A Land of a Thousand Views

Amanda Lazur

The transition to Sicily was like a swift kick back to the days of Aladdin. Dark cobblestone alleyways, lit up by a single streak of sun peeking around the corner, were outlined with rows of balconies. Each balcony was reminiscent of a different era and each protected from the afternoon sun by a striped awning. Every few balconies would reveal a single clothesline adorned with undergarments, socks and sheets flapping in the wind sprinkling passersby who are too busy trying to capture the perfect photo to notice.

The stores lining each street were filled with fresh vegetables, fruits, trinkets and clothes. The fresh fruits tasted incredible, succulent and full of flavor, and the best part was the couple pennies it cost per orange. The shopkeepers stood outside their shops beckoning tourists to take a gander. I glanced over the familiar ceramics, sold in every shop on that same street, while the person behind the counter tried to conduct a conversation with me. Of course I had no idea what they were saying and oftentimes I could have sworn they were trying to sell me a live cow. Yet, there must have been a mix up in the translation because I always walked out with a new piece of pottery.

My first exposure to Sicily revealed a series of stucco buildings lining a piazza in downtown Palermo. Palermo is one of Sicily’s oldest cities and, therefore, has been home to the island’s many inhabitants. Evidence of the Normans, Greeks, Romans, Arabs and Italians can all be viewed in a 360-degree revolution of the square.

There I sat on a concrete bench after spending12 hours on an airplane and two hours on a bus. I was beginning to worry that I would remain hunched over in a sitting position permanently. Nonetheless I was content to munch on my rice ball, the first food I had since leaving America, while taking in the chaos surrounding me. As the rest of my group wandered off in separate directions to explore the sights I veered towards a soccer game in the corner of the piazza. Every time I thought that ball was destined to be struck by a passing car, a young boy flew into the air and blocked the object from near death.

Glancing past them I noticed a large gothic church in the midst of renovations. It held a mysterious rapture with its dark exterior and lonely doorways. I had not seen one person enter or exit the building while I was there and it reminded me of something from Arthur Miller’s “The Crucible.” Throughout my trip I did not see another church like it.

The eclectic assortment of cultures visible in the architecture surrounding the piazza give even the most amateur photographer, myself included, an opportunity to come out looking like a professional. The beauty is so undeniable that for a camera to produce an ugly photo would be a lie. At every turn I couldn’t help but snap another picture and ultimately I came home with proof in the form of 14 rolls of film.

Today, the piazza is encircled by pavement on which the people engage in an old school game of Frogger with the steady flow of vehicles. There is a posted speed limit, although it appears to be merely a suggestion. Cars continue to zoom by at unprecedented speeds and crossing any main road is like playing 52-card pickup, only the 52 are people being scraped off the road.

Despite the serious case of road rage, the Sicilian people are some of the warmest and welcoming I have ever had the pleasure of meeting. I attribute it to their history of contact with foreign invaders but, whatever the reason, I was sure to receive a reassuring smile when my ‘buon giorno’ reeked of an American accent and sounded more like ‘bon jeorno.’ Stepping out of a shop in Cefalu, a middle-aged woman poked me. “Americano?” she asked with a smirk. I replied with a wavering “Si” and she continued to say what later I translated as “I could tell right away.” To this day I’m trying to decide what gave me away, my camera or my 2-liter bottle of water.

Cefalu was the first city I took up residence in and by far my favorite. For the most part it appears untouched by the outside world. A path along the beach took me towards the center of town where I could see the duomo lit up in shades of pink and orange amidst a sky of black. Above the city, mountains soared into the sky topped by a stone wall surrounding what appeared to be an old monastery. The side of the mountain was adorned with several cave-like openings eroded over time by salty winds.

On my trek to the center of town I walked down narrow roadways, large enough for only a motorbike or smart car to pass through. Every few yards I would pass by a crevice decorated in candles illuminating the patron saint of healing or fertility. The roads were lined with homes varying in color, size and shape and each door was constructed differently complete with hand-carved details.

Reaching the main piazza I was speechless. The church towers over its onlookers and awes even the most insolent tourists with its Greek columns and gated courtyard. It was in this piazza where I experienced my first taste of gelato, cappuccino and spoke my first words of Italian. It was in this piazza where I fell in love with Italy.

I sat in the square licking my gelato, taking in the view and listening to gathering groups speak in Italian, probably remarking on the overwhelming number of Americans present. We were like sitting ducks in Calvin Klein jeans with cameras dangling from our necks. Nonetheless, most Sicilians appeared amused by our presence and were more than willing to lend a helping hand.

A group of young boys, ranging in age, were screaming as they beat a soccer ball back and forth along the heavily slanted piazza. Every piazza in every town appeared to double as the local sports arena. I was amazed by their abilities and reminded myself that they had been playing since they could walk. A group of us were invited to play and it became America versus Italy in a competition for bragging rights. Of course it was no contest. Italy wiped the floor with us but I think we took it fairly well and we walked off with a smile.

As our bus scaled the mountain we surpassed the billowy, white clouds. Coming to a stop in the city of love, Erice, the mood turned peculiar. Glancing around at the entrance to this quaint village, I failed to notice a single being outside our group. Prodding even deeper the silence grew overwhelming and save for a few shopkeepers I saw no one. After indulging in a cannoli, I made my way back to the bus, too cold to stare at vacant buildings.

A visitor cannot travel more than a few feet without a constant reminder of the island’s past. Cathedrals, forums, coliseums and theaters litter the countryside, highlighted by spontaneous groves of orange and lemon trees, a vital commodity to the people of Sicily. The overwhelming smell of blood oranges floating through the air required insurmountable self-discipline to avoid pulling an Adam & Eve. Luckily the hotels offered an unlimited supply.

I spent much of my time driving from place to place and many of the journeys became the highlights of my trip. One early morning I recall the landscape appeared flattened, almost like that of a picture rather than reality. A haze had been hovering over the island for several days and finally sunlight was beginning to peak through the clouds. There were endless miles of olive trees and the background was strewn with mountain peaks bursting through the haze. Toward the coast, the choppy turquoise waters of the Tyhrrenian Sea mirrored that of the Caribbean with its clear reflection, a result of Mount Etna and its oxygenated lava flow.

Mount Etna was an architectural monument in and of itself. Stepping onto the snow-laden gravel, layered in sweatshirts, I felt as if I had landed on the moon. The landscape was overwhelmed in gray smog and random spirals of smoke emanated from the mounds of ash. As far as the eye could see an egg crate of black hills formed the surface of the mountainside. I did my best to find the peak of the volcano but it was obscured by the thick fog and snowflakes drifting into my eyes. I climbed over the jagged rocks of cooled lava, feeling like somewhat of an adventurer, filling a plastic bag with handfuls of ash. What better souvenir could I give than a piece of the world’s second largest active volcano?

The central portion of Sicily differed tremendously from the outlying regions. None of the roads are direct and in an effort to reach a city only 60 miles away, it took 3 hours of twisting, nauseating turns by bus. The scenery consists of endless green complemented by random patches of wildflowers and abandoned buildings. Even the abandoned buildings were beautiful sitting like ruins in the streaking rays of sunlight.

Tall, shapely trees like that you would see in an Italian fresco outlined many of the cities we passed through. Each time we rounded a corner, a new city could be seen from a great distance perched on a flattened hilltop, isolated from the hustle and bustle of urban life. As I explored the labyrinth of side streets people flashed a cautious stare in my direction, unsure of why I was taking photos. They were not used to tourists and spent most of their lives never having to leave the coziness of their little town.

Ordering a cappuccino and relaxing in the warmth of the sun with some fellow travelers, the townspeople began to gather around, interested in striking up a conversation. I sat back and observed while a group of three elderly men chatted up a couple of girls from my group, with the help of Rosa, our guide, as translator. They laughed and I wondered what they were talking about but my questions faded away as I noticed my cappuccino cup was empty.

About halfway between Palermo and Siracuse we came to a stop. Stepping off the bus, I nearly passed out and the only words I could utter were, “this alone was worth the $2000.” Spanning the entire horizon in front of me were magnificent mountain peaks strung together and capped in a layer of thick white. The contrast between the bright green I was standing on and the unadorned white of the snow almost had me singing the Sound of Music but I was too busy doing my best to stand upright against the gale force winds blowing through the valley. I eventually returned to the bus and continued on but to date that remains my clearest memory.

This being my first excursion abroad, I was unprepared for the feelings that engulfed me with each new place uncovered. Rosa said it best when she spoke of the Greek Temple at Segesta. “Your first time experiencing something of that caliber is an absolute tidal wave of emotion.”

Walking up the steps, which were carved into the hillside, the Temple slowly came into view, hovering over the surrounding landscape. The diameter of the columns alone must have been three people wide reaching up to the cloudy sky above. The rusty, pale yellow formations were weathered from centuries of exposure to nature’s wrath. Canyons encompassing the Temple were painted with vineyards. The gray clouds lingered above suggesting a rainstorm.

The temple was constructed in 500 BC, before even the Bible was written and it’s overwhelming mass is intimidating. I find it hard to believe anything so beautiful exists. For a brief moment the clouds parted and sun illuminated the roofless structure as if the Greek Gods were showcasing their hard work.

A short bus ride away, just over the neighboring hill, the Coliseum at Segesta lay en memoriam to the Roman era. Overlooking the northern side of the island, clouds darken bits & pieces of the landscape and the Tyhrrenian Sea sets the backdrop. I sat in the nosebleeds taking in a 360-degree view of Sicilia watching the sun creep over large fields of rolling green. Rosa honored our group with a rendition of the Three Tenors, standing on the worn stage below, her voice resonating throughout the hillside. The thick stone structure itself only serves as a reminder of my own laziness. Completed in a time when conveniences were unheard of, men toiled in the sweltering heat for years to create this coliseum that has so far lasted two millennia. I’ve never even built a tree fort, too fearful of the dirt that would accumulate underneath my fingernails.

The appeal of Sicily lay mostly in the antiquity of such monuments. With each site I felt honored to be present and to stand where history was shaped. Walking through the city of Siracuse Rosa introduced our group to the city’s Byzantine cathedral, formerly the Temple of Minerva and according to tradition, the first Christian church in the west. It rested on a far corner of the crescent-shaped piazza, casting a shadow over its spectators. I must have toured ten duomos and cathedrals, all of which held a unique splendor, but this one struck me as exceptional. Unlike the others it was not decorated in fancy gold mosaics or stained glass windows. The entire structure had a cold, concrete feel and the interior was dark with the exception of a few beams of light coming through the entranceway and chandeliers trimmed with candles.

Yet, as I sat on the cold, hard wooden pew recounting the history lesson Rosa had just uttered it was impossible to not feel the power and poignancy of the building. Originally the Greek Temple of Athena constructed in the fifth century BC, the 22 Doric columns can still be made out between large slabs of stone, thrown up by the Byzantines in the seventh century BC to act as walls. Siracusa’s history, much like most of Sicily, is fraught with conflict. Byzantines, Arabs, Normans and the Spanish have all made their way through the streets and left their mark on the cathedral. This blend of architectural elements tells a story of the island’s history and solicits appreciation from those who enter its domain.

While wandering through Catania, a brief distance from Siracuse, we happened upon the Teatro Massimo Bellini, named for the city’s most illustrious son Vincenzo Bellini. Opera has been a mainstream pleasure since the island’s existence and remains at the heart of their entertainment today. I was offered the privilege of touring the inside and was awed by the untouched beauty that remained. The entire theater was in its original form with sweeping red drapes and gold ornamented balconies reserved for the elite of society. 1200 seats overlaid with velvet cloth abound, topped by a high-domed ceiling portraying scenes from the many operas that have passed through its walls. At the center of the dome ‘La Norma’, the first opera to be performed in the theater and in the rear an extravagant balcony reserved for VIP guests of royal descent.

During intermission audience members flock to the marble-laden foyer to socialize and gossip. White stone sculptures depicting Greek mythology and tales of operatic romance decorate the room and two mirrors span the length of two walls floor to ceiling creating an appearance of more space. The black and white tile floor finishes off the movie-like atmosphere and I remind myself I am not Scarlet O’Hara.

This ensemble of memories serves as my reminder of the wonders of traveling. Walking through the constricted, cobblestone streets and gazing up at the bright stucco facades it all felt like a dream. I tried to picture the giant vinyl-sided houses and landscaped yards back home but all I could focus on were the wrinkled old men wearing toscos and ear-to-ear grins. That’s when I realized what life is really all about: enjoying the moment and taking in the view.

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