Sicilianized

You know you've been Sicilianized when ...

Your car has missing wing mirrors and many dents. You double park alongside other cars and leave the lights flashing without a second thought – their drivers know they just have to honk and you'll move your car. You park on pavements, take shortcuts down one-way systems. You cruise through town and pull out into oncoming traffic, and never, ever let other drivers out in front of you. The one time I tried a local shortcut (that everyone uses) I narrowly missed crashing into a police car with four carabinieri who glared at me. I haven’t quite mastered Sicilian driving yet...

You spend winter in the gym so you have the perfect beach body, and “prepare” your body for the sun by having a few sunbed sessions. Then you hit the shingle in your new sarong, kaftan and wide rim hat with matching accessories. Preferably in the most crowded spot where you lie towel to towel with noisy extended families or flirting teenagers, depending on the spot. For many years I was the white one receiving pitying looks from bronzed goddesses and gods (hmmm) in tight Speedoes. The thing is, the beach is, for Sicilians, the place to see and be seen. In August, going to the beach is the equivalent to hanging out at the "in" bar in town. So you have to get the look or feel left out. The right bikini from Calzedonia helps. But I still can't totally shake the Irish attitude to the beach - find the most remote part and then it doesn't matter that you don't have all the gear. The beach is for solitude and long walks...

 

You complain frequently about the weather and your health, exaggerating your aches and pains because this wards off the Evil Eye; no one can envy you if they think you're suffering more than they are. You are most convincing if you get a cervicale (back, neck and shoulder pain particular to Italians) from a sciangazza (draught) or a colpo d’aria in your eye (another deadly draught). Worst of all: the cold stomach.


You feel sirocced, that is, lethargic and headachy when the Sirocco wind blows from the South East. You don't wash your car or hang out your washing because another Sirocco is coming soon to leave its sandy trail over your clothes and windows.


You believe in the Evil Eye and to this end, when asked how you are you never reply “Fine, thanks,” because that would just be courting trouble, but rather, “Not so bad,” or “So-so”, accompanied by a sigh and shrug of the shoulders. This avoids said envy so no one is wondering what you're so happy about. 

You wear your black – and it’s got to be black – puffer jacket even on warm sunny April days because it is not officially summer. You wear high heeled shoes, the higher the better, preferably sky high platforms, so that you are taller than your partner. I can't tick this box, I don't do heels or the puffer...

You look glamorous in the morning to take your child to school and do the shopping. I fail here too. I throw on leggings and a hoody or whatever is handy in order to get my children to school in time for the 8am (nightmare) start. I know my kids’ teachers at primary school don't really believe that I teach or or have a serious job. They think that after dropping my kids off (always late) I can't wait to get home and clean my kitchen windows and fry aubergines or make swordfish rolls like a good Sicilian housewife.

You rigorously divide your rubbish into recyling bins despite the fact that we all know plastic, card and glass is heaped together as the dump. Recycling was only introduced in the last couple of years, making me feel part of the 21st century at last. I still hold out hope that it isn't true. 

You read The Gazetta del Sud in bars and can discuss topics of local relevance with passion.The local paper reports on all the juicy local crimes, mostly mafia-related, which never make national news. You’re a real Sicilian when the locals actually discuss mafia issues with you, on the assumption that you know and understand. 

You are resistant to change and treat foreigners (anyone not from your town) with caution, if not outright suspicion. After all, you know nothing about their family background.

You can understand (if not produce) local dialect, used mostly for telling jokes. I'm getting there...

 

In summer you have granita for breakfast - preferably caffe panna con brioche. This one's easy... so delicious!

And last, but not least, you've been Sicilianized for sure if you've got your very own swear-by recipe for sword-fish rolls, caponatina and stuffed aubergines. I have yet to pen these. 

Shame on me!