Beneath The Surface: Coming Face To Face With Sicily’s Amazing History

By Emily K. Jewell

Sitting on an ancient lava flow next to a statue of Ulysses and watching the sea lap against the rocky coastline, I can easily picture the arrival of the Greeks on this spectacular sunny island. Before they even reached the shore here in Naxos, their gods had been using Sicily as a place to play, to fight, to mourn, and to unite. Homer called Sicily the Island of the Sun. Daedalus came to Sicily after watching his son Icarus fall into the sea with melted wax wings. Ulysses first arrived in Sicily after battling the Cyclops in the Straits of Messina. All this was before the island of Sicily became the volatile land that it is today.

In the food, people, ruins, markets, and even in the plants I can see how this island evolved. The modern day facade is like dirt on a window. Wiping away the dirt on the pane just a little, I come face to face with the Greeks, Romans, Arabs, Normans, Spaniards, and Italians who have fought over this place for centuries. The struggle over the island has created a sense of permanence to everything that exists here. Despite the fact that Sicily provides many challenges like droughts, hunger, famine, volcanic eruptions, earthquakes, and isolation, the island remains beautiful and the people proud of their ancient heritage. They are not Italians, they are Sicilians. That didn’t mean much to me before I arrived, but after a week basking in all that Sicily has to offer, I have an appreciation for exactly what that means.

I have wanted to go to Sicily since I was a little girl. My Irish family encouraged me to join them on several of their excursions to Ireland, but I said all along that my first trip overseas would be to Sicily. I finally got to go in March with a group of students and instructors from the University of Massachusetts, and the Hartford Art School. There were 42 of us in all, 29 students, and 13 instructors with their guests. We spent a week traveling around the island on a giant tour bus with a wonderful guide named Rosa who told us a story to go along with almost everything we could see, and a remarkable bus driver named Giovanni whose ability to maneuver the bus in the most frightening and treacherous of areas made us occasionally have to rise up to give him a standing ovation. It was a whirlwind tour of some of the greatest places on the island. We never stopped for too long. We tore through the streets in a mad dash to photograph as much as we possibly could, and jot down notes with as much detail as we could fit into our notebooks. We ate dinner at exceptional restaurants, drank cappuccino wherever we could, had amazing bottles of wine, and spent a lot of time looking at the countryside out the bus windows. It was basically like a survey course on the island of Sicily. We covered as much as we could, leaving a different reason for each one of us to go back and explore, someday, on our own.

Our first glimpse of the island was at the Palermo airport. As soon as I stepped off the plane I could feel that I was in for something unexpected. I had read a great deal about Sicily before we left, and I anticipated smelling citrus, olive oil, almonds, or the sea when I stepped off the plane. But the smell that greeted me in Palermo was the smell of the desert. Not the creosote scented desert of the United States, but a cleaner, more ancient smell of baking earth. Then it hit me for the first time; this island has smelled like this to everyone who has come here for more than 2000 years. I was a bit taken back by that thought, and I realized that this experience was going to be much more than I ever could have anticipated.

On the bus, we traveled through the city of Palermo. Tiny cars buzzed all around the bus, with everyone in a hurry to get somewhere, and no one paying much attention to road signs, traffic lights, or lanes. The city was crowded; new apartment buildings with ugly concrete facades and modern architecture congested one long stretch of the highway. But as we turned the corner and headed toward the spot where we would eat lunch, the top of a building that looked like a Norman castle appeared. The sides of the building were pockmarked with holes where weather had punched through the exterior. A small park stood on the other side of the street with ancient looking trees overhanging the gardens underneath. A group of young boys played soccer between the trees using the lowest hanging branches as goal posts.

Our first Sicilian meal took place in the park. Rosa and our instructors snuck off the bus to grab lunch at a street side rosticceria, while Giovanni had to take us up the street to find a place where he could turn the gargantuan bus around. Once we arrived at the park they unpacked the brown paper wrapped packages that held our savory scented lunch. Arancini - fries balls of rice filled with a mixture of meat and peas, or mozzarella and ham, and panelle de cici - chickpea fritters. The food was warm and delicious, but even more it was traditional. The Arabs are the ones who brought both chickpeas and rice to Sicily, and this tradition remains a part of Sicilian cuisine. It was a great way to begin because I think we all had anticipated more traditional Italian foods. I know I certainly thought we would be eating rich, garlicky tomato dishes, lots of pasta, and of course pizza. Our first lunch opened our eyes to the diversity we would discover was a major part of the island.

Back on the bus with overstuffed bellies, we made our way to what would be our home base for the next few days. The tiny, old fishing village of Cefalú appeared before us on a rocky outcrop into the sea. From a distance we could see a large cathedral in the middle of the town, surrounded by rusted red rooftops, and creamy sandstone/stucco houses. Once we checked in, and dropped off our luggage we made our way into the center of the little town. The Catedrale Basilica forms the backdrop for the amazing Piazza Duomo. This was our first of many experiences with the Sicilian piazzas. The narrow stone covered streets that led to the piazza were quiet, with no sign of the people living privately and peacefully in the cluttered homes that once housed the many fisherman who made their living on the waters off of Cefalú’s coast. But once we reached the piazza the quiet stopped. People gathered around the cathedral. The little pastry shop called Cafe Duomo was crowded with people buying their late afternoon cannoli and gelati. Teenagers held hands and walked around whispering and giggling at the large group of Americans, all obvious with our cameras and openmouthed stares. Old men with olive colored skin, hardened expressions, and sun-baked wrinkles stood stoically in doorways trying to mind their own business, but unable to look away from the curious gaggle of strangers who had invaded their piazza. Tables and chairs clustered at opposite corners of the piazza. People milled around, drank cappuccino and espresso, and talked with each other in muted, intimate conversations. Small children began streaming into the piazza for an evening game of soccer. I felt like I was witnessing something that has happened here everyday for many years. While at home we barricade ourselves in our homes and veg-out watching television, the Sicilian people travel to the center of town to socialize with their neighbors. I don’t know how long they have done this, but the cathedral here was built in the 12th century by the Normans. I can picture the fishermen returning from a day first at sea, and then at the market, gathering in front of the cathedral that dominates the square.

After the next morning spent further exploring the village of Cefalù, we were back on the bus and heading back through Palermo to reach the ruins of Segesta. There was something magical about the ride to the ruins. Everywhere I looked there was abundant citrus, with oversized lemons and golden oranges overwhelming the small trees they grew on. As we passed over the hillsides on the way to the ruins, we witnessed the large abandoned farms where olive and citrus trees continue to grow unattended since the 17th and 18th centuries. The Greeks are the ones who brought the olive trees to Sicily. Olive leaves were a mark of peace and victory, perhaps in part because of the amazing way that they grow. A “survival of the fittest” mentality seems to have been born into their growth habit. Olives only reach maturity after 20 years, and can live for over 200 years. The olive tree is held up as a sign of eternal life partly because of this lengthy life span, but also because as a last effort before dying the trees send up a new shoot to grow in its place. It is entirely possible that the olive trees I looked at from the bus window have been growing up in the same area since the Greeks walked the island. Not the same trees of course, but related with a new tree taking the place of the one before it. Part of the permanence of the Greeks in Sicily can be seen in this simple act of bringing along their most treasured plant.

At the ruins, a more obvious example of the Greek permanence confronts us. Up on a hillside we can see some of the 36 Doric columns that make up the temple built in the 5th century BC. With rolling hills all around it, and early spring wildflowers beginning to bloom I can imagine why the Greeks built this formidable temple. The Greeks were constantly fighting off attacks from invaders, and archeologists believe that construction of the temple may not have been completed because they were interrupted by war. We take a bus up a hillside opposite the temple looking out the window over a working excavation project, and arrive at the Greek theater. You can’t see what is on the other side of the walls that surround the theater until you step through and see the expanse of intricate stone work. The theater appears to be perfectly preserved, and Rosa demonstrates the acoustics for us in a duet with one of our instructors. Ancient plays and opera are still performed in this amazing place, and I find it hard to pull myself away from the view, and the sense of sitting in a place with so much history.

The next stop of Erice brings the history to life. Daedalus landed in Sicily near the town of Erice, but of course it wasn’t a town back then, and he didn’t walk along the stone covered streets admiring the elaborate and meticulous placement of each individual stone the way I did. He may have seen only a glimpse of what would become this tiny city in the clouds. The town is filled with narrow streets which weave back and forth as they climb the hillside. Stores line the largest street, but we are here during siesta, so not much is open. The remnants of a wall which once protected the city still exists in places, and the view out to the ocean below is part of the breathtaking charm. The Chiesa Matrice - a church built in the 14th century displays some of the beautiful medieval architecture, but more incredible is the lookout tower built by its side. Apparently I missed a Norman castle that was built in the 13th century built on a rock outcropping somewhere southeast of the main part of the city, so part of the reason I need to go back to Erice is to see that piece of Sicilian history.

We did literally come face to face with some of today’s Sicilian ancestors on our third day in Sicily. We were told to bring our notebooks because we would have a lot to write about on this day. I’m not sure that was the case for me. We pulled up to the front of a nondescript building called the Cripta dei Cappuccini, which should have told me something about what I was going to see. Walking in through the gate and down a flight of stairs I was confronted with the smell and feel of the air. It was cool, and dark, and I could only hope the smell was mildew. Once inside the catacombs, I saw skeletons, clothed in tattered suits and dresses, in different states of decay. Some still had a light cover of blackened skin, others were nothing more than a stark, grey-white skeleton. The catacombs are arranged in halls of occupation and importance. Doctors line one hallway, lawyers another, clergy in another seemingly endless line. The most chilling was the hallway and alcove of children. Tiny skeletons sat in tiny chairs, some in dresses, other in nothing more than their baby blankets. We even saw little girl who was embalmed after the interment in the catacombs ceased in 1881. “Baby Girl” is all the sign says that points to the child so perfectly preserved that she appears to simply be sleeping. I didn’t stay for too long. I walked outside to the more modern means of remembering the dead. A crowded cemetery stands outside the Cripta dei Cappuccini. Monuments, flowers, statues, and many photographs decorate the crowded gravestones and tombs in this courtyard. While the sight of the bare skeletons inside was chilling, the overcrowded maze of stones and decoration out in the cemetery made the experience out in the open air almost as claustrophobic. The Sicilians embrace death while we try to deny it, and that was a shocking difference in culture.

On an afternoon tour of the city of Palermo, Rosa told us more of the story behind the city, and explained some of the cultural stories of Sicilian’s today. We learned that the name cappuccino came from the cappuccini monks who where the brown hoods. We learned what the cheek to cheek kiss really means. The kiss is a traditional greeting, and they learn it growing up. Left cheek to left cheek, means love to the heart. Right cheek to right cheek, love to the mind. A failure to greet your friends with this kiss will undoubtedly lead to confusion and hard feelings. The balconies that make up part of the beauty of the cityscape have a story too. The curved balconies that look like rounded tummies, came about in the time of the hoop skirts. Architects began rounding the balconies so the skirts would curve with them instead of rise up in the back. A look at the buildings with rounded balconies tells us that at one time there were a lot of women living in that house, as it also told male suitors where to go in search of a wife. The balconies with the curves lower on the bars were for the cloistered nuns. These women were never allowed outside the confines of the building, so the curves in the balconies here were designed so they could rest their elbows and pray as they were as close to the outside world as they were ever going to be. Rosa was full of stories this descriptive throughout our whole trip. She may have contributed to bringing history alive as much as some of what we actually witnessed did.

We left Cefalù just when it was really starting to feel like we could learn to belong. An opera lesson awaited us as we drove across the island on our way to Siracusa. There is no better place to have a lesson in opera than in a vehicle moving through the incredible countryside. We were looking out the window at some of the beauty that inspired the greatest opera singers in the world. We listened to Puccinni and Pavarotti as we wound our way through hillsides carpeted in silver, yellow, and green grasses. Once more the olive trees and the citrus groves astounded us. Sheep with long wool coats grazed in the fields. Giant trees stood in the wet places along the way, with peeling bark and feathery leaves they looked like southern Cottonwood trees so completely out of place.

In Sicily, even the plants have to struggle. Spring is a good time for the plants while at other times of the year life is much more difficult. We looked out the windows at the almond trees which are just beginning to bloom. A beautiful little flower on a rugged and mangled tree. Looking past the beautiful flowers, the trunk and branches are a mass of twisted and knotted bark, which seems to double back on itself in an effort to become stronger and more immune to the rough outside elements. When almonds are picked they have to first be removed from their bitter, outer shell. Then they must be dried to extract the overwhelming bitter acidic bite they naturally possess. But from the bus window all we saw was the cluster of little pink flowers.

The opera lesson continued as the first sight of Mt. Etna came into view. She was far away from us still, but the day was so clear that we could see the snow covered cap looming up above the rest of the island. Rolling green hills continued to sway along with the rhythm of the melodies we are listening to, and up above the puffy clouds move along to their own music. Tire tracks cut a path through a hillside field and water pools in the deeper places. The sun, and blue sky were reflected in the water, while I watched the shadows of the clouds above darken portions of the patchwork fields. Just when I thought it couldn’t get better, we arrived at Gangivecchio.

Gangivecchio is a 14th century Benedictine abbey that has been converted into a restaurant by the mother and daughter team of Wanda and Giovanna Tornabene. They have won the James Beard award for the cookbook La Cucina Siciliana de Gangivecchio, and since the publication their restaurant has grown in popularity. We knew in advance that Gangivecchio was to be one of our gourmet meals, but I had no idea how wonderful the food and surroundings would be.

The outside of Gangivecchio is ancient and attractive. A red stucco layer is worn away in many places by the hot desert sun and by years of cool mountain rains. In the places where it does still exist it is so sun bleached that looks like a watercolor rendition of a wall. The artist put several different shades of reds in browns on the canvas, and then added texture with a soaked brush. The smell of wood smoke wafted through the air, twirled and tumbled on the swirling trapped air currents. A beautiful fountain trickles water on one side of a structure in the outer courtyard, while on the other side a small pool reflects the surrounding ivy and the cloud dappled sky up above.

Inside we sit a large country tables decorated with crisp white linen. A large fireplace roars away in the other room sun streams in the windows surrounding the dining room. The meal is amazing. Several courses, beginning with an antipasti, with all the flavors pure and natural. We ate a lot, but I never got that overstuffed feeling that goes with American meals. The Sicilians have perfected the balanced meal, and there is something to be said about the fresh ingredients that Sicilian soil produces. I will buy the Tornabene’s cookbook one day, but the delicious meal is still to fresh in my mind to risk disappointing myself with an inability to duplicate the experience. The recipes and the flavors have been handed down generation to generation, and I’m not convinced I have it in my blood to keep that history alive.

Sircacusa provided the most thorough glimpse into the history of Sicily. We went on a walking tour with Rosa, through the old part of the city called Ortygia. There were Roman and Greek ruins left standing and falling apart along our quick walk. Then we arrived at the Piazza Duomo. The facade of the Duomo Baroque, and built by an architect during the 18th century. We found it hard to be impressed with that since we had seen buildings from the 5th century BC just a few days earlier. But once we stepped inside we were awed. Looking around the church I became aware that the columns that lined the walls were Doric columns, and Rosa said that this building was once a Greek temple. Looking up, over the columns, I could make out the faint lines of arches, and Rosa said when the Romans arrived they built right on top of the Greek structure. In the other room, the ceiling was a large circle, where the building had once been a mosque. Rosa told us the Arabs came in and built right on top of everyone else. The ceiling, the ironwork, and some of the murals were all Spanish, once again built right on top of everyone else. It did literally take my breath away, I looked around the room and realized you can see the entire history of Sicily within the walls of this one building. Each new group of invaders had seized the property from the people before them. They may have changed it, but in a way they preserved it also. Each generation kept the history of the previous generation alive, for over 2000 years.

Historical traditions are still alive in the city of Catania. Based at the foot of Mt. Etna, the people who now live in Catania know the wrath the mountain can unleash, knowledge handed down from the people who came before them. Life in Catania is very much like it has been for all the years Sicily has been inhabited. They may have highways and all the modern day technologies, but when the mountain wants to blow, they deal with it just like their distant ancestors did. In November of 2002, Mt. Etna released a huge plume of ash and the city of Catania was buried in a several foot layer of ash. We have snow storms here, while in Catania they have ash storms. Cars and roadways are covered, and day turns into night when the black clouds block out the sun. This in many ways must keep the people of Catania from moving too far away from the life that they have learned from the people who came before them.

You can see part of that lifestyle in the Catania market. We walked down a narrow street leading away from one of Catania’s piazzas, and stepped down into a different world. The market was cool and dark, shaded by the buildings that surround it. A cacophony of words, shouts, and songs filled the air as fishmongers bantered back in forth trying to attract customers to their goods. Giant swordfish filled entire tables, eyes still wet and glassy, and meat red and still bleeding. Live octopus moved when poked with a finger. Sea anemones crunched in on themselves when tapped in their massive pile. Vegetables and fruit lined tables on a sunny alley leading out of the market. They reflected the light and the market all around them as they sat glistening in the sun. Butchers cut up sheep, pigs, and chicken before your eyes, and one of the prettiest things I photographed was a cluster of gleaming organs reflecting the red of the canopy above them. Giant balls of provolone and wheels of parmesan filled the cases where the cheese and salami vendors lined the market. It was all overwhelming, and all very ancient. I am sure that this market has looked and sounded like this for centuries.

Taormina was our final destination. We explored Mt. Etna together, and we walked in the ruins that stand at the edge of the city. We also had some time to ourselves which is how I ended up down below Taormina on the beach at Naxos. I had seen a lot on the short trip to Sicily, and the time by myself allowed me to reflect on it. I listened as the waves hit the shore and blocked out the sound of the cars zooming by up above on the street. I sat in the piazza and listened to the sound of the willow tree behind me, leaves brushing each other dryly in the afternoon breeze. I heard the song of a child’s toy singing in the background and wondered what the people who came here before me must have heard. I forgot about the problems that face us today, and thought only about the beauty and struggle that have come to this island before. With all the history that the people of Sicily are surrounded by, and all the invasions that have created the diverse people and culture who are there today, it is no wonder they don’t label themselves as simply Italian. They are Sicilians today, and they will be tomorrow. With little else they can be sure of, the label of Sicilian must help them hold on to their island and the past.

UMass Journalism in Sicily  •   Top of Page