Opening the Door to Sicily

Matthew Viglianti

I had decided before arriving in Sicily that I wouldn’t let language get in the way. Traveling for me had always been an opportunity to experience other cultures, to absorb different traditions and histories, and ingratiate myself in a unique lifestyle. Language barriers, however, often made this process difficult. On previous vacations to foreign countries I lacked the linguistic skill to translate conversation or decipher important road or street signs. With a little courage and a lot of patience, I was frequently able to engage local people and enrich my experience in their country.

Sicily would prove no exception. Though I once listened to my grandparents converse in their native Italian, I was too young to pick up any vocabulary. Their memories of the language faded long before I was old enough to understand the dialects they used, and Italian was never offered to me in school. I was going in blind. With only the most rudimentary phrases in my repertoire, I hopped off the plane and bounced along the tarmac, eager to engage any Sicilians I encountered during our stay on the island.

We boarded our coach and rode towards Cefalu. The highway wound with the contours of the coastline, and flowed into the countryside with an ease native to the island. Soon, Cefalu came into view. The city, pink in the evening light, laid huddled beneath a massive cliff. Giovanni revved the bus’ engine to climb a hill and obtain a better view of the city. Following a quick photo stop, we arrived at our hotel to freshen up before heading into Cefalu for the night.

Rosa walked us through the narrow streets until we reached the Piazza Duomo. The Cathedral of Cefalu dominated the scene. Lit by street lamps and yellow spotlights, the symmetrical cathedral featured two high towers on either side with three spectacular arches in between. Shops and cafes enclosed the square, and patio furniture provided ample seating.

We enjoyed a quick history lecture from Rosa before setting out to explore the town. The day’s traveling had caught up with me. I needed a rest. Sitting down on a metal chair, I observed a pack of children playing soccer on the sloped street. Their shrieks echoed off the cobblestones, filling the piazza with sound. Contented, our group relaxed and enjoyed our first sips of cappuccino, ingesting the scenery.

Rosa walked straight into the middle of the contest, stopping one boy in his tracks to talk. She turned back towards us, a smile growing across her face. The boys were challenging us to a friendly match, scheduled to start immediately upon the completion of their current game. Finishing our cappuccinos, we awaited the final whistle and our turn to play.

A group of six UMass and Hartford students marched out to accept the challenge. The goals were marked and the sides were chosen. It was the United States vs. Italy in an intense international event. The children dodged and weaved, but we fought to gain the edge. Our American contingent was quick to strike, and soon the score was 1-0 in our favor.

The cobblestones at our feet were not very forgiving, and each time a boy hit the ground I grimaced with concern. Rosa assured me that the boys were only acting, and play continued on. While some of my friends charged towards our offensive half, I lingered near the back and defended our goal against the attacking children. They laughed as I playfully held the backs of their shirts, preventing them from running to meet the ball. We taunted each other. Animated disputes erupted about which side had touched the ball out of play, or whether a lofted shot had snuck underneath the imaginary crossbar. Confidence poured from the youngsters as they evened the contest. Final score: U.S.A. 1, Italy 2. Handshakes all around confirmed the bond we’d forged. It was time to head back to the bus. Back to the hotel to get some much anticipated sleep and prepare for day two of our trip.

The next morning we enjoyed some free time in Cefalu. Exploring the city was like hunting for buried treasure. Staircases and alleyways inspired creative compositions, and our bodies contorted to test new angles. Locals watched our activity with an interest and curiosity inherent in one so accustomed to the scenery. But the highlight of the morning occurred when we stumbled into Piazza Duomo.

The square was filled to the brim. The streets on the perimeter of the piazza were closed off to serve as the route for a running race. Everywhere, participants in white “ACS” shirts stood ready. Along the sidewalks, spectators cheered. The children’s bracket started first, and with the “Pop” of a pistol, a horde of kids sped down the street. I fired my camera to capture the frenzy.

A handful of Hartford students had spent the morning sketching the Cathedral of Cefalu. They occupied tables at the far end of the piazza, across from the cathedral. Their drawings were fantastic. Various architectural details filled the pages of their sketch books, and we began to discuss the methods they employed to achieve such perfection.

Not long after the start of the race, the children returned from around a corner. They smiled as they crossed the finish line, and skipped gleefully into the center of the piazza for a group photograph. A couple of kids noticed Caleb working. They strayed from the pack and began to congregate around him. A good sport, Caleb displayed his work for the children to see. Soon they were laughing and dodging as Caleb sparred with the more aggressive boys. The chaperone seemed to disapprove, but the play fighting continued.

I couldn’t resist shooting a few frames of the playful antics. One boy noticed my camera, and almost immediately lost interest in Caleb. No older than ten, he grabbed me by the hand and dragged me into the piazza, motioning for me to photograph him in front of the cathedral. I complied. Thanking him for his enthusiasm, I began to walk towards my friends. I felt a tug at my sleeve and turned to see the boy beckoning me back into the piazza. He persisted, and the camera loved him. A few frames later, and the action was spotted by the rest of his group. Oh boy!

A girl and her friends posed in front of the cathedral. I pressed the shutter rapidly to capture their expressions, and in an instant, every child dressed in white was diving in front of the camera. Lens smoking, I paused for a break when the girls skipped away.

I’d almost caught my breath before the action resumed. The girl returned, and I started towards the center of the square. However, this time she had a different idea in mind. Pointing to my camera, she explained her plan. I couldn’t understand what she wanted, but I finally realized that she was asking to take a picture of me. I handed her my camera. She raised it to her eye and pushed the shutter. Children once again flocked to the scene, and I explained, as well as I could, how to use the camera. The roll eventually expired, and I at last I was left alone, amazed.

A couple of afternoons later, our tour found us in Mondello, a beach community outside of Palermo. I entered a restaurant hoping to find a tasty lunch. I ordered a fried calamari sandwich and said hello to a gentleman behind the counter. He was tall, easily over six feet, and stocky. His sweater was green and ribbed. The collar closed around his neck like the hands of an angry spouse. He asked me, through worn down, rotting teeth, where I was from.

When the conversation started, we both understood that we would barely understand each other. He seemed surprised when I asked for my meal in Italian. His inquiry was in English, and startled, I could only answer in Italian. “Sono Americano,” I said, and we continued to talk for a few minutes.

Despite the language difference he was entirely cordial and interested in what I had to say. At one point, I asked him how to say, “How do you say,” in Italian. Frustrated by his lack of understanding, but eager to provide an answer, he stopped a friend who happened to be walking by. No luck. We shook hands and exchanged goodbyes. I was still not used to such friendliness, and I walked away shaking my head in disbelief.

Our visit to Polizzi Generosa the next day proved equally magical. Encouraged by the warm sunshine, we exited the bus and stared at the mountainous vistas. Snow-capped peaks rose into the clear turquoise sky. Farms filled in the foreground. Everyone took photos before heading into the center of town.

As we strolled down a narrow street, Kate and I noticed a meat shop covered in shadow. A tall man with slicked black hair leaned against the open door. He thrust his hands into the pockets of his white, button-down coat as we slowed to a stop. Nervously contemplating asking the man for a photo, we noticed his eyes suggesting acceptance. Deep breath. We decided to go for it.

A smile opened from his face when, at last, we approached him with the question. “Un foto?,” Kate began. “Si, si,” was the man’s jovial response. We stepped back into the alley to include the entire store in the shot, and afterwards, the man behind the counter called us forward. He began slicing pieces of dried sausage off a large link. While he handed them to me, I reached for some change. I extended my hand towards the butcher, but the first gentleman closed my fingers around the coins. Shaking his head, he wagged a finger of refusal before me. We thanked the men and continued on. No conversations needed. No reason why language should become a barrier.

The alleyway opened into a moderately sized, rectangular piazza. Benches lined the cream-colored walls, and a round flower bed marked the center of the mall. Elderly men sat and gossiped as the sun poured in over the buildings. Each agreed to be photographed. They all wore heavy coats in dark shades of gray or blue, and tascos, flat, short-brimmed hats decorated in hound’s-tooth patterns.

I reached for my notebook as I sat on a stone bench in a corner. I spent some time writing, holding the pages down to keep the gentle breeze from disrupting my train of thought. I raised my head every now and then to absorb the setting.

One of the men caught my attention. He walked over to where I was sitting and began to ask me something I didn’t comprehend. Luckily, Jen was close by. With much effort, I understood that he wanted to know what I was writing. In broken Italian, I explained that I was an American student studying journalism. My interest in learning appeared to excite the man. His eyes lit up as he rushed to the wall behind me. There I found a table of measurements in units I could not decipher.

Using hand signals, the man vigorously attempted to translate the chart. I nodded periodically when something discernable came out, further encouraging the man’s efforts. It seemed to me that the units had been designated based on the length of somebody’s hand span. The gentlemen stretched his palm as wide as he could, and compared the distance between the tip of his thumb and the tip of his pinky with a line carved into the wall. A considerable distance remained out of reach.

What had begun as a quiet gathering soon turned into a grand social event. Several members of my group discovered the square, including Rosa and Giovanni. The newcomers wasted no time introducing themselves to the crowd. Adrianna sketched a portrait of one of the older men, and upon its completion, posed with her subject. Marie snuggled with another gentleman as my camera recorded the interaction. Rosa and Giovanni exchanged pleasantries with the group.

The sun overhead passed between the buildings to illuminate the party. The men squinted under their tascos as camera shutters opened, letting the film record the scene. I wondered if these men had ever seen such an inquisitive group of strangers. Finally, we said goodbye. I looked around the piazza at all the smiling faces, laughing to myself, as I left. I was beginning to understand the compassionate nature of this beautiful island.

The air in Catania felt sticky, permeated by the salty scent of fish. The aroma of dried parmesan tingled in my nose as I made my way through the bustling crowd. Cigarette smoke draped like stale cologne. Sunlight filtered through red awnings, casting warm, pleasing tones on butcher’s meats, and men in white aprons shouted over one another, hoping to lure customers with bargain prices. I sympathized with the weaker windpipes. We had been warned about the frenzied pace of the Catania fish market, but as the undulating wave of consumers and merchant flowed, I was forced to adjust and absorb before I could even interpret the scene.

Traffic streamed past butcher’s shops and cheese stands, produce vendors and fish merchants. Sound echoed off the worn, yellow cement of perimeter buildings, and reflected back into the market off a canopy of umbrellas and awnings. Hard, wet stones lay uneven and broken at my feet. The streets were blanketed in shade, but despite the dim conditions, most merchants donned baseball caps, the brims pulled low over their eyes. Even sunglasses were common.

Eventually the tide washed me onto a side street. I had almost begun to feel claustrophobic, and was relieved to find an oasis of space amidst the crowded desert of people. I worked my way up the street, pausing momentarily to jot notes into my journal. My stomach started to rumble with complaints of emptiness. Suddenly recalling the benefits of vitamin K, I approached a vegetable seller, hoping to buy a carrot.

A young man, probably in his early twenties, eyed me from behind a table of leafy vegetables. His look was hard and unyielding. Shiny black spikes shot from his scalp, and dark sunglasses wrapped around his face, hiding the direction of his steely gaze. He folded his arms across his chest, and as I came near, he reached with one hand to rub the stubble growing below the edge of his rims.

I was at a loss. Apparently the stand didn’t sell carrots individually, and although I managed to find a couple of bunches, I couldn’t explain what I wanted. At this point, the young entrepreneur had realized that I wasn’t a native Italian speaker. He seemed to fire off sentences at a pace I had no hope of comprehending, and all I could do in response was pretend to separate a single carrot from its siblings and hope he figured out what I meant. We never even came close to an understanding. It appeared that he expected me to pay for an entire bunch of carrots, and he seemed angry when I put the carrots down, thanked him, and walked away.

Although the nature of this encounter held contrary to what I’d seen in Sicily, past travel experience had prepared me for the situation. Two summers earlier, my friend Jason and I decided to join a tour group and journey through central Europe. Paris was the first major city on our trip, and despite its exceptional beauty and historical significance, the people often projected a less gregarious attitude.

On one occasion, Jason and I entered a deli located on a quiet side street not far from the Arc de Triomphe. Interested in buying a couple of baguettes to appease our hunger, we approached the glass encasement and perused the selection. Soon we decided on the same sandwich, a long baguette with sun-dried tomatoes, slices of brie, and a drizzle of olive oil. Neither one of us spoke French. Nobody behind the counter spoke English. We pointed to the sandwich that we wanted and held up two fingers, separated in a “V.” A lady behind the counter, short and heavyset, reached inside the display and pulled out four sandwiches. She placed them on the counter and gave us our bill.

Jason attempted to rectify the situation. He began to speak to the lady in Dutch, the closest language we had to French. The woman, eager to make her money, insisted that we owed her for four baguettes, and shook her fist, causing the floral print on her sleeve to sway like a breeze. Soon, the commotion drew the attention of other deli employees. At its peak, our struggle to buy two sandwiches had escalated into a bilingual verbal assault. Four Frenchmen argued that our total included the four sandwiches on the counter, while Jason and I explained that we only wanted two. In the end, we conceded, and paid the woman for each of the four baguettes.

Still searching for something to eat, I crossed the narrow street and initiated a conversation with a white-haired gentleman in charge of a stand selling nuts. Clad in dark blue jeans and a navy sweater, the man smoked a cigarette and laughed as a friend caught his attention. He graciously allowed me to photograph his tables. Deep wicker baskets full of rich, brown almonds, golden peanuts, and silvery blue acorns, sat waiting for me to choose from. White pieces of paper glued onto tooth picks were planted in each pile of nuts, indicating individual varieties for people passing by. “Nocciole Tostate,” for toasted acorns. “Nocci Pekan,” for pecans. The vendor and his friend agreed to be included in a few photos, and they smiled like it was something they’d done a thousand times before, but still couldn’t get used to.

Photographing the gentlemen proved rather enjoyable, but I couldn’t ignore the growling in my stomach any longer. I pointed to a basket heaping with Brazil nuts, and apologized to the man for not knowing enough Italian to complete the thought. He began to pour scoop fulls into a brown paper bag, signaling for me to tell him when to stop. I motioned, “Enough,” when the bag seemed about a third of the way full. The pricing units displayed on each sign were tough for me to understand, and knowing that nuts are rather expensive, I sifted through the bills in my wallet for something worth over five Euros. To my surprise, the total came to a little over two Euros. I thanked the man as he handed me my change, and we exchanged a handshake and a smile before I turned to leave.

A couple of nights later, I sat down on my bed and began to pack. We’d be leaving for the States the next morning, and I started to reflect on all the reasons why I wasn’t looking forward to the twenty something hours we’d be spending in transit. Sure, our departure meant we’d be going back to school. Once again, classes would prevent us from enjoying the fresh spring sunshine, and nights would be spent typing papers in front of humming computer monitors. But what I knew I’d miss most was the friendliness of the local people and the intimate exchanges that I’d had with the Sicilians I’d met. I remembered one instance in particular. My memory carried me back to our first afternoon in Sicily, eight sunrises earlier, to our lunch in Palermo.

Joseph wore an outfit too proper to dirty. His plaid red shirt remained neatly tucked into the waistband of his pants as he sat quietly on the sidelines. Nearby, a group of young boys scampered about, kicking up dust from the surface of their makeshift soccer pitch. The clouds above blocked the sun from getting through, and an unseasonable chill breezed through Palermo center.

When I first approached Joseph he seemed timid and cautious. His eyes followed mine as I wandered towards the field, a Nikon hanging ready from my neck. He perched atop a goal post, a crooked tree trunk at one end of the dirty lot, his light brown hair standing up in the breeze. Neither one of us knew the other’s language. Through gesture and repetition he agreed to a photo, and I joined him on the trunk to frame the shot.

After I snapped the photograph, Joseph dismounted his post and strolled along the edge of the field. His mood was beginning to relax. We continued to chat as we walked, but this time Marie joined the conversation. She learned, through Italian, that Joseph was only nine years-old. Although his porcelain cheeks and short, careless stride belonged to youth, Joseph’s candidness and patience suggested maturity beyond his years. I parted with Joseph after many thanks, and felt pleasantly touched by the experience.

My encounter with Joseph contradicted everything I had ever known about personal interaction. I grew up hearing things like, “Don’t talk to strangers,” on an almost daily basis. I was programmed at an early age to close down when an unfamiliar person introduced themselves to me. Joseph, however, had broken the rules. Many Sicilians, young and old, had followed Joseph’s example, showing openness beyond measure, bridging the gap between cultures and languages.

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