The Friendly Streets of Sicilia

Whitney Warren

Narrow and cozy, the main roads of Sicily can seem more like neighborhoods than those in my hometown of Concord, Massachusetts. The isolation I am used to, backyards and tall tree hedges, is foreign to Sicily. Open land is used for farming or vineyards and does not exist amidst cities or towns. Most often there is no space at all between buildings except where a street intersects them. The buildings lean together like old friends. In Syracusa they actually hold each other up sometimes. When some of the buildings were hit hard by one of Sicily’s earthquakes and were in danger of falling over, instead of a costly and time consuming structural renovation, a wooden brace was constructed to cross high above the street below allowing the decaying building to rest on one that is stronger.

It wasn’t just the absence of space between buildings that caught my eye but the width of the roads intersecting those buildings. Most of the roads seemed to be a good fit for one car with enough room on either side to share with the pedestrians. At one point in the ghetto of Syracusa the roads were too slight for even one European car to squeeze through. Along other roads we had to stand in doorways, flush against the old stones to avoid a car inching along. In no time at all it was easy to see why there are so many mopeds and small cars there. The cars seemed like toys after experiencing the monstrous SUV’s in the States.

It was impossible to tell where one building ended and another begiasexcept for the change in balcony style, or wall color. It was typical to find a single residence where every window was of a different style, reflecting the history of conquest and subsequent cultural and architectural influences Sicily has endured. Greek, Roman, Spanish, Arabic, and Norman styles have all been woven together. The history of the island can be read in the lines of the roofs, the arch of the windows, the curve and material of the balconies.

Cobblestones always bring a sense of time to a street and Sicily is certainly no different. The smooth rounded edges of each stone told the story of millions of feet that had walked these streets before me. And I had just contributed my footprint. It was mind-boggling. I could not escape the feeling that I was surrounded by history. It blew a breath on my neck and beat a pulse under my feet. Every building had a story if I only knew whom to ask. I was almost smothered by the ghosts of these streets. I paused for a deep breath, looked up and relaxed into the deep blue sky.

Back at ground level the thin old walls were all that separated me from the inhabitants inside. My first evening in Sicily we eagerly went out to explore Cefalù not wanting to waste a minute of precious time. As I walked into town on the slim sidewalk, I innocently looked to the side and right through a window to see a family sitting down to la cena at a scarred wooden table oblivious to my wondered delight. Filtered by a lacy curtain fluttering in the soft breeze a happy family surrounded the table decorated with a shiny red pot and six place settings. I could have reached in and touched their plates. Everything was so close and intimate there. Every closed door I passed thereafter I wondered what was happening inside. A whole world lay just beyond my reach but it wanted to spill out onto the streets before me.

And finally I got my chance. I was rushing around the small hill town of Polizzi Generosi, trying to see as much as I could in the short time I had there and enjoying my momentary solitude. I vaguely realized I was lost. Was I worried? I was without any idea of my location in relation to the town center or my bus but had plenty of time to make my way back. I came out a side street only to realize I was now on the main road that circled the little town. Before me was a stunning view of mountains and farmland—it felt like the top of the world. I had stopped to take a photograph of the view peeping out between two buildings when all of a sudden the golden yellow shutters on the house to my right opened. Two female heads popped out eyeing me curiously.

“Buon giorno.”

“Ciao,” I replied. In rough Italian I explained that I was just taking a picture—was that all right?

“Si, si,” they answered me and without skipping a beat, “Vorrei un café?”

Stupidly I replied, no thank you, I don’t like coffee. Was I really going to pass up an opportunity like this? While it was true that I can’t stand coffee and wasn’t sure if I would be able to hide the grimaces as I sipped it down I have to admit I was scared. This is the ultimate Italian traveling dream: for total strangers to invite you into their home and I was freezing up. I frantically bemoaned the fact that I had no companion with me. I was actually a little nervous. In the Untied States I would never accept an invitation from a complete stranger even if they were two harmless looking women, but Italy is another story. Part of me had the audacity to be scared for the briefest of minutes, wondering if I would be safe, but the adventurous traveler in me knew I would have the best story to tell if I just said yes. So, when the offer for steamed milk was made, I eagerly snatched it up.

Still a little uncertainly (Did I understand her correctly about the invitation?) I walked to the front door where the older of the two women stood holding it open for me. I shook the woman’s hand and kissed her on both cheeks the way the Italians do. I discovered that her name was Rosa—my middle name—this was destiny. The younger woman, the daughter was around twenty years old and named Maria, the quintessential Italian name. In my stumbling Italian I responded, “Mi chiamo Whitney.” In my excitement at actually being in a real Sicilian’s home most of my Italian deserted me but through our short conversation it gradually came back. My mind was racing so fast my tongue couldn’t keep up with the words that were tumbling out of my mouth. Despite my lapses into Spanish we were able to carry on a simple conversation of why I was in Sicily, the tour I was on and my schooling. The scalding hot milk and sweet almond cake were a welcome diversion. The simple tasks of eating steadied me and occupied my nervous hands. I had burned my knuckle on the metal coffee pot and the pain served as that constant pinch reminding me this wasn’t a dream.

Rosa, ever motherly, had pulled out a bright blue chair for me at the table. Sicily’s famous lemons were mimicked in the bright yellow color accenting the cobalt blue of the room’s decor. The whole casa was much fancier than the unassuming exterior had led me to believe. Everything looked new and shiny and modern. Maria showed me to both balconies so that I might get a beautiful picture. I hadn’t asked for this. One balcony was off of the small family room where a fire burned brightly in the woodstove. To get to the other balcony she had to unlock the door to the rarely used dinning room. Faint smells of the last meal served there remained in the room. Glass fronted, dark wooden cabinets showed off the family’s fancy plates and glasses. At my urging the two women shyly posed for a photograph on the second balcony. The bathroom Rosa so graciously offered me was larger than some of my hotel rooms were. It was immaculately clean and neat.

Becoming nervous as the time quickly ticked by that I was going to miss the bus that I still didn’t know how to return to, I thanked the ladies profusely. Another hug and kiss ensued. Rosa was one of those classic old Italian women who you could just sink into. Of course, a million and a half more questions I should have asked popped into my head the minute I closed the door behind me. Next time I will be more prepared. This experience would never have happened in the US but Italy is known for it. The people are just so much more friendly and present. You never know what might happen next in Sicily, what treasure is waiting to be discovered, what conversation is waiting to be initiated.

There was no room on these streets for fancy curved walls or front porches—the base of each building is the edge of the road. The walls were flat save for the balconies that gave personality to each facade. Carved and decorated stone and artfully tendered wrought iron made up the balconies of Sicily. Where space didn’t permit, a curly-cued railing across the window opening sufficed. Some of the fancier balconies along Toarmina’s main street (and tourist attraction) even had lights to emanate a soft glow at dusk or night. Every balcony was adorned with flowers, plants and either colorfully painted or simple terra cotta pots. Rather than a lush and carefully manicured lawn, in Sicily, the balcony is the object of show. The richness of the greens or the brilliance of the reds and fuchsias of the flowers is the chance to make your mark on the building.

In the more residential side streets no balcony was complete without strings of laundry strung out between them like paper dolls fluttering in the breeze. Unsuspecting pedestrians could get an unexpected sprinkling of dripping water if they weren’t careful. Wandering around the tiny hill town of Polizzi Genorosi I happened to come across an ingenious, if albeit accidental, invention. Wet clothes hanging limply from the line above produced a constant drip of water onto a parked car below giving it its own personal carwash.

One benefit of such narrow roads and limited traffic is that conversations can be carried out from opposite doorways. On the thoroughfare in Taormina shopkeepers would lean against their doorjambs chattering away with each other until a prospective customer might stroll in. As I was being rung up at a shop in Taormina the salesclerk hailed three contemporaries as they passed the storefront window. On side streets old women would nonchalantly open up their shutters or wander out to their balconies to inspect the happenings outside. A boisterous tour group most certainly elicited more than a few casual onlookers from the balconies above. One might lean her elbows onto her railing and inquire of her neighbors’ children with a woman in a similar position across the way. Even the balconies seemed friendly as they held hands via a laundry line. Everyone seemed to know each other as they called, “Ciao” and “Buon giorno,” as they passed. I think about my street at home where I don’t even know the name of the woman who lives directly across from me. There is an intimacy in Sicily cultivated by the narrow streets and warm buildings that make it so utterly enjoyable.

These cities were built long before the Roman method of grid patterns of easy-to-follow streets and cross streets. I could tell these buildings in Sicily were built long before the idea of cars or busses was even a dream. Few streets lay straight for long and none were particularly wide. They say you haven’t experienced Venice until you have gotten lost there amidst the canals and dead ends and the same applies to old Sicily. You never know what beautiful secret may lie beyond the next bend in the road or around the next corner. An absolutely stunning window, a piazza complete with a fountain, the feminine lines of a wrought iron balcony, or the crumbling remains of some ancient ruin await you.

Absent was the clapboard siding to which I am accustomed to seeing and in its place werre stuccoed walls in hues of yellow, orange, and green or even simply old gray stones. The decay actually made the facades more beautiful and quaint. The same way wrinkles add character and intrigue to an old woman’s face, the cracks and patches of missing concrete that expose the grey bricks underneath added personality to the buildings. Meandering and snaking up the walls, the cracks could be followed, sometimes interrupted by weeds and plants that have begun to grow sideways out of them. Each crack tells the story of an earthquake or of another hundred years passed.

I loved how nowhere can the history be forgotten. Italy is known for its fountains—Rome’s Trevi Fountain perhaps the most famous—but they are oddly lacking in Sicily. I later learned that because Sicily is an island, fresh water is in scarce supply and wasting it on decorative fountains is not prudent. Still, in the odd piazza, one can be found. In Taormina I saw a young woman hold back her long, straight black hair to sip water spurting out of the mouth of a worn, grey stone horse.

The piazze serve as meeting and gathering places not just for the tourists but the citizens as well. This is where the children can play, as there are few public parks and no yards that I could see. One evening I took a seat at a scarred wooden bench directly across from three young girls giggling and enjoying each other’s company. Immediately they wanted to know everything about me (they knew I was a tourist) and to tell me everything about themselves. Children always seem better able to cross cultural and language barriers than adults. I couldn’t stay long but they were full of advice for me on where to shop and how nice Taormina and Sicilia were. Even in these nine-year-old girls their pride in their country was evident. They wouldn’t let me escape without a gift and generously gave me a trading card from some Japanese cartoon. I shall treasure it always.

One piazza we spent a significant amount of time in was in Cefalù. The tan façade of the Norman church, softly illuminated as dusk descends, towers over the wide end of the square in an oddly comforting way. The islands varied history was present in the distinct architecture of each of the buildings facing the piazza. Along the edges and threatening to spill into the middle sat metal chairs and faux marble topped tables. A few of them were occupied by happy patrons like me accompanied by small paper cups of gelato or mugs of espresso purchased from one of the cafes that occupied the ground floors of the surrounding buildings. I never saw a paper cup at any of the cafes I visited; whether the customer was standing at the bar or sitting at a tavola the characteristic white ceramic cups abounded. Even the simple trust that nobody would try and steal the cup and saucer, no matter how far a way the sipping destination was, is touching. The ceramic cups tell another story, as well. They speak of the slower Italian pace that allows for an unhurried enjoyment of the coffee or pastry rather than an on-the-go rush. Dotted around the perimeter of the patterned stone square stand groups of adults chatting with their hands. From my table I cannot hear their words.

A group of boys, ranging from perhaps seven to twelve years of age, boisterously kicked a soccer ball around. Where were all the girls? Only two or three can be seen and they were sitting at a table to my right. Our tour guide Rosa interceded on our behalf and a game was organized. Some of my travel companions joined the boys where they had congregated, thrilled to be included. How could they pass up a chance to play futbol with the locals? Despite having at least a head on each of their opponents the Americans were clumsy and no match for the grace and quick feet of the Italians. Loud cheers erupt from my right. The ragazzi seem to love the attention we lavish on them almost as much as we relish the neighborhood atmosphere. As the game winds down one of the boys shouted “Viva L’America!” and everyone laughed good naturedly.

In the morning of our last day in Cefalu, we walked into town on the usual road only to find yellow tape blocking off some of the side streets. Through lots of confused conversation we figured out there was going to be a race. The piazza began to fill with kids of all ages wearing oversized new white tee shirts over their hooded sweatshirts warding off the unseasonable chill. Rainbow “Pace” flags waved amidst the small crowd calling for peace. A man with a megaphone read off a clipboard but the kids chattered too excitedly to listen. A group of boys with spiky hair, gel glistening in the overcast light, hammed it up for the cameras my group aimed at them. There were no playing fields in the towns and cities of Sicily. Stone, brick and stucco covered nearly every surface. When I stop and think about it, what else is there to do but race around these old roads and play soccer in the piazze. Grass and trees filled some squares but not in the older parts of the cities. Rather than fields of Little League games, piazze are Sicily’s recreation spots.

Surprisingly or not, the streets were not so quiet on Saturday nights. Taormina is too small to have the kind of nightlife that Rome can boast and I’m sure there were clubs and pubs open late but what Taormina does have is the passagiato. The passagiato is a distinctive Sicilian phenomenon where the towns’ people gather on Saturday nights to stroll through the center, showing off their fine clothes and sharing gossip. I almost missed experiencing it but I was invited out on our last night in Sicily in hopes of finding that one last gelato. It was around 10:30 and we weren’t even sure if anything would still be open. Climbing the side streets from our hotel up towards the Corso Umberto 1 everything was quiet and all store lights were out. With sinking hearts we passed the closed doors of the pasticcerie and gelaterie that were usually open and then we turned a corner and opened up onto the main road.

To and fro, stylish Italians walked arm in arm or in small groups catching up with each other, gossiping and window-shopping. Many of the store widows were illuminated so that their displays could be seen though nothing was open. Women strutted along in their tiny high heels with not a waver in their step despite the slightly uneven cobblestones underfoot. That distinctive click clack reverberated off the stone walls lining the street. My limited knowledge and experience with Italian allowed only a few words here and there and the occasional sentence to compute, but mostly the sounds caressed my ears in rhythmic waves of rolled “r”s and elongated vowels. Long sleek coats and puffy short ones warded off the ever so slight chill in the air. Slicked back or spiky, the men’s dark hair shone in the glow from the ornate streetlights. There were older people and twentysomethings and just a few tourists that stuck out somehow. This was the time for the residents to show off, and look their best, it was an acceptable time for couples to walk arm in arm. I don’t really know how to describe the style of clothing but there was a certain flare to it, in the occasional sparkle or line of the pants and almost everything was tight. Many people knew each other and would nod or call a greeting as they continued on their way. How often do I walk down a street, even in my hometown, and even smile at the person I pass?

I have never particularly liked cities but the older sections of city in Sicily have more than won me over. I suppose there were less cars and traffic than I am used to which make them infinitely more appealing but it is much more than that. The balconies and mismatched hodgepodge facades spoke to my heart. There was such a detail taken in the streets, buildings and even streetlights. This is part of the romance of Sicily. Simply walking down the street at night made me feel like I was in a movie of a far off time. Music actually played in my head. What could be better than this? I’d go back and wander the old streets of Sicily any day.

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