rosa
hands me a piece of lava and I am surprised
to find that
it is
warm.
Even
though the
last eruption
of
Miss Etna
was almost 5 months ago, this rock is warm
enough to
push the chill out of my hands. I pick up
another piece and,
sticking one in each
pocket
to keep
my hands
warm, I make my way over the slippery, loose
rocks to explore the area some more.
Two days before, during a visit to Syrcusa,
Rosa took us to a small island called Ortygia.
Leading
us through
the
streets
of
a small
shopping district
she brings
us into the ghetto, the former home of
the Jewish population. As soon as I round the
corner and
come into the ghetto
I can both
see and sense
the
difference.
The buildings are very close together.
I feel like if I lay down with my feet touching
the
wall of
the lemon
colored
house on
one side of
the street,
and stretch
my arms out above my head I will be able
to reach the peach colored building on
the other
side.
Around the corner we come across tall buildings,
crumbling from continuous seismic activity
in the area. Braces
are placed between
some buildings
to help keep them
from collapsing. The buildings here are
literally leaning on each other for support.
Looking
up, the buildings
loom over
my head
and the whole
place
seemed dreary
and depressing.
The houses are painted in muted tones
and every time a car comes through
the streets
we have
to jump into
doorways
in
order to
avoid being hit.
If two cars
come down the street at the same time
one has to back up until the other
can get
by. It feels
like
we are
walking through
a tunnel, it’s almost to
the point of being uncomfortable. I pictured living here as being as private
as living
in a dormitory at Umass.
Everyone can hear everyone else through
the paper-thin walls. Coming around
another corner
we can hear
loud music coming
from one of
the apartments above us. A different
song is coming from another apartment
window a few yards down. These are
radio wars. If a Sicilian wants to
hear their own music during the day
they have
to
be the first one up and continue
to turn their music up until they win
out over
their neighbors.
We wind through the thin streets
of the ghetto and come into a small
piazza.
At first it
seems to me
as though
Rosa has
led us
into a
dead end, but
then she leads us over to where
two buildings
come together forming a corner.
Cutting through what appears to be a doorway
we come out on the other side of
the ghetto
emerging
into the
bank
district
of the
area. Coming
into the
piazza,
sunlight
pours down onto me. The streets
are wide and spacious here outside of
the ghetto.
I feel
liberated, freed
as if a
weight was lifted
off my
shoulders.
Walking on through Ortygia, we
come to the beautiful Duomo.
Across from
which
is a small
pasticcerie
with several umbrella-topped
tables outside.
Everything
here is white and clean, so different
from the dreary, depressing ghetto
we left behind
us just
minutes
before. Entering the
pasticcerie,
it
takes a moment for
my eyes to adjust to the dim
lighting before I can pick out a pastry.
Looking in the
glass case
at all
the eloquently
displayed treats
I search for just
the right snack. Drifting over
the cassatas, the cannolis, and
marzipan treats shaped
like fruits, vegetables, and
animals, my eyes fall on my newly discovered
favorite pastry.
A pile of croissant-like shells
filled with creamy chocolate
and covered
in a clear sticky
coating
that melts in my
mouth, sit on
a plate near
the bottom
of
the case behind a tray of cookies.
Now I just have to convey to
one of the servers
behind
the counter
what
I want. A
woman, looking
slightly
strung out from the
horde of us Americans squeezed
into this small pasticcerie,
asks if she
can
help me, “Prego?” “Uno,” I reply pointing through the
glass at the yummy treat that already had my mouth watering.
The woman reaches into the
case and starts to pick up
one of
the cookies.
I quickly
object to this
and bang
a little
more
on the
glass repeating, “Uno. Uno.” After
a minute of pantomiming and broken Italian on my part, I manage to explain to
the woman which pastry I want. I pay about fifty cents for my delicacy and head
out to the pearly white tables. Sitting there I look around the piazza wondering
what treasures are hidden beyond the corner of each building. Just as I finish
my treat Rosa calls to us that it is time to move on. Taking a last look around
the piazza at all the corners I haven’t been able to indulge my curiosity
on, I jog over to the group and head off on a new corner adventure.
Piling onto the bus early
in the morning for a mystery
excursion,
we don’t
know exactly where we are going, except that it has something to do with the
film “The Godfather” that starred Al Pacino and Marlon Brando.
As usual, Giovanni has to maneuver the bus up narrow twisting roads that look
down
onto themselves. Looking out the window I can see the terraces carved into
the sides of hills. This is a special art form that takes practice and skill
in order
to make it look attractive.
Finally Giovanni pulls
the bus to a stop on
the edge
of the
road. Looking
out
the windows
on
either side
of the
bus I
don’t see anything that appears
to be related to “The Godfather.” Out one side is the road we just
traveled up, and out the other is a gray-white residential building. I get out
of the bus to see if there is any interesting corner to look around. Following
the group up a rise in the road and around the next bend we come across a building
with a small patio and a large sign reading “BAR” over the door.
We are in Savaco. Someone
in the group murmurs
something about the
bar in
the movie. But
this place surely
can’t be it. In the movie Al Pacino and his
bodyguards sat at wooden tables, here the tables and chairs are metal, and the
ground is cobblestone instead of dirt. Next door on either side are houses that
look as old as this building, and across the paved street are a couple of shade
trees growing up amongst a limestone tiled park. There aren’t any lush
green vines glistening overhead or climbing up the corners of the wall. Where
are the patchwork greens and yellows of the vineyards and fields?
A short thin woman with
dark hair and wrinkles
that make
her face
look as
if she is forever
scowling stands in
the doorway.
She is
framed
on either side by
strings of beads like
something you find
hanging in a 1970's
dorm room.
Rosa
tells us that this
is the owner of the Godfather
Bar, and is
opening it up for
us to look
around. Quickly,
everyone
takes
out their
cameras and
begins
flashing
pictures of the place.
Going in through
the beaded curtain
I notice
that most of the
beads are not
really
beads
at all, but
rather
old rusted
bottle caps.
Just inside the door
are a wooden table
and a set
of chairs.
A
small hand-written
sign
on the
table
says
that it is
the table where Al
Pacino and his bodyguards
sat in the bar scene.
Rounding the door’s corner I am met by the smiling
faces of Al Pacino and Simonetta Stefanelli (Appollonia) on set at the bar and
various other Sicilian locations. Newspaper clippings about the filming in Sicily
and the movie’s opening are framed with care as if they were treasured
family portraits. Outside, some of the people I am touring with sit down at the
table in the same position in which the scene was shot. After our café break
it is time to re-board the bus and head to a new place with more corners to
satisfy my curiosity.
In the hill town
of Polizzi Generosa,
the
streets
wind and turn back
on themselves,
leading in and out of
small piazzas,
creating
a labyrinth
easy
to get lost
in. In addition
to corners, my second
fascination
in Sicily is the
lampposts jutting
out from the
walls of the buildings.
It could almost
be said that I am obsessed
with
them,
and this
obsession drives
my
explorations around
the corners.
It is during one
of these drives
that I
come around the
corner into a little piazza.
Above my head is
a perfect
specimen of iron
spirals, wound
around itself supporting
the
light fixture.
Sneaking up
the wall the
remains
of a
vine from seasons
past
works its way over
to the
iron arm protruding
from the peach
cream wall.
The vine’s tendrils have snaked over gently tickling the lamps loops and
spirals.
I bend down to
compose a picture
through
my camera lens
and release the
shutter.
Standing up,
I notice a woman
carrying
a bucket
come around the
corner of
one of the homes
and
go over to the
waterspout. She
places
the
orange
bucket beneath
the spout and
turns on the water. A
breeze blows
more
water onto
the street
then
than into the
bucket. The
woman calls
to me.
She indicates
the camera
I have
around my neck
and poses near
the waterspout.
For
the second
times
in
minutes I find
myself
crouched near
the ground, composing
a picture while
looking
through my lens.
The woman is
older with
wrinkles cascading
down
from her dark
eyes to her
rounded chin. Her hair
is a
brilliant white
juxtaposed
against the
orange-beige
tanned
skin. She flashes
me a smile
as she places
her
liver spotted
hand on top
of the
waterspout
and looks right into
the lens of
my camera. I snap
the
picture
hoping
to capture
the excitement on
this woman’s face. It is probably rare that
a group of students come traipsing through this small town toting cameras and
pockets full of film just looking for that perfect example of a Sicilian for
the perfect portfolio worthy shot. I stand up and thank the woman, but she isn’t
done with me yet.
She calls to
me and motions
me
to come
closer. Grabbing
my arms
just
above
the elbows,
she pulls
me down
and kisses
me on both
cheeks.
I smile at
her and am
drawn deep
into her
rich chocolate
eyes.
She starts
chattering
to me at
lightning speed
in Italian.
I smile and
nod politely
looking
where she
points. Not
able to understand
what she
says I
sheepishly
explain in
very
poor Italian
that
I don’t speak Italian. She stops, smiles at me again, nods, and says “Ciao” giving
my elbows a small squeeze before letting go. I said say “Ciao”,
and walked away with a warm, wholesome feeling bubbling up inside me, warming
me
on this chilly afternoon.
It is here,
in Polizzi
Generosa
around
a corner I
explore,
that I
come across a
sight
I never
expected
to see
in Sicily,
never mind
in this
small hill
town. It
is a stop
sign,
a
bright
red octagon
with bold
white letters
spelling
out
S - T -
O - P around
a
corner
I explore.
What is
an American
stop sign
doing
in the
midst of this
little
place that
seems so
untouched
by
outside
intrusion? I don’t know, but it is certainly a surprise, especially with the views
of old worn streets, terra cotta rooftops, and the far off vineyard valleys
beyond it.
Our last
morning
in Sicily
is
a dreary
one.
Darting
through
the pouring
rain
and onto the
bus I
hold my coat
over
my head,
angry
with
myself for putting
my umbrella
into
my suitcase
instead
of my
carry-on bag. The
bus driver
winds
down the lasagna
turns
into Noxus and
onto
the
highway
heading
for Catania
airport.
As
we
round
a corner
along
the coast
the
bus
is pelted
with
hale balls,
leaves
and
sticks
are flying
through
the
air,
and the front
window
of the
bus
is
so fogged
up I
have
no idea how
the driver
is
seeing
the road.
We are
all
amazed at
this
hurricane-like
weather
that
we
rarely get
to
witness back
in
America. Passing
along
the
beach
we
can see
the
gray
Mediterranean
Sea,
choppy
from
the
storm. The bus
turns
again
and
heads up a
hill
overlooking
the
ocean.
Rounding
a point
I get
a good
view
of
the
water.
A ways
off
the beach
the
sun has
managed
to
penetrate
the
threatening
clouds
in
a single
beam.
The
spotlighted water
glistens
and
sparkles a muted
teal.
As
we move
farther
and
farther
from
it
the
beam expands.
At
the
airport
the
sun
has
managed
to
shine
fully,
ensuring
a
sunny take
off.
Boarding
the
plane
on
the
tarmac,
I
take a last
look
around
at
the
limestone
hills
and
lush
green
wheat
grass.
I
take my
seat
in
the
small
plane,
and
buckle
in
ready
for
take
off.
Once
the
plane
zips
down
the
runway
and
becomes
airborne,
it
banks
to
the
right,
turning.
Looking
out
the
window
I
get my
final
glimpse
of
the
amazing
island
of
Sicily,
a
place with
many
corners
to
explore
that
I
have grown
to
love.
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