Living in Sicily

It take guts to live in Sicily. Here’s why.

Sicily. What are you thinking? Sun-drenched beaches, rugged scenery and majestic Greek amphitheatres? Or coppola-clad old men who possess more political power than teeth and idyllic fishing villages with criminal undercurrents? Sicily is all of this, and more. 

The first time I came to Sicily was just over ten years ago. I met an English friend at the train station in Palermo, we took a train south and our adventures began. This was before Ryan Air opened in Trapani airport so Sicily’s west coast was still off the beaten track. Every bus or train journey took a whole day. Dialect was thick and strong and hard to follow. We stuffed our faces with marzipan in mountain-top Erice and on the way back down we nearly fell off our bus seats when we drove through Corleone (it really does exist). But when we finally reached remote, rundown Selinunte, our B&B host was delighted to see two foreign girls at the end of the season. He brought us and the other guests to a different destination every evening, accompanied by his aging male friends who were back home for the summer. 

The best night was when we ate in one of the men’s houses, a Captain Findus type who chain-smoked black tobacco and thought his fisherman’s beard and paunch alluring. It was fun being cooked for by these timeworn philanderers with pot bellies and calloused hands, whose jokes and stories flowed freely in the jasmine-scented terrace where we dined under the knotty branches of a lemon tree. That night, a full moon guided us through a gap in the fence to the acropolis and the floodlit temples of Selinunte. Absolute magic. The craziest was the pizzeria experience where one of the waiters whipped out a guitar and with a voice that would have filled the Amphitheatre in Segesta - and nearly burst our eardrums - he serenaded us... His thighs thick as tree trunks planted wide apart on the ground, his tight black trousers emphasizing his virility, he pounded on the guitar, convinced he would win one of us over. His name was Zeus...

My friend and I survived unharmed. Little did I know that only five years later I would be living in Sicily in my husband’s home town. Not quite as remote as Selinunte but provincial nonetheless. If I’d established myself as an English teacher it would have been a different story. I’d have had the respect that accompanies the title of professore and retained my identity. But running a restaurant with my husband, I was simply known for two years as "the wife". The beautiful word straniera (foreigner) almost became an insult. My own identity was wiped out. After all, they didn't know my family background, could only judge me on my Italian which faltered when met with such distrust, my smile that wavered under such blatant judgement. I’d lived in many different places and never did I have such difficulty in making friends.

The difference, I suspected, was that previously I had travelled alone and created my life from scratch. Here, I inherited a family, a restaurant, a set of friends and a role: being my husband’s wife, which, like it or not, had been mapped out for me by Sicilian codes I failed to understand. Friends and acquaintances (my husband’s) came by the restaurant to offer support (read: watch our struggles) while ex-girlfriends lined up to give me the once over. I put my foot in it loads, unable to tap into that unspoken code of conduct that rules Sicilian society. I grappled (futilely) with rampant chauvinism. No one accepted me as co-manager of the restaurant. I began to feel I was an embarrassment to my husband, who was getting tired of having to bail me out. Stereotypes were heaped on me: You foreigners do this. You North Europeans think that...

Several years later, I regained my identity - partly thanks to English teaching, partly thanks to giving birth to a son. There was a sea change in attitude to me once the bump was visible: cars actually stopped to let me cross at pedestrian crossings, I got served first in bars instead of being elbowed out of the way by coffee addicts, even grumpy old neighbours smiled at me instead of merely spying on me from behind half-closed shutters). Four years later I had a baby girl and was firmly accepted by the locals.

I am still here, my siculo-irlandese bilingual children at primary school. The restaurant did well and closed its doors before a local trend shifted the nightlife to the centre of town rather than the old Spanish quarter. It was an unforgettable experience and I left it with friendships that will last forever. 

Now I know the Sicilians almost as well as they know themselves. I’ve worked hard to get here: I’ve forayed into Sicilian history and literature and music. I've played and sung in restaurants with folk musician friends. I've taught many students to speak English and listened to their stories. I’ve found many similarities between the islands of Ireland and Sicily, but there are important differences too. I know where the distrust comes from. I know not to underestimate a Sicilian’s pride so I (try to) keep my ironic Irish humour to myself. I love it and at times I hate it with a passion – there are no half measures in Sicily. I love the sense of time – time for a leisurely lunch, a gelato, a stroll along the marina – the Sicilians’ ability to live in the moment is propelled by their inherent fatalism. And I love the timelessness of the incredible architecture thanks to the many foreign dominations. This brings me to the indomitable spirit of the Sicilians, their anarchy in the face of authority, another vestige of centuries of foreign dominatation (and something they have in common with the Irish). 

Last but not least, the scenery is stunning. I've discovered so many places of natural beauty and there is still so much to see.  

I’ve come to this conclusion: it takes guts to live here. For Sicilians too, but especially for foreigners.