Hello, happy Easter!! Here's the Easter bread I had from a Sicilian mountain town. It has a crunchy top with sugar and ground hazelnuts and almond slices.
This message was mostly to tell you about a festival in the mountains in
Sicily, in a town called Prizzi. Here's a photo of cliffside Prizzi with its loooooong valley view (which once saw maurauding Romans approach and kick out the Greeks who started this town in the 5th century BC).
ed on at the beginning. If you just want to read the festival part, skip waaay forward to the paragraph that starts “I heard church happening....”
It's really hot here in Sicily, my ideal climate where I’m
never cold (okay, maybe a very teeny tiny whisper of it at night-time in my
tent, but barely) and I seek out the shadows and coolness a little. Perfect.
In these perfect conditions, I finished the first draft of
the novel I started three years ago. I
slept by the sea and suddenly wrote the last 27,000 words in
4 days. Well truly, I guess it was 2.5 years of thinking time plus 4
days! Hurray! At least one reader has liked it so far and gave me some
great feedback.
In Sicily I started off at a farm, an ancient place owned by
a Belgian guy who’s been in Sicily 10 years. It obviously has a long and
interesting history, but he just shrugs and says he doesn’t know any of it. He
speaks Italian, and even I managed to have an interesting conversation with his
neighbour without knowing much language at all*, but I guess he hasn’t really
asked around the neighbours. Expats are an interesting bunch, I’ve learned this
past six months. The British ones who stay in France do as much of their
shopping as possible – even gardening supplies and food!!! in England and take
it across the Channel. This is particularly bizarre when you consider that food
is better, and cheaper, in France!
* The Sicilian neighbour and I chatted when I was out for a
walk down the road in the rain, and when I realized she and her husband were
driving their cattle toward me, I backed up and sat on the (very old)** stone
wall under a tree, so that I wouldn’t be in the way of the cows going back to
the barn. From what I understood, it seems to me that they probably drive the
cows over to that pasture daily. They’re dairy cows, I learned in our
conversation. Unfortunately I didn’t ask if she made cheese from them... I was
sort of wondering how they manage to make a living from 15 or 18 dairy cows.
And she told me that she noticed I’d arrived at Adrien’s
yesterday, and I told her my parents had beef cattle, and stuff like that. It
was a nice chat in the cloudy-not-quite-raining-but-a-littleness.
**At Adrian’s farm-of-no-known-history, there’s an olive tree
that looks a couple of hundred years old at least, to me, and it’s growing on
top of and all over the stone wall underneath it. So that tells you the walls
are even older.
This is the driveway of the farm.
Anyway, the Belgian farmer asked me to bring him beer,
raspberry plants, and hops, since I was heading more or less directly to Sicily
from Belgium (where Yarrow got on the plane for visit to Canada, and where I
had a glorious visit with a girl I’d met only on Facebook – we walked around
Bruges talking about life, travel, and boys, and drinking beer and eating
chocolate and stuff. It was so great). Anyway I was happy and amused to bring the
beer to the Belgian, and one of the British expats from France (where we were
farm-sitting in the province of Mayenne) gave me raspberry plants, but I asked
around everywhere in France and Belgium and nobody had hop plants yet.
At his farm I helped to build stone walls back on one of the
buildings, that was cool. I lifted much heavier rocks than I thought I could!
My next stop was a campground, where I was planning to find another WWOOF farm
to join up with (WWOOF is willing workers on organic farms), but I just got
really happy and peaceful with my tent there by the waves, and stayed and
stayed. I met an old Italian retired schoolteacher who was glad for company,
and we spoke in Frataliano (me in French, gradually adding more and more
Italian words – great lessons!) and had some nice hikes with others from the
campground.
I stayed at a wonderful place called Camping Luminoso, owned
by a wonderful, beautiful local couple (and their son) in a town (not much of a
town! Not even a church I think, but loads and loads and loads (like thousands
and maybe millions of acres) of greenhouses). The waves hit the beach in just
the perfect way to make a really beautiful sound that healed up my brain and
suddenly I had a lot to write, taking my time to explore articles for money as
well as the novel. The cats enjoyed it there too, and it was very easy and
beautiful.
I touristed around a little but didn’t feel pressured to do
it too heavily, and my writing choice of magic was actually the next town,
called Punta Secca. It’s the filming place of Commissario Montalbano, which I
watched a lot on DVDs from the Calgary Public Library. If you go on youtube and
type in Commissario Montalbano, you’ll get an excellent 2-3 minute travelogue
view of Punta Secca, Scicli, Modica, Ragusa, all of which I adore. Wonderful,
wonderful place and I already want to go back.
Here's the link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kSQZ9jhwVYw
But
this smoking French guy moved in next to me. Smoked marijuana and
horrible-smelling cigars or cigarettes – whatever they were, they ruined my
sweet-smelling, beautiful-sounding camping spot. As I was driving today, I thought
I could have asked if he minded changing spots a little, but you know how
aggressive people can get when you tell the their smell bothers you. I was a
wimp and I didn’t ask. Maybe I should have but I didn’t. Instead, I found out
about an Easter Sunday festival and decided to go. It was waaayyyy up in the mountains in a
town called Prizzi.
(Downside
of Sicily: the small roads often take forever to get anywhere. You can easily
drive six hours to get not very far at all, it seems. And on the way out of Prizzi again... mama mia. I
started off not being exhausted to I took a side jaunt to see just one town,
and was soooooo frustrated by the end at the winding, pock-marked, wavy,
undulating roads.
Speaking
of undulating roads, I pulled up in Prizzi to the cafe. Welcome to Prizzi! We
speak English! said the sign outside, though I didn’t see that until later. I
went inside and was spoken to in a thick sort of Brooklyn accent. Very fun. I
noticed the festival was on because I had already encountered some devils (as
far as I knew at that point, kids in furry suits carrying masks accosting cars)
on the way into town.
Anyway,
the English-speaking owner (and his two daughters speak with the same accent,
Big Smile) made me a cappuccino with a very Kokopelli-looking guy in the foam
(quite the most intricate work of cappuccino art I’ve ever seen). I took in my
Kokopelli doll that travels in the car to show him and he thought that was
interesting. Anyway he told me to go to City Hall to learn about this guy. I
hardly even had to since today, Today! was the big day.
I
asked them when and where I could find the festivities and they said, go up,
and then go down. You’ll see it (that was accompanied by hand-waving). You know
how it is when people give you instructions with “you can’t miss it” in them,
right?
Since
I had the cats in the car, I thought I should park as closely as possible, and
it seemed like “go up” was quite a distance. So I took the car to do the recon. This is where we come to the undulating roads.
I think that the roads of Prizzi would cause some of our Rocky Mountain
mountain biking monster people to be afraid. They undulate. and not just in a vertical direction, also, they’re all
cobbled, and they vary in width – sometimes dropping down to pedestrian size,
but you’re never quite sure when (I’ve encountered that before in Sicily). It’s
like some guy at some point in history was like “you know, if I extend the
house to cover the road... they won’t be able to roll those damn noisy carts
down here any more. Yeah, that’s a totally good idea.” And he puffed his chest
up and challenged anyone to argue with him about it, and nobody did. You can
see this in quite a few places.
While
I was drinking cappuccinos (or after I did, before the second one), I looked out
off the cliff at the view, and noticed a sign in Italian and English, telling
me about the history of the place, going back to the 5th century BC.
Oh and by the way, look down, and see the old Greek theatre.
Hm.
I looked down. There it was! Looks like this.
So
some of these impossible little roads... in fact, probably most of them, were
built way before cars, and possibly before carts. Well okay not before carts.
But 2500 years is a long time. (Many of the Roman towns in Sicily and Italy
actually were better organized, probably with wider roads, than currently).
Anyway,
I got in the car, went up, and I turned left and I went down... and soon
realized that I had the VW Polo on a narrowing, undulating (there are shallow
stairs in the middle of some of the hills of this rocky road, I kid you not)
road. And obviously, it was a one-way road (not that that stops people from
parking on it, in the wider spots). So there was not really any way to turn
around, and it was a long, scary, hilling, undulating prospect to try to reverse
out of my blunder. I now realize that “you can’t miss it” was a small square at
the beginning of the long undulating road, but at that moment, all I realized
was that I was on a potentially about-to-narrow-to-pedestrian-width road.
It
was then that I was grateful to have the smaller Polo, and not the Golf, and
certainly not a van!! Athletically, though not without complaining, her
3-cylinder little heart got us through to the other side. And then I sort of in
wilderness, suddenly. Still with the lovely cliff-top views, mind you
(everything in Prizzi has a cliff-top view, because it’s all on a cliff). So. I
turned around and wondered how to get back to town, hopefully in a less
hair-raising manner. The first road on offer was even steeper than the one I’d
just exited. I went another switchback down the mountain, and came to another
road that looked similar to the one I just exited. I didn’t have many options.
I plunged in. And... came out the other side okay.
Let’s
just say it’s not surprising that a lot of Italian cars have crumples on them.
Here's a photo of the
street situation for you: a sample
steep street with stairs in the middle (and plant pots on the side, and a
barking poodle, and to the left on a balcony was a barking Chihuahua. They sort
of tag-teamed on the barking.
And
in coming back in the crazy road to town, I found a parking spot suitable for
the kitties. Miraculously, it was a nice cool, rainy day, so I could actually
enjoy the whole day without worrying about the kitties in the car. (I checked
on them every hour or so, and they slept and slept and slept. Not surprising
because the night before in the gorgeous mountain campsite they’d roamed and
roamed. We went back there for a second night too.)
The
cat-in-car friendly weather was a huge blessing and the only day that’s
happened the whole time I’ve been without Yarrow here. So I parked the car the
regulation no-distance from the stone wall, made sure the kitties had water and
nibbles, and set out for a wander.
I
heard church happening so I ducked my head in... as far as the portico. As I
saw last Sunday in Scicli, it was standing-room-only, and the last guy, wearing
a baby-blue sweater, a little worn, was actually halfway out the door. I stood
in the portico and enjoyed the vibe and the music and I would have gone up for
communion, but I didn’t think that the Catholics would like that necessarily so
I didn’t.
A
lot of guys go to church. “Look, Jesus, I’m here. I’m not sitting, I’m standing
half out the door at the back, but I’m here, alright?”
If you look carefully over his shoulder, you see Jesus there, watching from the other side.
A
couple of young guys left partway through. They were dressed as well as any
models in Milano could have been, with fitted jackets and tight patterned pants
and their tailored shirts peeking out from the jackets. I wish I was outrageous
enough to have taken photos of all the Milan-worthy locals on Easter Sunday in
this little town buried on so many hours of difficult roads!
I
saw the guy with the blue sweater twice more that day, once, chaperoning his
small son around, and once driving his car. We smile-greeted each other on
second and third encounters. A lot of people in Sicily will shake your hand
enthusiastically after the shortest exchange on the street. “Where’s the corner
store?” “That way.” shake shake shake.
Add
this to the lack of toilet paper in most loos... and I really wonder about our
fussy hygiene habits. I mean, the French and Italians don’t get more sick than
fastidious Canadians and Swiss people, do they? Despite all our handwashing.
I’d love to see a study on this.
So
when it came to “passing of the peace” in church (aka greet everyone around
you), I thought of my church buddy Chris as home, with whom I joke that our
main reason for going to church is the chocolate cake (snacks at Springbank
United are always good). He thinks that it’s sort of a filthy habit, shaking
everyone’s hand like that. And we never bump bodies in our church, or say
“excuse me” if we do. And if we have a cold, we just sort of do a namaste sign
and say a polite distance away from others.
Well.
Passing of the Peace in Italian churches means that when you turn to the people
beside you, your shoulders are bumping everyone around you, and you don’t
really have room to twist around because everyone’s packed in there like
sardines in a can (there really wasn’t a lot of room for me to squeeze through
the door even if I’d asked Mr. Blue Sweater to move, though I am sure if I was
determined, I could have eked a sardine’s worth of space. Space in Italy is
completely about bravado – people will give you exactly as much as you insist
on having, as noted previously with the building/road situation, but also
definitely true of your car on the road! Lines mean nothing, likewise stop
signs. It’s just all about telling folks around you that you are going to take
that space, so they’d dang well better move. I met a lovely Swiss couple at the
campground (and then again in Catania a few nights later) and Maya, the wife,
said she loves that when you drive a van down tiny roads in Italy, the small
cars all scurry out of your way. She feels quite majestic.) Anyway, honestly,
most of the time, I find this attention-based way of driving a lot nicer than
the Albertan rules-based way. Honestly, there are a lot more horrible/asshole
drivers in Alberta than Italy. Mostly they’re quite considerate here. Though
maybe it helps that I’ve stayed mostly out of the huge cities. Agrigento wasn’t
as fun.
So,
in Prizzi on Easter Sunday, the day starts with the kids trick or treating, all
dressed either as red devils who have masks, wear goat skins (the adult ones
have real goat horns attached, and the kids who wear their parents’ costumes
usually wear them over their shoulder instead of on their head, as they’re
clearly not light! ) and carry chains, or, as yellow death, who has a crossbow.
I think the little kids made their Death masks at school, because the teeth
were popsicle sticks.
I
read somewhere that these devils asking you for treats is like the Devil trying
to steal your soul.
It used to be only boys who do this, and I am
sad to report that the excellent marching band that accompanied all the
festivities later is only men. However the girls were out too. I give the first girl I saw five euros I was so happy
to see her. She was happy.
Then, at 11 o’clock (so they said, which actually meant just
after noon, but I checked out the fascinating archeological museum in the meantime.
You can tell Prizzi was a big deal even way back in the day, because you can
find a lot of coins from all over Sicily here – all the city-states had their
own coins. They had ancient Greek and ancient Roman pottery too (the Romans won
it from the Greeks in the Punic wars apparently. It was dizzying to walk the
streets and imagine guys taking swords to each other in those streets... did
the inhabitants look upon their long, long, long view down the valley and see
Roman legions advancing on them? terrifying.)...
As I was saying, at 11
o’clock but really twelve, dancing started, by which we mean the dancing of
devils. This involved the little kids and
the adult devils. They gyrated their scary way down the street with some
musician and mostly posed for photos with their parents.
Then I noticed there was a cafe/bar with wifi and I picked up my
e-mails and applied some edits the first person who had finished reading the
novel had offered, while I waited for the next part of the festival to start at
three (which actually meant 4:15).
Note that I wasn’t the only one tricked by the false start
times. Lots of Italians showed up more or less promptly too, and looked
confused, and visited, and stood underneath the balconies in the ever-more
crowded streets while they waited for something to happen. The hairdoes on
Italian men with their thatches of black hair are fascinating. Brill cream,
bouffants, gel... the lot. Both women and men (most) were dressed to impress.
Remember those scary roads I mention? A lot of the women were navigating them
in high-heeled shoes!!!
Finally, around a quarter after four, the marching band got
going and the devils got going.
And going.
And going. I’m pretty sure there must have been quite a few guys
in devil suits (and Death suits), trading off, because it was hours of dancing
with people in the streets.
The Mary-His-mother figure waited at one end of the street,
wearing her black veil because she was sad her son was dead. Maya, previously
mentioned, and her husband Tobias saw Easter Friday in Enna and said the
ceremony was very very sad. Though they aren’t religious, she said they both
cried a little.
When I say “the street” I meant the widest street in Prizzi, the
main street with the square on it that I’d accidentally driven down. It’s
shaped like a wide letter U, so there’s a hill going up both ways from the tiny
square.
(In Edinburgh, they also hold the main cultural events in a tiny
square, and put a TV screen up for people to see better. I wonder why Edinburgh
doesn’t smarten up and move it to a bigger square, with bleachers or something,
or even use the many hills it has! But Prizzi only has the one square, and,
honestly, given the length of the dancing and the terraced nature of the
square, everyone could see mostly.)
And Jesus, with a spear wound in his side and a tin plate to
show his halo nailed to the top of his head, waited at the other side of the U.
By the way: Even though I only saw one blonde-haired person (the band master,
who definitely seemed like an import) besides me in this whole town, Jesus was
blonde-haired and blue-eyed. Also interesting: he had two pointy-hatted
sword-carrying lavishly dressed guards, and he was preceded by a Medici-looking
man holding up a silver cross, which I took to symbolize: remember,
parishioners, you only access God through the church! We’re in charge of this
guy Jesus, got it?
I really wanted to see the Jesus-Mary part, but the dancing of
the devils took ages. I wonder how long. Maybe two hours? I wandered about,
went to the other museum (conveniently connected to the square, and built
across a streeet, actually, but both doors were open so it was kind of a
breezeway of a museum that way). Checked on the cats a few times. Sat down and
stared at the Medici guy for a while. Watched the other people in the street. Etc.
Finally they got to the main event, where
the devils would be vanquished by Christ coming back. The devils went and
writhed on the stairs of a 16th century church for a while, which I
think was supposed to be them dying.
Then about ten guys each picked up the statues of Jesus on rails
and Mary on rails, and they did this kind of approach-back up-approach – back
up – approach dance, and Mary’s veil was pulled off.
And I’m not making this up. It had been cloudy and chilly all
day, but when Jesus approached that 16th century church, the sun
came out and shone right on him. I cried.
And to me, this thing, where you see how happy the Jesus’-mother
statue was at her son being alive, symbolized the idea of Jesus being alive
coming out of the tomb better than any amount of “and then there was
everlasting life” has ever meant to me in church in Canada. We always speak it
and it seems like an abstract concept. But here in Italy they act it out, and
even if you were just there to watch the kids dance around like devils and see
how the other fashionistas in the street were dressed, you’d get it too.
I’ll have to come back some time to see the Easter Friday in
Enna, and see if that makes me cry like it made my friend Maya cry.
And I’m an
early partier so though it seemed the streets were heating up and they were
repeating the Jesus-Mary dance in the newer part of town, the cats and I headed
back to the glorious free in-mountains campsite of excellent roaming possibilities.
They’d earned a good roam about and the campsite, actually a scout camp all set
up with Fred Flinstone tables in stone and camping fire places set up the tent with plans of a nice lie-in
the next day (that didn't happen, but that's okay, it was a glorious night).
Morning tea: Ricola (of hard candy fame) makes soluble tisanes (herbal teas)! How lovely.
