The older woman across from me pointed out the train window. I looked over my shoulder past the hurtling landscape of southern Italy, neck protesting at the sharp angle, and immediately forgot the pain as I saw, glowing in the late afternoon sun, the island of Sicilia.
She and her husband were Sicilian, returning home. Across the aisle a Russian mother and her two children sat. They were visiting on holiday, as I was. All of us had embarked on this seven hour journey from Roma, all of us felt the gathering anticipation of arrival.
We reached the southernmost stretch of mainland rails and paused briefly in the harbor. Then a shimmy, a rumble, a short back and forth as we shifted from the track onto a ferry large enough to carry an eight-car train.
The woman’s husband hunched over his phone, typing away, then leaned over to show me an Italian-English hint - once the ferry launched, we would be able to climb to the deck. Wonderful! The train went quiet, then stuffy, then we all felt a gentle lurch. People began to rise and disappear from the train. I climbed out and up a flight of stairs, then another flight, ducking through hatches, and then emerged into the Mediterranean air and the majesty of Sicilia, backed by the setting sun.
We approached slowly, and almost silently. Despite the large number of passengers, there was an odd and appreciable quiet. This suited my circumstances: four generations ago, my great-grandfather left this place, and it took his daughter’s daughter’s son to finally bring the family line full circle. I relished that knowledge on this lumbering boat.
Home! From the ferry
Once we made land, the train repeated its transitional dance and we sped south along the island’s coast. Hills and valleys wove endlessly on Sicilia’s loom, rising, falling, folding into the land, until night knitted shut my view. At last I arrived and stepped into the cooling oven of Catania.
Home! We have landed - on the train
My host quickly reanimated me, despite my long day. His English surprised me, since we had corresponded entirely in Italian (my own, of course, the awkward, artificial Italian of Google Translate). His home was beautiful. It occupied the second (in America, it would be the third) storey of a traditional Sicilian dwelling: accessed from a large, thick streetside door, through a broad, roofed entry area, then up a squared spiral staircase. (Had I proceeded past the stairs I would have entered a larger, paved courtyard open to three levels of balconies, arches, and night sky.)
The home, as has been the case with many places I have stayed, was ample, and rich with taste and character. Colored tile floors, color-shifting lights in the entryway, lovely wood moldings, a large terrace off of the kitchen and a smaller, private one off of my room, which overlooked a pleasant, little park in which kids were playing even at this late hour. Art pieces decorated the whole home, and at the foot of my bed a large, beautiful chest made by my host’s grandmother rested.
I ate dinner, showered, and slept, falling asleep to the lively southern European evening bustle I had grown so fond of - traffic, diners, laughing children.
The next day filled itself, and my hunger to feel Sicilia, without hesitation. Briefly, I had agonized over the choice between spending the day mounting Etna - recommended by two new friends who knew what they were talking about - or “doing the town,” in my usual way. I opted for the latter - to inhabit, however briefly, this land in which the very cells of my body vibrated with excited familiarity. These people, this culture, these buildings, formed a crucial part of my own historical identity and, as thrilling as Etna might be, it would have to wait for my next visit.
I failed to find the tourist center that morning, so I opted to wander (with occasional peeks at my phone map). I quickly encountered the main square of town, with its requisite grand cathedral that stood hip to hip with a colorful garden space that spilled over with flowering trees (of which I found many in Catania). This was on the east - on the west an odd, happy elephant with an obelisk balanced on its back stood casual guard, and to the south were an arch and fountain. If I walked toward either of these latter landmarks, I would pass beyond the south wall of the square and discover one of Catania’s hallmarks: its fish market. This was my next stop.
Piazza del Duomo - Cattedrale di Sant Agata
Piazza del Duomo - Fontana dell'Elefante
Piazza del Duomo - Fontana dell'Amenano
Piazza del Duomo - Porta Uzeda
My host had spoken with enthusiasm about this market and I immediately saw why. Vendor after vendor, table after table dripping with big fish, small fish, tiny fish, shrimp, octopus, crab, swordfish, shark - all sorts of shapes and sizes and colors, most of which I cannot name. An insistent funk, a multisensory music of sea stench, bartering voices, bumping bodies, running streams of water (and fish runoff?). Vendors, shoppers, spectators like myself. Part of me would have loved to video some of the action, but that felt a little too cliche and crass, so I just enjoyed walking, watching, listening, smelling.
Part of the market yielded to the sky, and vendors here sheltered under awnings and tents or nothing at all: this was the end of the market near the fountain. Over a small stream which flowed down from the fountain and toward the arch, I passed into a bustling breezeway. If I moved a bit further south, I emerged from the fish market into a small, peaceful park, where the stream continued and sparser, non-aquatic vendors had set up shop, and where what appeared to be some sort of impromptu gambling zone, where some sat, many stood around, and I suppose everyone had a stake, had been erected.
Giardino Pacini
My senses sated, I reemerged through the square onto the main road and continued inland toward the Teatro Romano. For the nth time a wave of awe washed over me at the frequency, the amplitude, the resonance of human history in these places I have visited. Almost the whole theater is intact, and on top of that it is still in use for contemporary performances. So much care is taken for these monuments, in terms of both preservation and ongoing attention. Reverence, research, protection, pride, participation, willingness to share with everyone else. It is all such a gift to the world.
Teatro Romano
Later I made my way north to a large park and took welcome shelter from the heat of the day in the shade of a long row of white, pink, and red-blossomed trees.
Giardino Bellini
My last visit for the afternoon was to the Anfiteatro Romano - a small segment of history, a slice of cake, really - excavated out of surrounding, modern roads and buildings. What a wonderful, miniature chasm, a cross-section of the past carved out of the present, a tasty bite of Catania’s Roman legacy (which is only one of Sicilia’s many cultural and political legacies).
Anfiteatro Romano - looking up from below and inside
That evening, I met with friends of another friend I had made earlier in my trip. The grace and generosity of people I have encountered continued to warm my heart, as three people who knew one another well and had no real need or compelling reason to devote time to me came to where I was staying and treated me to an evening on the town.
The monument of human kindness turns out to be the grandest location I have visited on this trip. This is as deep, as looming, as rich with meaning as the Acropolis, the Colosseum, La Alhambra put together. Consider the meekest gestures of friendship - arms extended to embrace, a smile, exchanged words, shared time - the hallowed space created between two or more people who join up in goodwill: these are the ultimate Word Heritage site, the grandest moment of human history. Revere these unremarked, everyday moments.
They took me to Aci Trezza. We talked - mainly through one of the trio who spoke both Italian and English - they treated me to brioche, and made sure I got gluten-free, dairy-free! For those who don’t know (I didn’t), brioche is a warm bun along with ice cream or sorbet, sometimes eaten as breakfast, but we ate it as dessert. A cute moment: they said they were jealous of my bun because it had a nib on the top - traditionally, this is the tastiest part of the bun.
We then strolled along the river, at which point my bilingual friend (to be clear, I think of them all as friends) treated me to some local history and folklore. There are ancient volcanic rock formations - crystalline hexagons, so precisely-formed that you might think they were scuplted, but perfectly natural. Most of these are worn down almost to sea level, but once upon a time they were tall spires in the sea. Beyond these one-time spires are a series of much larger volcanic rocks, sticking up out a bit out from the shore. The best part is the legend behind these rocks: it is said that Polyphemus hurled these stones in rage against the fleeing hero who blinded him - the one and only Odysseus.
Toward the end of our time together, I learned another local story. The patron saint of Catania is Saint Agatha. One of the hallmarks of her life was her resolute resistance to a noble’s advances. For her principled choice, he imprisoned and tortured her by (graphic information alert) cutting off her breasts! What a horrible fate, yet another moment in which I reflect, with great gratitude, on the relative safety and civility of modern life.
Saint Agatha is celebrated every June with a festival. We saw lights hanging at intersections, and one very large ornament known as a candle - big, ornate, portable shrine-like decorations, heavily-decorated and, of course, also adorned with lights.
This is not the only remembrance of Agatha, however. A more everyday, and slightly macabre, remembrance is a dessert that translates in English as “Agatha’s breasts.” Yes, you read that correctly - the desserts come complete with cherry nipples, and far from being an insult, they are meant to honor her memory.
My time in Sicilia was all too short. As with so many places and people I have visited and fallen in love with, I am resolved to find ways to return, more than once if I can, and to spend time consorting with my favorite monuments - human bodies and spirits.
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