While this is a traditional blog, meaning I typically write more than I feature photographs, Sicily is just one of those places where no amount of writing I could do could possibly create the perfect picture in even the most daring of imaginations. That's why this post about our weekend on Sicily's East Coast is being presented as a "photo diary". I'm going to let you peruse the moments that we lived and I hope that they will conjure in you, the same breathless feeling of what it means to step foot for the first time in Catania's notorious mercato del pesce (should be given the official title THE fish market) or to scoop up your first mouthful of granita alla mandorla (almond granita) when the sun is high in a cloudless sky and you just slept the sleep that you can only sleep on an island, after a day of breathing in the salt-filled air. Catania has the wonder of Disneyland for adults. I could have stood fixated for an entire afternoon just watching the fishmongers chop off heads and fins, me in a white cotton shirt, dodging from left to right to avoid the spray of the sea off of scales (and the occassional, unavoidable spurt of innards!). It seems like the set of a movie, like it shouldn't exist in real life. The fishmongers are the young and the old, they laugh from the gut and call you over to eat a freshly shucked oyster. The younger ones wear white, sleeveless, ribbed tanks, exactly as you'd imagined and as you would hope for- showing off sculpted muscles and tattoos like a perfect cliché. They are shy and still lack the easy confidence of their grandfathers who set their sights on every passing tourist. You can't help but grin, inviting more attention.
Another Sicilian makes a joke about cherries and you can't decide whether to laugh or be offended, is there an innuendo hidden underneath? No. Sicily is not a land of innuendos, it is the polar opposite. Nothing is suggested or implied, it is right there underneath your nose. Ruby cherries, warm from picking. We stop at a kiosk to quench our thirst with a beer. It costs all of 1 euro, money well spent to chat up the owner and get directions to our favorite kind of restaurant, the ones where "si mangia bene e si paga poco" (you eat well and pay little)! I used to rely heavily on guidebooks, now I really heavily on locals. With a bit of a beer-buzz, we prepare ourselves to seek out this seafood restaurant, armed only with the name of the owner: Aldo. We find it about fifteen minutes later, it's on the second level without air conditioning and it's jam-packed. It's perfection. There's nothing I adore more than being near the sea and having a truly satisfying spaghetti allo scoglio. By now it's late afternoon and the sun, the 1 euro beer, and the house white wine are getting to my head. We wander aimlessly through a market and for another euro, I pick up a pair of rhine-stoned earrings with my initials. I'm almost certain they'll fall apart while I'm wearing them but it was kitsch I just couldn't refuse.
Catania is life lived. I've often said the same thing about India, a place that overwhelms your sensory nervous system until you can't quite distinguish between taste and smell and sight. It's dangerous even, a sudden intoxication. We are so affected that, upon returning to freshen-up at the hotel, we collapse on the bed and wake up sweating and scrambling as dusk turns into a pitch-black night and we venture out to find dinner. If I thought the city had been lively in the daytime, the night was something to behold. The entire city must have been out in the piazza, we were literally enveloped at one point by herds of teenagers looking like they were about to audition for a Snoop Dog music video- eyeliner darker than midnight and jean shorts that could have been painted on using underwear as a stencil, that was the uniform of young Sicily it seemed. This is what I meant when I said that innuendo doesn't exist here. I want so badly to indulge in the Catanian nightlife. Every corner we turn is playing host to the most rambunctious dinner parties, the yellow-toned lights are bouncing off the walls, illuminating graffiti and creating some kind of bizarre oxymoron out of this historical city. It's beautiful and ugly, pristine in its degradation. The next day we would head to Taormina, driving along the coast through the old fishing towns and ports in our rental car that was falling apart at the seams. I drift off to sleep dreaming of sweet cherries and the salty grit of oysters, the window open as we listen to Catania's lullaby- a mishmash of tire screeches, overheated motors, banging headboards and the occasional swear. It's the most beautiful song I've ever heard.
Another Sicilian makes a joke about cherries and you can't decide whether to laugh or be offended, is there an innuendo hidden underneath? No. Sicily is not a land of innuendos, it is the polar opposite. Nothing is suggested or implied, it is right there underneath your nose. Ruby cherries, warm from picking. We stop at a kiosk to quench our thirst with a beer. It costs all of 1 euro, money well spent to chat up the owner and get directions to our favorite kind of restaurant, the ones where "si mangia bene e si paga poco" (you eat well and pay little)! I used to rely heavily on guidebooks, now I really heavily on locals. With a bit of a beer-buzz, we prepare ourselves to seek out this seafood restaurant, armed only with the name of the owner: Aldo. We find it about fifteen minutes later, it's on the second level without air conditioning and it's jam-packed. It's perfection. There's nothing I adore more than being near the sea and having a truly satisfying spaghetti allo scoglio. By now it's late afternoon and the sun, the 1 euro beer, and the house white wine are getting to my head. We wander aimlessly through a market and for another euro, I pick up a pair of rhine-stoned earrings with my initials. I'm almost certain they'll fall apart while I'm wearing them but it was kitsch I just couldn't refuse.
Catania is life lived. I've often said the same thing about India, a place that overwhelms your sensory nervous system until you can't quite distinguish between taste and smell and sight. It's dangerous even, a sudden intoxication. We are so affected that, upon returning to freshen-up at the hotel, we collapse on the bed and wake up sweating and scrambling as dusk turns into a pitch-black night and we venture out to find dinner. If I thought the city had been lively in the daytime, the night was something to behold. The entire city must have been out in the piazza, we were literally enveloped at one point by herds of teenagers looking like they were about to audition for a Snoop Dog music video- eyeliner darker than midnight and jean shorts that could have been painted on using underwear as a stencil, that was the uniform of young Sicily it seemed. This is what I meant when I said that innuendo doesn't exist here. I want so badly to indulge in the Catanian nightlife. Every corner we turn is playing host to the most rambunctious dinner parties, the yellow-toned lights are bouncing off the walls, illuminating graffiti and creating some kind of bizarre oxymoron out of this historical city. It's beautiful and ugly, pristine in its degradation. The next day we would head to Taormina, driving along the coast through the old fishing towns and ports in our rental car that was falling apart at the seams. I drift off to sleep dreaming of sweet cherries and the salty grit of oysters, the window open as we listen to Catania's lullaby- a mishmash of tire screeches, overheated motors, banging headboards and the occasional swear. It's the most beautiful song I've ever heard.
If you enjoyed this post, you may also like to "dare un'occhiata" at the category "Travel in Italy".
For a little more Sicily, try this on for size: Scintillating Sicilia: Sferracavallo, Seafood, and Monreale or get your imagination running wild with: Creative Writing: Mulberries in Sicily.
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