Sicily 6/13/24
I love being a woman in Sicily. It is the most natural thing in the world, wearing a skirt, and shoes that lift your heels, and being treated with reverence. When the bus gets into town at 7:20 there aren’t any other women about, only the men drinking espresso.
The women come out when the shops open a little later. I wore a long orange skirt and a yellow shirt, but the women here dress like birds of paradise, I am no anomaly. Except that I sinned greatly, in my rush this morning, in not putting on a bra, which is not acceptable here. A man even cleared his throat as he passed me. But it was too late, of course, once I realized what I had done.
I had to take the train one stop east to a bigger town today to get a metal bucket for the stove ash, at a home goods store. It’s a resort town, where I came across fellow Americans for the first time today, a chubby family in summer-wear at the train station. I ran quickly past them.
Most of the day was just killing time waiting for trains and buses: looking out at the ocean, answering a backlog of texts and emails, walking and walking, buying and eating frutta. I got the bucket I needed, with great rejoicing.
My ear has grasped the swing of Italian enough that I am not shocked by it anymore. When I got back to my town, I went to the butcher shop, the site of my disgrace, and with great confidence announced VORREI UNA BISTECCHA, PER FAVORE, and the woman got a slab of meat, cut a piece, said UNA? and I said DUE! and I paid less than five euros.
I think I’m in love with Sicily.
Ever the adventure, today the bus drivers told me to get on the big bus, one of the big buses that would never, ever, make it around even one of the sharp turns up the mountain. Incredulously, I repeated the name of the village route. No, no, it’s definitely the big bus, just get on the big bus, they all insisted. So I got on the big bus, alone.
For some reason, I really trust the Sicilians, that they have my best interest in mind.
All was well until the bus took the wrong exit. Where was it taking me? How would I get back to my village? A minute later, we pulled into the bus depot. Camminando, altro autobus, my Italian must be getting good, I’ve understood that we have to walk to another bus. So we get off the big bus and walk to one of the small buses, the driver starts the bus, then says something, and then we get off and walk to a different small bus, then, he gets off the bus and goes and puts something in his car, then we pull out to leave the bus depot, but then he gets off again and says something about tempo, which from the context I think means he’ll be right back, and then we’re off into the hills, which never fails to nauseate me. Giro is sitting in his garage when I get off the bus at the village, and I greet him, miming that I am sick to my stomach from the turns.
We don’t realize how short life is until we start living it again, or that we have treated it as something less than sacred. Which is maybe Sicily’s greatest gift to me, to remind me that life has come from somewhere far beyond my grasp. That I am here at all!
To remind me that at dawn the animals call out to the heavens, and that I am no different from them.
Someone has harvested and pruned back the sweet cherry tree, and the only fruit left is being eaten at by bugs. The time to harvest is brief. I was on my way to the spring with the wagon for the first time, pulling five jugs with me since I have laundry and dishes to do. I’m not sure why I resisted taking the cart for two weeks, it’s not fun on the way back with all that water, but no worse than carrying it by hand.
The dusk tonight took my breath away. The warm glow of the streetlights in the villages nestled into the black hills, against the pastel sky, which melds into the ocean, in the distance a few lights glowing on the islands. I stood in my windowsill watching the day fade, listening to the rustling leaves of the forest and the now familiar voices of the family across the way from me.