Travel in Sicily – LuceStellare

Chapter Nine ~ Scala dei Turchi ~ The Sea, Wind, and White Cliffs

The Stream at The Foot Of Scala Dei Turchi

On the road May 2015

My journey through paradise brings me to, Costa della Provincia di Agrigento, the coast at Agrigento Province. The Greeks called this area Akragas. Unusual for Sicily, most of the houses around here are private homes with gated entries. The narrow winding lanes are just wide enough for one car. My new “home” is behind a tall white paneled gate cascading with jasmine flowers. I arrive in the afternoon, meeting the homeowner at their seaside restaurant in town, from there, it’s a short drive to their property. I am in San Leone, Lido di Agrigento (beachside) in a cottage, and a half hour walk to the Mediterranean Sea.

A big woofy brown dog with a curly coat welcomes me into the courtyard. The homeowner greets me and shows me to the cottage, separate from the main house by a few steps. Rosa is in her mid-thirties, willowy and beautiful with two teenage children, Ricco and Maria, at home. It’s a two-story chalet made of wood and feels new. The first floor opens into one spacious room with the dining area, a kitchen and a small bath. A staircase leads up to the one bedroom with a private porch and view over the rooftops and out to the sea. The layout is spacious and homey. As before, there is a sharing of keys and directions on opening and closing the gate. The daughter shows me how to light the gas stove and I refresh with a cup of black tea. Tomorrow includes a visit to Scala dei Turchi, in English, Turkish Steps and the town of Campobello di Licata in the afternoon.

The sun rises on a brisk day with an onshore breeze cooling this side of the island. The terrain is gentler here with rolling hills of grapevines and fields of wheat. Plant life must be adaptable to strong shifts in climate. Most days are sunny. The sun angle is different, it is overhead most of the time. Back in New England, it normally angles south, southeast. It is so nice to be always walking in sunshine. The nights are cool and misty. Plant roots must go deep to find fresh water and anchor well into the soil. It’s a loose sandy, loam colored in tones of buckwheat and buckskin. Branches must sway and give in to the elements or be cracked to bits. The flowers, so delicate and sweet must tremble with the wind or be dashed by it. The people of Sicily must also be so strong to the roots, and flexible to what can happen in life.

In the coastal town of Realemonte near Porto Empedocles is Scala dei Turchi, an enormous white cliff poised at the sea’s edge. The site is not a park or reserve. There are no entry fees or services. There is hardly a sign to tell visitors where to go nor is it visible from the road. The parking lot, like most in Sicily, is an afterthought. In fact, people have to walk through a seaside bar to reach the path to the cliffs. Visitors are responsible for their own safety.

The walk is about fifteen minutes along the shoreline. The sea is on the left and a tumble down hillside angles up to the right. The slope increases, as I get closer to the cliff. Strange, the thing missing at all these seaside places is shore birds. Gulls are so common a sound and sight back home that it always feels like something is missing here. The aroma of sea air is also milder. The Atlantic Ocean makes itself known with a strong scent of seaweed, surf and sun when approached. The Mediterranean is more subtle, content to dazzle the eye at first.

My steps slowed along the way, another bit of wonder showed itself. I heard it before I saw it. A little fresh water rivulet was seeping out from the hillside. A small stream continued towards the sea. It was trickling through the soil and forming tiny stalactites. It made it! “All the waters run to the sea and yet the sea is not full, and from the place where they began, thither they return again” Ecclesiastes. Something so small compared to something so large. How did I see that?

On the shoreline, the sea spills over rocky square formations just under the surface, rising and sinking with the current. The formations make for great walkways out into the sea. Perhaps they are carved from something more ancient. They appear man made but terribly worn down and covered in barnacles. What did these hold up? Was this the port? The next land mass from here would be the north coast of Africa. All that remains is washed out stepping-stones to no man made structure. So much has been swept away.

The sea fills the horizon and laps over the foot of the cliff. Tender waves turn the mottled white surface pigeon grey. This cliff face is made of marlstone, a lime-rich clay. When it’s wet, the stone is sleek and looks like the skin of a whale as it rises to the surface to draw breath. There is sensuality in the movement of water touching the rock. If the cliff could talk, she would say, The sea, the sea, she caresses me. Rolls over my footstones, how she always reaches to me. What is the name of this sacred place? The tranquility of this day, this touches a place inside, and creates a sensation of emptiness, of being released from the confinement of form. This journey around Sicily has become an unplanned pilgrimage to nature surrounding ancient shrines. Yes, equally in recognition of the named for goddess, but also what memory is left behind in the earth and stone. These places reflect an energy from long ago and I feel it.

This massive stone is here. Is this what the moon looks like? Does the stone reach out to the sea or the sea reach out to the stone? They could not be more different. One is the rock. One is the water. The wind gently, gently carves away at the surface. The sea spray polishes it smooth. The sun blesses its existence. In the darkness, the moon, should she look below, sees something of herself on the earth’s surface.

Stepping onto the cliff face is easy. It seems made for humans or animals to climb. The surface looks like chalk and may be soft. Underfoot, it feels slightly tacky. Up close, it is more solid, but not strong like marble. Marlstone is lime rich mud, mudstone? It’s clay and silt. This substance, found in riverbeds, is an old familiar friend. This is the sort of mush frogs and small freshwater creatures love to be in. Mix in some sand, ash, crushed shell and this forms the basic plaster used in homes on the floors and walls for thousands of years. This is so familiar. Some part of me remembers walking on this before. Somehow, nature crystallizes the calcite in the minerals and creates this substance.

The slight incline is easy to walk up at first and pitched at a slight angle. The slope draws the feet upward inclining a bit more and more as it rises about one-story high. The sound of the sea lapping stays quietly with me. The wind is mild today and blowing inland. The walk goes onward and the cliff face rises some more. It flattens out into grooves wide enough for one and ½ people to walk along. It’s kind of like Italian roads, not quite enough room to maneuver. There are layers to the grooves going upwards so if someone comes the other way, you can step up into another groove and carry on. Sort of like furrows along the cliff walk. She knows. The goddess of this marlstone knows how to make it inviting to explore her. The ancient Egyptian’s had a story about Khnum, the creator god of the Nile River. He crafted human children from this substance on a potter’s wheel and placed them in a mother’s womb.

Who is she? Aeolus is present in the wind. Helios lights the eyes. Keep going and the cliff face gets longer, wider and taller. Rounding a bend, it keeps going for about two miles. The grooves are now getting steeper to walk on. I wish I had my walking stick. A brave soul with cleats on the shoe could keep going all the way around. The cliff rises up and up, down and down to the sea. I can see coves below. Secret places the sea can enter into the land. I decided to stop and sit on the stone. This looks much like a natural amphitheater. The way it pitches up gradually and is comfortable. The theater is the sea and sky. There are enough seats for thousands of spectators. So, it is time to gaze at the sea.

Today, she is every shade of green, blue and silver. Over there, she is bottle green, emerald, sage, aquamarine, teal and dove green. Here, she is china blue, silver blue, cobalt and azure. No boats are on the water. The waves roll in without effort. They roll to her. The sea rolls to the land and will not stop. The wind will not stop. Imagine what it must be like when it is fierce. I would not feel so welcomed. I can see why it is called scala (stair). They are steps. Mary Taylor Semiti, author of “On Persephone’s Island” said about the site, “Scala dei Turchi, apparently owe their name to the fact that, they offered good anchorage for Barbary Coast pirates (not to Turks at all but North Africans) that repeatedly raided Sicily in search of plunder and captives to sell as slaves.” Why is Sicily so easy to conquer by outsiders? Why does she let them all in?

Standing on the shore, the rhythm of the sea and wind takes over and sweeps away any deliberation in thought. There is wonder in gazing from the cliffs to the gorgeous palette of the sea. I see large dark swirls in the water, as there are no clouds in the sky today, it might be fish just under the surface, forming and dispersing quickly in the placid waters. There’s only earth, sea, sun and sky. The steps are here for some nautical god to rise onto the land. Who would come out of the sea to meet Sicilia? Who would be worthy of her?

It is hard to leave here. How fine it is to feel overcome by the senses and know for a while that nothing else matters. This is the land of Demeter and Persephone, Artemis and Arethusa. I met Arethusa in Ortygia and found her journey led here in this little fresh water stream coming down the hillside. Her fate took her underground to dwell in safe passages. Here she is, she made it to the seashore at last.

Visit on a clear day and marvel at the wonder of it all. Feel the sun, wind, and water and know something beautiful that only nature could create. Let the sea fill the senses. Leave all thoughts behind and be a part of it all. Take your time and stay on the cliff as long as it feels right to. The warmth of the sun and rock face are forever. There is no time, no place and nothing that matters anymore. Just sit; there is nothing else to do. Sicily is everything I wish I could be.

Chapter Five – Cultural Habits in Sicily

(Observations from the road May 22, 2015)

Now that I am in Italy with not the strongest skill in the native language and cultural habits, I am having a curious time “reading” non-verbal language from the locals. My natural style around others is to observe how people talk and present themselves. Also, my empathic radar is keeping things interesting. What’s going on? What’s obvious and what’s the undertone? A spiritual friend has commented that my field of awareness tends to be wide. I let people alone and don’t get into their space. It doesn’t come from any connection to a particular divinity. My instincts are more refined while in the natural world.

As I am traveling solo here, it does matter that I pay attention to my environment for safety. The guidebooks said the crime rate is quite low in Italy. Mostly, I feel okay and strong as I move around in different places in Sicily. My daily routine is to be out in daylight hours and home by dinnertime. The night life is not an attraction. I want to be here, so I could be naïve about what could happen. I don’t feel afraid most of the time.

Perhaps it’s the urban comfort zone coming out, I was raised in Worcester MA, a fairly large gateway city. The kids next door had a unique heritage, their grandmother on the father’s side came from Assyria. Their father had a heavy accent, I don’t know for sure but he could have been born abroad. Assyria hasn’t been a country for several hundred years. But, I can recall being corrected when I said Syria. No, Assyria. Just because it’s now off the map, doesn’t mean the descendants disappeared too.

As a kid, I loved visiting the public library and had to get there on my own most of the time. By the time I was ten, I walked or took the city bus downtown. As we traveled along picking up passengers, the language changed by the block, Polish or Lithuanian was common in my neighborhood. A little further along, kids got on board speaking Greek, and down the hill Spanish was spoken. In another section of the city, it would be Lebanese or Armenian. This mix, on the bus, in the market or in the classroom, was normal. The markets on Water Street served both Jewish and Polish tastes.

I used to walk home from grade school too. Up two big hills past the local hospital and down a busy road. Sometimes I had company, but other times not. I guess it’s not a surprise that by the time I got to attend college I majored in international and comparative studies. I am drawn to other ways of life and like to be around people who are foreign born. It feels natural.

What I understand about nonverbal language is through education, observation and inquiry. People generally read others’ gestures, posture, expression and even notice their scent before attempting to make a connection. The senses and instincts are used in every way to find out if it is safe to approach a stranger or even a friend.

Being with people from a different culture will bring so many chances for miscues. A greeting can get muddled in a split second. What seems brash and loud to one, is bashful and modest to another. Bring in a layer of ego and the moment can become even more complicated. Bring in gender, age, education and it is getting deeper into the potential for confusion. So, having been a few days in Sicily, I am becoming aware of what I perceive to be normal habits over here.

Guidebooks and travel message boards about Italy mention a difference in how folks here stand in line. In the United States, it is common for people to form a queue and stay in it. People can get quite cross when an attempt is made to cut the line. A comment may be made about the behavior being boorish and unfair. In general, it is also an expectation that people will go the way of the road when walking along a busy sidewalk. Meaning left shoulder to left shoulder like a car drives. In Sicily, there appears to be no concept of a line anywhere. As happened at the airport when it was time to board the connecting flight, people just started walking all at once. There is an occasional roping off to attempt to channel people in one direction, but that is just one more thing to pass through.

The annual May Flower Festival in the City of Noto happens the second week of the month. The festival attracts thousands of people to the city. It was here that I learned how to move with the crowd. How to move with the herd, so to speak. Here, I never feel as though someone is trying to cut me off. Americans can be competitive and have to get there first. Sicilians appear to not see each other as something to get around or react to. In a crowd, a person is not in the way, nor are others ever in the way. Nobody pushes, there is hardly even a sensation of someone touching you, yet people will sort of walk right up on you and keep walking. It is not that I have to back off or get out-of-the-way. No, somehow we walked by each other but nobody seemed to yield. Everybody moves in their own direction whenever, wherever and however they want. People pick a path and stick to it, no stepping aside necessary.

By the time the official ceremonies at the festival ended, I had been completely immersed in a local holiday crowd for hours. I only heard one or two other English speaking people the entire day. I figured out how to navigate mostly by observation and following the person in front of me. I call it; the melt.

There may be a different reference point in Sicilians to personal space. Some Americans can have a wide circumference and will become agitated if others get too close. The space can be their body, car, home, desk or even significant others. A glaring eye gesture may be given to warn the other person they are too close. In my personal experience, some Americans tend to also have a high need to be recognized in public. This comment could be called over generalizing, but the behaviorisms seem extraverted. It really can feel like all about “me” most of the time. Are you seeing me, are you accepting me or are you ignoring me? Sicilians, at least in my experience, didn’t exhibit this at all. Their personal energy seems secure and confident in public.

It was fascinating to watch people try to find a comfortable place to stand to view the grand promenade, dancing and musical performances on Vittorio Emanuele Boulevard in front of the Town Hall. The beautiful sun-bleached sandstone steps leading to Church of the Savior, Chiesa San Salvatore, opposite the main viewing area do not offer the best viewing. The steps are wide, an average sized adult has to take a step up, walk straight four steps, step up and so on until the top. Maybe they were designed to accommodate crowds. If everyone is sitting down, the view is still blocked. I watched and joined in trying to find the best spot to see this spectacle celebrating the Baroque tradition of Noto.

I didn’t notice anyone react with impatience. If a person wants to move, just do it. There can be people six deep; the stair is not even visible so just say, Permesso; May I Pass. Nobody will look at you, nobody will shift out of the way, but somehow, the person melts into the crowd and goes by. Everybody heard you but nobody is acknowledging it. At least, not in a discernible way I expect. It is possible that permission is granted, it is just so subtle I miss the cue.

A couple came along with a baby carriage. A decision was made to go to the street level so they headed straight towards the staircase. I thought, how does he get the carriage down one-step? It was a wide pram style thing. There are people crowding everywhere. No problem. As he reached the point of no return, the guy ahead of them turned slightly but never looked back, reached his hand down and picked up the front of the carriage and they went down the stairs safely with the baby. Nobody said a word, nobody looked at each other, nobody said thanks, it just happened.

Sicilians do not appear to look directly at others. However, do not think they do not see you. It only seems so. I think Sicilians have a great ability to see peripherally without shifting the head or the eyes. They don’t stare. Even the cats do it. The stray cat I feed every night back home looks right at me. In fact, he’s a bold scruffy dude who hangs around the front steps until his meal is put in front of him. There was one exception here in Sicily, it being a calico in the old city of Ragusa Ibla, all the others have the same manner of looking but not looking at you. They know you are there. Their body is facing you, the head can even turn very slightly in your direction; the eyes do not open. It happened the first night in Taormina and also walking around Noto.

Actually, it’s kind of refreshing not being able to make casual conversation. It takes a lot of energy to talk and I am not intending to get friendly enough to have but the most common of conversations with people here. My lack of skill with the Italian language is part of the reasoning. But, it’s nice to just stop talking for a while.

A guy did approach me on the street during the festival in Noto and tried to start a conversation. He figured out I spoke English and said he was from Catania and wanted to practice his language skills. No, that didn’t feel right. The guidebooks did mention this type of encounter could happen to solo women and said that man is the one to get rid of quickly. Do not return even a comment was the advice, unless you feel ready for a challenge on how to get him to go away. Sicilian men may have some of their own beliefs about foreigners, especially women that they are trying out. It is okay, just say no.

The takeaway from being in this environment is a new way to be safe. My own sense of esteem may be stronger at taking care of me better then I realize. But, this style of moving with the crowd I like. Be in the crowd but not swayed by it. Stand alone in the middle of the crowd. Stand your ground without raising a finger. And, that was my day in Sicily.