IT
WAS A BEAUTIFUL day in November when I stepped off the train in Cefalu’. Pots of
petunias and geraniums were growing on every window sill and balcony, and the
palm trees that shaded the train station were so perfect they looked like they
were made of marzipan. The sun was shining, it was calm, it was peaceful.
People were strolling by, they smiled. I knew I was a long way from home.
I
had always heard that Sicilian time was different from Milan time. Now I know
it’s true. My 550 mile flight from Milan to Palermo took one hour and
forty-five minutes. The 45 mile train ride along Sicily’s northern coast from
Palermo to Cefalu’ took a little less than an hour. Getting to my hotel
from the Cefalu’ train station, a distance of about 10 blocks, took longer than
the train ride.
It
was my fault. I made the mistake of arriving at lunch time expecting to find a
taxi at the train station. But after waiting for almost half an hour I began to
wonder if they even had taxis in Cefalu’ and so I went into the bar to ask. My
answer from the offended bar owner was a gruff “of course.” But when another twenty minutes passed and
there was still no taxi in sight, I called my hotel and asked if they could
send someone to fetch me. Subito, they said.
A
wide, paved sea walk passes in front of my hotel. It is lined with wooden
benches that are shaded from the sun by palm trees and massive bushes of
flowering bougainvillea. If I turn right and walk for 10 minutes I will be in
the center of Cefalu’. If I turn to the left and walk for as far as I can see,
I will disappear into the side of a mountain. It is a glorious day, the sea
view is breathtaking, all is forgiven. I turn right.
Cefalu’, with a population of about 14,000, is
built in the shadow of a colossal rock cliff. Thousands of years ago there was
a Sicanian settlement on that rock cliff, and it is from them that Sicily gets
its name. When the Greeks arrived in the 8th century BC, they called
the island Trinakria (triangle), and for them it was the land of opportunity, a
place where a man could make his fortune. Their Little America.
Apparently
it was everyone’s Little America, for in its 3,000 year history Sicily was
invaded and dominated by the Phoenicians, Carthaginians, Greeks, Romans, Goths,
Saracen Arabs, Normans, Swabians, Angevins, (whose rule sparked the War of the
Sicilian Vespers), the French and the Spanish.
Some of them more than once. In turn, each conquering power did its best
to erase all signs of the civilization before it, and for the most part they
were successful. But some traces have survived, and along with them colorful
legends like this one:
In
the 12th century, when the Normans ruled this land, King Roger II
encountered a terrible storm at sea as he sailed from Naples back to Sicily.
Fearing for his life, he vowed to build a Cathedral wherever he landed. That
turned out to be the fishing village of Cefalu’. By his order construction of
the Cathedral began in 1131. Little did he know that in less than a hundred
years, the Normans would be defeated by the Swabians and lose control of
Sicily. There are parts of that legend that are true. The Cathedral was
started in 1131 and the Swabian Hohenstaufen dynasty did come into power in
1194. As for the rest, who knows.
Today
tall palm trees flank wide stone steps that lead to the door of the majestic
Cathedral that King Roger ordered to be built. The front of the Cathedral is
like a scene set for a Verdi opera, a spectacular theatrical entrance created
long before Verdi was born. In front of the door there is a wide terrace called
a “turniali”, and the guide books say that space was once used as a cemetery.
The guide books also say the cemetery was created from soil brought from
Jerusalem which contained a substance that caused the rapid mummification of
corpses. Is it another legend? No idea.
All I know is my feel feet funny when I stand on it, but then again it could
just be my imagination.
In
front of a nearby café-bakery a group of tourists are milling around the outdoor
tables trying to decide whether or not they want to sit down. They’re not quite
sure where they are or why they are here, but they like it. Sicily is a tough
tour they tell me, too much history, too many curlicued buildings, too many
crumbling sites; it all kind of runs together after a while. And everything is
too baroquely complicated. Even the food. Yesterday they were served an
eggplant, olive, caper and celery salad and pasta with sardines and ferny green
things. It’s not like any Italian food they have ever seen before. And don’t I
think the ricotta stuffed, chocolate dipped pistachio sprinkled cherry topped
puffy pastries in the café are a bit much?
Then
they spot a young guy dressed in well worn jeans and a baseball cap, leaning
against a crumbling wall selling freshly caught squid from a small wooden box
strapped to the back of his motor bike. With a hand rolled cigarette clamped
between his thin lips he looks like he’s auditioning for a Fellini movie.
How
is it the police allow this, the tourists want to know. Doesn’t the town have a
Department of Health and Hygiene? I shrug my shoulders. I don’t know. He seems
pretty relaxed so I have to think he does this all the time. And then, out of nowhere, the sweet fragrance
of oregano and tomatoes floats by on a sudden breeze. Someone somewhere nearby
is making pizza. In that instant I’m five years old again and back in my
grandmother’s kitchen. I leave the tourists to their tour and follow my nose
and my memories.
As
I walk along Corso Ruggero, the town’s main shopping street, a group of kids
are going into the Teatro dell’Opera dei Pupi. I go in too. I love Sicilian
puppet shows. The puppeteers are the last of the old story tellers and singers
who once roamed the streets of Sicily recounting the tales of hard fought
battles between the Arabs and the Christians during the Middle Ages. The
stories they tell are highly idealistic accounts of chivalry, honor, justice,
faith and love. And it amazes me, in this age of iPods, game boys and fast
moving television cartoons, how still the kids sit with their eyes wide and
mouths open as they watch Norman knights lift papier mache swords to do battle against the Saracen Arabs.
The Mighty Christian Soldiers |
The
story the puppet masters recreate is how the Normans conquered Sicily in
1061. What they don’t tell is what a sophisticated civilization the
Normans found, and how they sought to imitate the Arabic architecture,
government structure, literature, and especially the food. Many of the
ingredients for the meal the tourist were talking about were brought here by
the Saracen Arabs, including eggplants, artichokes, pistachios, sugar cane,
lemons and oranges, saffron and the flaky shells for the over-the- top pastries
in the bakery. Even the oregano perfuming the pizza that drew me away from them
was brought here by the Arabs.
Back
on the street after the puppet show, the seductive lure of the Baroque
architecture teases with its excesses, making me want to know more. While
Sicilian Baroque does include many of the Baroque characteristics found in
Italy and other European countries, it is also different in the use of
grimacing masks and adorable grinning putti, all created with a grandiosity not
found anywhere else. But who did all this? Who bent and teased those bars of
iron into the decorative, elaborate balustrades? Who decided if 10 grinning and
grimacing faces were enough, or should it be 20?
I’m
slowly coming to the realization that for me there can never be enough Sicily.
It’s the real Siren calling to me to surrender, give up Milan and move south. Johann
Wolfgang Goethe once wrote that without Sicily, Italy leaves no image on the
soul, Sicily is the key
to everything. And at this moment, as I stand and look around, I couldn’t agree
more.
There
are many things to see in Cefalù, historic sites, all neatly listed,
categorized and rated by level of interest in any travel book worth its
salt. But it’s not the sites of Cefalù that I remember but the feeling of the
place, the quick smiles and conversations with shop keepers eager to exchange
impressions and share stories. It’s difficult not to feel the weight of the
centuries of history and tradition that surround me. Understanding it however,
could take a lifetime.
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