This is Termini Imerese in the province of Palermo, Sicily. It’s the hometown of my great-grandparents Frank and Rosaria Amato. It’s also the town my great-great grandfather Salvatore Amato decided to return to in order to live out his final years after he’d brought all of his sons here to Portland, OR to help them start new lives.
|The view from the Falcone-Borsellino Airport which was named after two anti-mafia judges who were murdered on their way into Palermo in 1992.|
|Grandma Rosaria posing at the door to her tiny kitchen empire in SE Portland. She was considered one of the best cooks in the family and time spent at her table was a gift.|
|Our dear rental car. I recommend the 4-door Fiat. Fun car to drive—especially through narrow twisting streets at high speeds. (Oh how I miss those olive trees!)|
|Not sure if this kind of decorative chain would work in the US. I see lawsuit written all over this one.|
|What a lush Crassula!|
The cemetery is Termini Imerese was alive with plants and many people were there visiting gravesites.
Although the island bakes in the summer sun—with scorching sirocco winds from time to time—there are a few tall evergreens in places. (I always look for tall trees.) Overall, the inner island was much greener than I’d expected it to be but it was logged long ago by the Greeks and Romans. It was fun to try and imagine what the original island must have been like botanically but since humans have been living there for so long it’s impossible to know.
Sicily is rustic. It is full of folk traditions and simplicity. There are no false pretenses. Everything central to the society and important is hidden, and yet much of life is lived out in the open. Sicily is elaborate and ornate, and yet it is gut wrenchingly brutally honest.
Much more is spoken with the eyes and the body than the mouth. That is Sicilian. That’s why the island is advertised as “being for poets”. It truly is a magical and unique place.
Not sure what this succulent was, but it caught my eye. (I’d love to grow one here at home.)
The whole cemetery was full of amazing plants, planters, and cut flowers. There were so many unique variations on the same theme.
Then there was this guy.
In his left hand he’s holding a pack of cigarettes. I was a bit shocked he wasn’t holding coffee in the right hand, but instead, it’s eternally posed in such a way as to have a flower inserted into it.
I’m sure that his conversation with God is always an interesting one. Sicily is dramatic.
This sculpture was my favorite. In addition to the woman’s facial expression—which is uniquely Sicilian and deadpan to me—she is admiring the agricultural products still harvested on the island.
She appears almost uniquely longing for the life of the harvest but is unable to reach it any more. This was really touching to me.
From the top of the hill in town it was truly a vista looking east towards Monte San Calogero.
Just a few paces from there we reached a park where many residents promenade.
I was of course fond of this broken down concrete baby greeting us at its gates.
I cannot recall the name of this tree but I’ve seen it before in San Diego, CA. Its orange flowers looked lovely against the shades of terra cotta paint and clear sapphire blue sky.
Down below was the older part of town. There is a park there and a square with a gelateria. It’s the park I’d seen in postcards depicted in black and white. It’s where my Grandma Rosaria had celebrated many festivals as a girl.
Of course we went there several times for gelato and while walking and eating I noticed this sweet act of Sicilian plant kindness.
It would have been fun to take more photos of private gardens but in Sicily I didn’t like to take many photos without permission.
Trust me, if you’ve been there and you care and respect the people, you’ll know exactly what I mean. You just don’t walk around taking lots of pictures. It makes you stand out and that’s the last thing you want to do.
|For many generations my male family members were greengrocers and I very much wanted to see how that had come to pass. During this trip, the greatest joy was seeing the trade still fully functioning in a modern world.|
Leaving Termini this is what you see if you head east and up the valley where we were staying. In the distance, many small truck farmer plots can be seen. For generations this is how farming has worked in this part of Sicily. I’ve read accounts of this kind of agriculture in other parts of Italy too, but it’s not as common nowadays.
The most difficult part was that it is still a job and a lifestyle for men. In Sicily there is still a very wide gender divide and women only tend to small planters and garden plots attached to their own homes.
I should add that you don’t see many women at all. There are some working, but there are many you don’t see because they’re at home. Even those who are working, are often behind the scenes, unseen.
The mother where we stayed did all of the cooking, yet she remained hidden the whole time we stayed there. I caught a glance of her one evening, but she saw me and went back inside of her room.
This was a familiar arrangement to me, but I can’t deny how torn it made me feel. On the other hand, it helped me to better understand my own family.
The view of Monte San Calogero from our room was breathtaking. The scent of the artichoke farms in the morning is something I’ll never forget. This place was already imprinted on me but being there fleshed it all out for me. I have never felt so at home.
Just for contrast, this is a town in the interior of Sicily. I stopped to take this photo on our way from an ancient Roman villa to see Greek temples in Agrigento.
I know many people love Tuscany, but I’m Sicilian and I’ll never stop loving the light, the colors, the sounds, the tastes, and the silence of the people of Sicily. It’s in my blood. It’s an even larger part of me than I’d known until I visited there.
Yes, Sicily gave Italy cannolo(i), gelato(i), and sorbetto(i) too. Don’t believe me? Look it up! For this reason alone I’ll take Sicily over the rest of Italy. It’s such a rich place culturally and it’s so unlike any other place in the world.
It may have been invaded many times, and it’s been ruled by many people, but that’s what makes it so unique. My own DNA shows signs of the island’s rich genetic and cultural history. Where else do you find Greek, Italian, Middle Eastern, North African, Spanish, and French influences blended together? Nowhere else!
Each night we returned to our room at the farm.
Our room was at one end, and at the other, some young Sicilian men returned each evening from working somewhere in the area on the artichoke harvest.
Normally you’d say ‘Hi’ or acknowledge another with a nod. Because I’m a married woman, for several days they pretended not to see me. It felt strange, but I knew the game.
One day the obvious leader of the group said ‘Hi’ to me very nervously in English. I was sitting in a common area near where we all ate. It was the only spot in the place with Wifi and I was alone. It was obvious he didn’t know much more English than that so he then laughed nervously and hurried off.
After that, a few others in the group cast me sideways glances, but out of respect, they never said anything more. By the time our visit was ending, I felt very safe around them. That’s how Sicily works. It’s all about trust and respect. They respected me, and it led me to trust them more. This means everything to a Sicilian and I enjoyed the interaction immensely.
We also went to Cefalù and saw what sanitized and safe tourist-friendly Sicily looks like and I loved it there as well. The intensity of personal interactions was lessened dramatically and we walked around freely without the eyes of the people upon us. (We also had a lovely married couple comedy routine in Italian with a local cheesemonger while we were there. John and I made the young man crack up and I felt like we were really fitting in just fine.)
I was also able to take this photo of a produce vendor. The old donkey carts my family used have been replaced with these little trucks. As you drive around the Palermo area you see them everywhere. They have the freshest produce in them and they get to market quickly. They simply pull up to the street, park and vend.
And of course that little truck had fresh local artichokes! So glad we ate them in a zillion dishes at the Agriturismo La Targa Florio.
Oh the fresh artichokes of Sicily!
I won’t soon forget you and your sister the mythical ancient pistachio of Bronte.