Sunday August 10th, 2014
This would be a day of travel but not before we had one last dip in the residence's pool. Before we got into the water, we took showers in the areas outside. I thought it interesting that you looked up at en emblem of the Virgin Mary as you washed your feet. The little area was tiled in blue and white. The pool itself overlooked the whole coastline so it definitely fit into everyone's idea of paradise. Studying the landscape of the tiny "Isola Bella" below, we noticed a few huts tucked away midst the sparse vegetation. I assumed that people lived there, atleast part of the year. What a lovely way to spend your time in the summer on such a perch, but what a different experience in winter. I assumed it was not lighthouse keepers as I could not imagine ships coming too close to this coast line. They must be hermits stationed there for the right to say that they could.
We packed our things including some posters of a Visconti exhibition on "The Leopard" we had dropped in to see the previous night. We ended up making a pit stop along the coast in a ghost town by the name of Acireale where the baroque blended with the nineteenth century in a version of Pompei without the tragedy. All the material that made up the buildings on either side of the wide, empty avenues were blackened by time and ash. One had the feeling it was all a little cursed. The arhitecture breathed sadness. Even the parade floats seemed to be on stand by for a carnival that had been called off. Huge dragon floats with Comedia dellarte faces and masks waiting for a stage that had been moved. A few people were gathered in the town piazzas. Youngster revving their scooters to break the silence. But the metaphor was clear: they seemed to be going nowhere. No wonder so many people had fled the poverty and stasis of these towns in the nineteenth century. Seeking the promise of elsewhere. I had always believed that no place could be truly sad as long as it had sunshine. Acireale proved me wrong. It was the kind of place you went to experience the ends of the Earth with people around.
We were trying to visit the Basilic but the doors were locked. We bought a watermelon instead from a road side vendor and I contemplated how well the thing would do sitting in the burning heat of our car. On vacation you can buy a whole watermelon and worry later how you are going to consume it. In fruit terms this was Sicily to me: watermelons and peaches. We took a coastal road that reminded me a little bit of the coastal high way of Malibu in Southern California. At the end of each day, hot countries begin to resemble each other in tone. Every one's a little sleepy. Driver's are more forgiving. The rays get in your eyes. We felt the urge to swim again. We got to Aci Castello. We started the routine we would follow most of this trip. Whenever we got too hot, we bought lemon granites and looked for bathing opportunities. I suppose I did have a lot in common with hippos as I think they too are always looking for water sources as well. We saw some dramatic rock outcroppings. This is where the Cyclops of Greek myth had occupied his time throwing giant rocks in to the sea to prove his manliness. The rocks are big phallic symbols of anger and lust. They still are there today. In 2014, young men climb on top of the rocks to prove their manliness to their girlfriends below. Staring at them, you can only imagine the kind of mood the Earth must have been in to jettison these lava lumps for miles. It's a little frightening to consider that perhaps the Earth is not finished with her shenanigans.
One thing I do not excel at is getting in an out of the water elegantly with sharp rocks at my feet. Bathing in these circumstances, I feel like the world is watching me and grading my elegance. For this reason, I prefer sandy beaches where I can dive into the surf without conseauences. If I was to try the same careless activity on a beach in Sicilty, I would emerge from the tide with a bloody head. After these bathing trials, we continued our route towards Syracuse for the night. It was a good 50 km straight arrid road. Amandine slept. I found myself behind tractors and grocery vans for most of the way. Ocasionally, an impatient driver honked to go four times the speed limit and passed me. I continued to be perplexed at what exactly was the damn speed limit in Sicily but as a foreigner, who was I to argue? We arrived in the harbor town of Ortegia. I found a parking lot next to a post office which blessedly was free. My parking burden alleviated, we stationed ourselves with suitcases at a small kiosk. Lemon granites again as we waited for the agreed time to meet our host. Bon Jovi played on the radio; I have not heard Bon Jovi on the radio since 1987. Amandine had all of this planned months in advance and when it came to vacations , she was better than General Patton planning an invasion. It gave me a false sense of security. Was I not supposed to be in charge of this stuff? The truth is that vacation planning just isn't in me but the result is that I felt a little like a child being hauled around on a leash. But I was happy to be hauled.
We navigated through the old clustered streets of the old town. There were a lot of old men shooting the shit on benches. This seems to be one of Italy's great themes: old men shooting the shit on benches, acting like they own the world. It was the kind of town where one could easily pass a ground floor apartment and see a man staring into space in his wife beater and tighty whities. He would be listebing to the radio or staring at the boob tube. It was a sudden glimpse into a life, a brush with intimacy that strangely had its charms. I never saw women in these open apartments. I guessed that they had already fallen asleep, exhausted from all the arguing. People have a lot to say to one another in Sicily and it is exhausting. The small streets of Ortegia are filled with the sounds of couples arguing. Cast iron balconies, peeling facades, narrow passages with laundry hanging over the archways like flags, crumbling stone. This is Ortegia. A pirate maze. There is a faded glory here. It is glorious because it is faded. This is the key to its charm. It is magnified when you first arrive. You can see the lineage of architecture every where you look: Greek temples form the basis for 17th century cathedrals, that eventually turn into gift shops. Things are incorporated rather than discarded. Get under the surface, beyond the plates of Pasta Vongolese and you get an insight into how this place is off tourist season. Tiny passages lead to a family gathered around a small table. The wooden furniture has been staged out in the walkway because there is not enough room in the apartment. But in the summer, all the family has a place at the table.
We finally found our host already waiting for us. She was seated on the stoop of the ground floor apartment. It was a converted shop turned artist residence. She was picking her ear. We had spotted her first and I thnk she was disappointed that this was our first impression of her. She was in her early thirties and had the kind of miniature body that was used to crawling around in small spaces. This was a useful trait as the apartment she showed us required this kind of agility as acess to the overhead bed was via a rickety ladder designed for circus performers. The residence was retrofitted. It was really a small gallery for showings. On the wall were various examples of exhibitions gone by. A photo on the wall showed a bunch of teenagers who looked stuck in an alley. There were plenty of other paintings on the wall to sustain this impression of a gallery that had happened to be a place to sleep as well. A painting on the wall resembling what looked to me like a dirty bed sheet was not something I wished to look at every morning but to each his own. I considered myself an artist in residence so on that front it was not a masquerade. But I suspected Francesca, as she was called, was making more bread these days from renting this space out to tourists than she was making from the photos or paintings on the walls. Our owner was also a fan of DIY. Most of the kitchen looked like it has been built from one lesson of carpentry. The shower was hooked to a water heater that seemed tempermental. I do not want to seem like I am complaining. For a few days, this was a great alternative to the usual hum drum hotel experience. There was one dramatic difference between this place and a hotel. In hotels, people do not come to stare at you like you were on display. In Francesca's tiny abode, this is exactly what happens. Unless one draws the curtains, because of the open store front door made of glass, you become the art on display. Tourists come by with maps and take prolonged glances at you while you are trying to change your underwear. It is a grand artistic experiment! Perhaps this is Francesca's plan all along. Her guests become the art.
Outside the apartment, we noticed one more piece of art that won us over: a satellite dish that stuck out from the building had been retro fitted with tiny football players in the midst of a frantic game of fussball. It was a nice touch and seemed to say everything about the place. No one can resist art with a little sense of humor. Many laughed at this as they walked by. As we changed for dinner we heard the sounds of an elderly couple next door, screaming at each other. This seemed to be their preferred method of communication. It became the residence's sound track.
Later on that evening we had a beer at the Piazza del Duomo. There is something about marble floors that make young children want to slide around on it. We watched them glide on its surface until one victim falls and scrapes her knee. They laugh and then they cry. It was also nice to know that in some places in Sicily, when you order a beer, it comes with a small meal of olives, bruchetta and a bowl of peanuts. Amandine and I were a little taken back at this generosity. In Paris, this many free hors d'oeuvres would be considered paid dinner. In Ortegia, they were giving it away. The usual touts were out in full force as the sun went down. Roma girls walked around with tiny budgies in cages. This seems to be popular in this area of the world: buying small birds for no reason. One of them thought it appropriate to let the tiny bird crawl on my finger. I almost had a heart attack as I was not used to the random feel of prehistoric claws on my skin. I tried to remain calm and told the girl I was not interested in buying a budgie at this time. No need to go into the fact that carrying and caring for the budgie would become my trip if I were to take on this responsbility. West African vendors held out balloons for purchase. They demo'ed tiny gliding toys of light by chucking them up into the air and then watching them sail down amidst the night sky. A few moments later, the children that these toys were meant for became restless again, and resumed sliding on the 400 year old marble floor of the piazza. Simple pleasures.
That night, we crawled into the rafters and listened to the one sided conversation next door. It was in Italian but from what we could tell, the wife seemed to be annoyed about something.
This would be a day of travel but not before we had one last dip in the residence's pool. Before we got into the water, we took showers in the areas outside. I thought it interesting that you looked up at en emblem of the Virgin Mary as you washed your feet. The little area was tiled in blue and white. The pool itself overlooked the whole coastline so it definitely fit into everyone's idea of paradise. Studying the landscape of the tiny "Isola Bella" below, we noticed a few huts tucked away midst the sparse vegetation. I assumed that people lived there, atleast part of the year. What a lovely way to spend your time in the summer on such a perch, but what a different experience in winter. I assumed it was not lighthouse keepers as I could not imagine ships coming too close to this coast line. They must be hermits stationed there for the right to say that they could.
We packed our things including some posters of a Visconti exhibition on "The Leopard" we had dropped in to see the previous night. We ended up making a pit stop along the coast in a ghost town by the name of Acireale where the baroque blended with the nineteenth century in a version of Pompei without the tragedy. All the material that made up the buildings on either side of the wide, empty avenues were blackened by time and ash. One had the feeling it was all a little cursed. The arhitecture breathed sadness. Even the parade floats seemed to be on stand by for a carnival that had been called off. Huge dragon floats with Comedia dellarte faces and masks waiting for a stage that had been moved. A few people were gathered in the town piazzas. Youngster revving their scooters to break the silence. But the metaphor was clear: they seemed to be going nowhere. No wonder so many people had fled the poverty and stasis of these towns in the nineteenth century. Seeking the promise of elsewhere. I had always believed that no place could be truly sad as long as it had sunshine. Acireale proved me wrong. It was the kind of place you went to experience the ends of the Earth with people around.
We were trying to visit the Basilic but the doors were locked. We bought a watermelon instead from a road side vendor and I contemplated how well the thing would do sitting in the burning heat of our car. On vacation you can buy a whole watermelon and worry later how you are going to consume it. In fruit terms this was Sicily to me: watermelons and peaches. We took a coastal road that reminded me a little bit of the coastal high way of Malibu in Southern California. At the end of each day, hot countries begin to resemble each other in tone. Every one's a little sleepy. Driver's are more forgiving. The rays get in your eyes. We felt the urge to swim again. We got to Aci Castello. We started the routine we would follow most of this trip. Whenever we got too hot, we bought lemon granites and looked for bathing opportunities. I suppose I did have a lot in common with hippos as I think they too are always looking for water sources as well. We saw some dramatic rock outcroppings. This is where the Cyclops of Greek myth had occupied his time throwing giant rocks in to the sea to prove his manliness. The rocks are big phallic symbols of anger and lust. They still are there today. In 2014, young men climb on top of the rocks to prove their manliness to their girlfriends below. Staring at them, you can only imagine the kind of mood the Earth must have been in to jettison these lava lumps for miles. It's a little frightening to consider that perhaps the Earth is not finished with her shenanigans.
One thing I do not excel at is getting in an out of the water elegantly with sharp rocks at my feet. Bathing in these circumstances, I feel like the world is watching me and grading my elegance. For this reason, I prefer sandy beaches where I can dive into the surf without conseauences. If I was to try the same careless activity on a beach in Sicilty, I would emerge from the tide with a bloody head. After these bathing trials, we continued our route towards Syracuse for the night. It was a good 50 km straight arrid road. Amandine slept. I found myself behind tractors and grocery vans for most of the way. Ocasionally, an impatient driver honked to go four times the speed limit and passed me. I continued to be perplexed at what exactly was the damn speed limit in Sicily but as a foreigner, who was I to argue? We arrived in the harbor town of Ortegia. I found a parking lot next to a post office which blessedly was free. My parking burden alleviated, we stationed ourselves with suitcases at a small kiosk. Lemon granites again as we waited for the agreed time to meet our host. Bon Jovi played on the radio; I have not heard Bon Jovi on the radio since 1987. Amandine had all of this planned months in advance and when it came to vacations , she was better than General Patton planning an invasion. It gave me a false sense of security. Was I not supposed to be in charge of this stuff? The truth is that vacation planning just isn't in me but the result is that I felt a little like a child being hauled around on a leash. But I was happy to be hauled.
We navigated through the old clustered streets of the old town. There were a lot of old men shooting the shit on benches. This seems to be one of Italy's great themes: old men shooting the shit on benches, acting like they own the world. It was the kind of town where one could easily pass a ground floor apartment and see a man staring into space in his wife beater and tighty whities. He would be listebing to the radio or staring at the boob tube. It was a sudden glimpse into a life, a brush with intimacy that strangely had its charms. I never saw women in these open apartments. I guessed that they had already fallen asleep, exhausted from all the arguing. People have a lot to say to one another in Sicily and it is exhausting. The small streets of Ortegia are filled with the sounds of couples arguing. Cast iron balconies, peeling facades, narrow passages with laundry hanging over the archways like flags, crumbling stone. This is Ortegia. A pirate maze. There is a faded glory here. It is glorious because it is faded. This is the key to its charm. It is magnified when you first arrive. You can see the lineage of architecture every where you look: Greek temples form the basis for 17th century cathedrals, that eventually turn into gift shops. Things are incorporated rather than discarded. Get under the surface, beyond the plates of Pasta Vongolese and you get an insight into how this place is off tourist season. Tiny passages lead to a family gathered around a small table. The wooden furniture has been staged out in the walkway because there is not enough room in the apartment. But in the summer, all the family has a place at the table.
We finally found our host already waiting for us. She was seated on the stoop of the ground floor apartment. It was a converted shop turned artist residence. She was picking her ear. We had spotted her first and I thnk she was disappointed that this was our first impression of her. She was in her early thirties and had the kind of miniature body that was used to crawling around in small spaces. This was a useful trait as the apartment she showed us required this kind of agility as acess to the overhead bed was via a rickety ladder designed for circus performers. The residence was retrofitted. It was really a small gallery for showings. On the wall were various examples of exhibitions gone by. A photo on the wall showed a bunch of teenagers who looked stuck in an alley. There were plenty of other paintings on the wall to sustain this impression of a gallery that had happened to be a place to sleep as well. A painting on the wall resembling what looked to me like a dirty bed sheet was not something I wished to look at every morning but to each his own. I considered myself an artist in residence so on that front it was not a masquerade. But I suspected Francesca, as she was called, was making more bread these days from renting this space out to tourists than she was making from the photos or paintings on the walls. Our owner was also a fan of DIY. Most of the kitchen looked like it has been built from one lesson of carpentry. The shower was hooked to a water heater that seemed tempermental. I do not want to seem like I am complaining. For a few days, this was a great alternative to the usual hum drum hotel experience. There was one dramatic difference between this place and a hotel. In hotels, people do not come to stare at you like you were on display. In Francesca's tiny abode, this is exactly what happens. Unless one draws the curtains, because of the open store front door made of glass, you become the art on display. Tourists come by with maps and take prolonged glances at you while you are trying to change your underwear. It is a grand artistic experiment! Perhaps this is Francesca's plan all along. Her guests become the art.
Outside the apartment, we noticed one more piece of art that won us over: a satellite dish that stuck out from the building had been retro fitted with tiny football players in the midst of a frantic game of fussball. It was a nice touch and seemed to say everything about the place. No one can resist art with a little sense of humor. Many laughed at this as they walked by. As we changed for dinner we heard the sounds of an elderly couple next door, screaming at each other. This seemed to be their preferred method of communication. It became the residence's sound track.
Later on that evening we had a beer at the Piazza del Duomo. There is something about marble floors that make young children want to slide around on it. We watched them glide on its surface until one victim falls and scrapes her knee. They laugh and then they cry. It was also nice to know that in some places in Sicily, when you order a beer, it comes with a small meal of olives, bruchetta and a bowl of peanuts. Amandine and I were a little taken back at this generosity. In Paris, this many free hors d'oeuvres would be considered paid dinner. In Ortegia, they were giving it away. The usual touts were out in full force as the sun went down. Roma girls walked around with tiny budgies in cages. This seems to be popular in this area of the world: buying small birds for no reason. One of them thought it appropriate to let the tiny bird crawl on my finger. I almost had a heart attack as I was not used to the random feel of prehistoric claws on my skin. I tried to remain calm and told the girl I was not interested in buying a budgie at this time. No need to go into the fact that carrying and caring for the budgie would become my trip if I were to take on this responsbility. West African vendors held out balloons for purchase. They demo'ed tiny gliding toys of light by chucking them up into the air and then watching them sail down amidst the night sky. A few moments later, the children that these toys were meant for became restless again, and resumed sliding on the 400 year old marble floor of the piazza. Simple pleasures.
That night, we crawled into the rafters and listened to the one sided conversation next door. It was in Italian but from what we could tell, the wife seemed to be annoyed about something.
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