Who is a Sicilian?

South of Rome was terra incognito for Ann and me. In mid April, we embarked on a thrice-postponed trip -- COVID-19, you know -- to Basilicata, Puglia and Sicily. Basilicata is the arch of the Italian boot; Puglia, its heel; and Sicily? Well, Sicily is part of Italy but arguably not Italian at all. We discovered how little we knew, know, about its history, its arts and foods, its role as pivot around which spun and clashed the Mediterranean religions, cultures, and civilizations. 

Phoenicians, Carthaginians, Greeks, Romans, Vandals, Ostrogoths, Byzantines, Arabs, Normans, Svevians, Angevins, Aragons, Spaniards, Piedmontese, Austro-Hungarians, Bourbons of Spain -- wave after wave came and ruled leaving behind a mélange of people with the most convoluted DNA imaginable and an unique language. And the question: Who is a Sicilian?

Three weeks does not an expert make. But our readings (Lampedusa, Durrell, Norwich, Auci, and more), listening to our guides, and observing lead us here:

      Who is a Sicilian?

•  If you’re a man with mafia*

•  if you’re a woman who mainly stays at home, when in public appears modest and subordinate, but, mamma mia**, is truly in charge;

•  if you believe rules are suggestions;

•  if you’re a native Italian who thinks Italian is the others’ language;

•  if your family was last to accept and least supportive of Mussolini’s Fascism;

•  if you view nepotism as responsible, honorable care of family;

•  if you’re one for whom third cousins come before city, tribe, or nation;

•  if you’re an Italian with a persistent sense of grievance and victimhood;

•  if you automatically challenge authority and presumption;

•  if to you Garibaldi was not hero but pillager and freebooter;

•  if you value loyalty above all else;

•  if you view revenge as duty;

•  if you wink at finagling one’s way out of taxes or conscription, futtitinni***; 

•  if you budget bribes;

•  if you’re secretive around strangers;

•  if you’re the Italian who expects the worst; 

and

•  if you’re proud of coming from an ancient island always in the crosshairs of the Mediterranean,

allora****, it’s likely you are Sicilian.

And if you don't say just si, but si,si,si,si,si then for sure you are Sicilian.

*      mafia, from the Arabic: swagger 

**   mamma mia: OMG

***     futtitini: fuggedaboudit!

****   allora: so / therefore / then / OK

What follows are some of our favorite photos keeping fresh our memories of this remarkable trip.

Piazza Amerina, a base for 
Villa Romana del Casale

On the hunt for wild asparagus
which nestles amongst old olive trees

Making cavatelli on
the farm 

Catania: would you buy a used
swordfish from this man?

Seaside, fresh water spring of
Arethusa kept Ortigians alive,8thC BCE

40' monolithic column
from Athena's Temple, 
now part of Siracusa's 
Cathedral

Modica: the FIAT 500 Club
gets ready to roll

Our track

A Catanian fish merchant gives
that Sicilian-stare

The Greek theatre at Taormina
with Etna as backdrop

Matera, the troglodyte warren 
of walkways and staircases

Matera: Eggplant, pasta, seafood
and wine -- what's not to love?

Castelbuono: the Serpotta brothers
went rococo-loco

Lecce: the paper mache' sculpture of
Claudio Riso is breathtakingly artful

The tulli of Alberobello

Matera: cave homes, like a prairie dog village

Matera: Excavating a 5thC CE Orthodox
cave church, with frescos

About half-way up on the flanks of Mt. Etna

Salt evaporation ponds at Marsala

Monreale: a 12thC Byzantine cathedral built by a Norman,
using Arab architects, and decorated by Greek mosaicists. 

Monreale: 68,000 sq.ft. of mosaics

Lecce: the architect of the Cathedral. Jimmy 
Durante's forebearer?

Palermo: Angelo Provenzano, son of Bernardo Provenzano, U Trattore, head of the Corleonesi Mafia, Capo dei tutti Capi. Angelo had to Zoom with us having tested positive the day before our meeting.  

One night in Ragusa

Agrigento: Concordia Temple, 6thC BCE

Women's gym, Villa Romana del Casale,
Piazza Amerina, 4thC CE

AJW Had a Birthday

 She didn’t want a party or jewelry or things  – we’re trying to get rid of things, at least she is. She just wanted a nice experience. 

So, Mr. Cheapskate, here, gave her a sweet tooth indulgence, some bubbly, and three days at Snug Harbor in Mitchell Bay on San Juan Island. She invited me along.

San Juan Island is a recent ‘discovery’ of ours. We’ve known it for years from the sea, checking in with immigration at Roche Harbor on our return from cruising in the Gulf Islands or visiting Friday Harbor by ferry, but only in the last couple of years have we been introduced to and have begun to explore the Island’s innards. It’s a magical place of beauty, history, and relaxation. Forests, meadows, lakes, shores: cares seem to drop away or at least to shrink to manageable size under the spell of SJI (as their bumper stickers ID.)

Snug Harbor: all the name conjures. Twenty beautifully appointed units -- suites, one-bedroom cabins and two bedroom houses fronted by landscaped lawns and a marina.

 

The bay opens onto Haro Strait, facing Vancouver Island across the way. Each morning we had a pup seal exploring the marina or an adult seal working the bay. I saw their resident otter, Owen the staff has named him; geese escorting chicks all in a row; a pair of eagles working the area. 

Ten minutes south, at Lime Kiln State Park and its lighthouse, we watched orcas – a small pod of five or six and what appeared to be a transient single. Too far away for good phone-camera shots, should have brought my Lumix 400, but fun to watch them working through the kelp beds. Also saw a kit fox, old enough to be on his own but clearly a youngster. Curiously few deer; who knows? 

We hiked along the cliffs above Dead Man’s Cove, careful of our footing as we both have gotten more wobbly. We kayaked the bay, examining the beautiful homes lining its shores, nestled among the firs and madronas. Spring has sprung in the San Juans despite record cold and rain. The fresh sprouts and trees, bushes and rhodies in bloom gave every vista an Oh, Wow!

Lunches eaten in Friday Harbor. Invariably, we struck up conversations and swapped stories with interesting sailors or stink-potters, locals or visitors. E.g., two brothers, one from Austin, the other from Portland, cruising the San Jauns together w/o wives. Ann is very good at opening gambits, as “did I overhear you were from Green Bay?” or “Are those the ginger mussels? How are they today?”

Birthday night featured a sumptuous dinner at Roche Harbor’s McMillins, made doubly special by Pam and Jim’s gift of a 20-year old Delille Cellars D-2 Bordeaux blend (worth about twenty-times my paltry, gourmet caramel sauces.) Once fragmented cork was twice sieved out, decanted, and allowed to breath for twenty minutes or so, it mellowed out into a wonderful, memorable wine, highlight of our meal. Thank you, P&J! 

This is written on a blustery, rainy Friday morning ferry back to Anacortes. I’ll put in pix later. All worked better than I dared hope: AJW had her birthday.