Sicily IV - A Man and A Woman - And No Chemistry

As for my general impressions of Sicily – I was astounded by how much Italy as a whole must have changed its personality in just the last few decades. NONE of the stereotypes that probably in fact applied in the 1960’s or 1970’s were applicable today.

Most notable was men’s reaction to women – or I should say, their total failure to react at all. Before I left on this trip, I felt a little anxious about what I might encounter in the way of derriere-pinching. Italian men had been famous for committing that sort of public sexual harassment. I didn’t want to be the target of any such painful attentions. On the other hand, I had heard that French men and Italian men alike simply love women – that they are animated by the feminine principle in all its forms. I’d heard that Italian men don’t care if a woman is elderly or fat or thin or frazzled. They would spark to her regardless. And in a way, as long as that sort of liveliness didn’t become lechery, I was looking forward to being in such an atmosphere. I thought it would be a welcome change from the total indifference men manifest here - to almost all women except the most completely Barbie doll types.

But people are too much the same all over the world now. I found nothing but indifference among Sicilian men. There was no derriere-pinching. That was good. But neither did the men brighten the least bit to light a woman’s way a little better. I walked alone through the streets of Palermo, and only once did a man address me. I heard someone mildly call out behind me, asking a question. When I turned to apologize “No parlo Italiano,” he backed away, withdrawing even that much of an advance. I don’t know if that was because he saw I was older than I had looked from behind, and therefore of no interest to him - or if he legitimately realized he didn’t need any information.

In either case, I wasn’t the only one who failed to capture the attention of the local men. They were indifferent to everyone, including the youngest, loveliest women. The primary guide our tour Company had hired to usher us around Sicily was a model-beautiful, stunning woman in her late 20’s. In the rather vulgar parlance of the day, she was tall with “legs that just didn’t quite.” She had long, blonde, straight hair (she was a refugee from the Bosnian War who had been living in Sicily for ten years) – perfect features – a Sports Illustrated figure. And amazing – as I watched her stride down the street leading us, her clucking little brood of chickens – she turned not one head. Not one car honk, not one catcall, not one doff of the hat, not one smile. She was as completely invisible as I was.

Well, there were two exceptions to this indifference. There was one moment there when a waiter seemed to be catering a little specially to our guide. He encouraged her to go back a second time to the antipasto buffet, something that would ordinarily be out of the question in Sicily. They don’t generally entertain the concept of the “All-You-Can-Eat” buffet there. You get one pass at the groaning board – and that’s all.

Then there was our evening in Noto. We went on a side-trip to that small town one afternoon to view the three architecturally significant cathedrals that flank the one main street there. I think the whole town has a population of less than 800 – yet here were these three massive cathedrals serving the town’s spiritual needs. I wondered how the townspeople decided which of the cathedrals to attend each Sunday. I was told it was a matter of family tradition. I wondered how the town could afford the upkeep of these vast, echoing enormities, when there might be only a handful in each one’s regular congregation (since our guide said it’s generally only the old people who now attend regular church services). I was told the Vatican sends the bulk of the necessary support.

Incidentally, it was here in Noto that we encountered one of the only two beggars we met on our trip. This one was a rather frightening hag of a woman in a tattered dirndl skirt who came angrily panhandling to each of us in turn. I think our guide dismissed her with some scorn as a ”gypsy.” When none of us contributed to her coffers, she retreated halfway up the vast, Byzantine, Capitol-Building-like steps of one of the cathedrals and sat there, staring angrily at us, definitely hexing us with the “malocchio,” the evil-eye.

The other time we were accosted by beggars was in a crowd around one of the Greek ruins attractions. An appealing little boy came up to each of us, holding out his hand, beseeching with his limpid brown eyes. Again, our guide wised us up. She whispered that he was merely a distraction. His mother had been slyly circulating in partnership with him, ready on one side to pick the pocket of any person who briefly considered the little boy’s pleas on the other side. A clever gambit. But none of us got robbed, since we all had fanny packs buried under layers of buttoned clothing. Those were the only two times we were challenged by any begging/stealing activity on those Sicilian streets that until recently had been notorious for highway thievery. So perhaps that aspect of Italy has also changed.

But back to Noto. Night fell after our tour of the cathedrals and our guide told us to shop and sip espresso in the town square to fill the time until our bus picked us up. After I’d walked around a little, I returned to the bench by the archway entrance to the town. Our guide was sitting there with an older member of our tour group. And I saw that three slightly tipsy boulevardiers were buzzing like bees around her. Two of them were chatting up our guide, while the third, not quite able to elbow his way to her, was contenting himself with chatting up her older companion. The older tour group member didn’t speak Italian, so a jovial charade was going on there. “Where from? Iowa? I-o-ah? No, I no know. Where I-o-ah?” However since our guide spoke fluent Italian, a more fluid exchange was going on between her and her two admirers. They were asking where she was from, what her job was, and most important of all – if she was free that evening. She was answering with polite, but vague banter that didn’t give away too much of herself.

When our bus showed up and we mercifully saw our means of escape from this importunate band of eager men – one of them saw his last chance. “Un besso? Une? Bessame, por favore,” he pleaded our beautiful guide for a kiss. He sprang forward, ready to plant one on her – but she good-naturedly deflected him, “No, no, no.” And there were no hard feelings. I think he had expected to fail with this miraculous, luscious angel landed like a UFO in the middle of his stone-old little town. All three men waved us off into the night, their eyes shining amorously. “Well, you made their day – their year,” the older tour member whispered to our guide.

But that was the only time I saw Italian men living up to their reputation as lovers of women – any woman, all women – the fabulous feminine principle of life itself. I don’t know if things might be different on the Italian mainland – if men there might still be the same old derriere-pinching, on-the-prowl characters traditionally associated with Italian manhood. Many people said that Sicily is a place apart, that it in some ways hardly considers itself Italian. I heard that the dialect and history and mores of Sicily harken more to Turkey, to Greece, to Tunisia than to Rome.

I didn’t take the tour extension to Rome. But somehow I think that in this regard, things are probably now the same on the mainland – that men aren’t animated by any romantic hopefulness there either – that they don’t thrill to any woman passing by.

Maybe part of the problem is that everyone in Italy is so attractive. Our tour guide was still exceptional-looking, but I hardly saw any really dowdy women. During our whole time in Sicily, I saw only one dumpling-like older woman who even remotely conformed to the “Mama Mia” stereotype of a buxom, copiously-clad woman obviously used to spending most of her time in the kitchen over a steaming pot of pasta. Then there was that malevolent, tattered beggar woman in Noto. But outside of those two, all the women I saw, of all ages, were trim and smartly dressed – sporting about in tailored suits and designer sunglasses. I remembered having heard how hard the Italian women were trying to shake the old Mama image – and it seemed they had succeeded beyond all rightful expectation.

Our guide said that, although she hated to admit it, modern Italy was rather superficial. It was all about looks, about appearances. The new shops that lined the main downtown streets of cities like Catania seemed to be 90% clothing stores. I didn’t see the variety you find in downtown America. Here it was all Gucci and Pucci and similar up-scale apparel or accessory stores – one after the other – bright lights and high fashion. No more comfortable, clumpy-shoed women to come home to. It was all the cutting edge of stiletto heels now.

Most of the men of Italy were very handsome and fashionable too. But you could still find the picturesque, weathered faces among them that make such good photo opportunities. But then men all over the world are allowed to have “character” in their faces. The more character, the better. Women, on the other hand, have to be perennially smooth, and baby doll, and indistinguishable.

Sicily III - I Become an Invalid Abroad

All in all, there was quite a bit of climbing involved in this trip to Sicily. The one who handled all this exertion the best was a man in his middle 80’s. Hardly anyone offered to give him a boost, because he was obviously doing so well on his own.

I at first didn’t give a second thought to how I was managing. I was normally healthy –sometimes even able to imagine myself gazelle-like. Until one member of our group took me under her wing. She started to make a habit of rushing forward and assisting me whenever I stepped off a curb or got off the bus. She took my elbow and, cooing encouragements, “helped” walk me down the steps of the forum. “You’re doing great,” she all but patted me on the head.

This woman wasn’t a great deal younger than I am, and not obviously less fit. I had no disabilities that I was aware of – at least I had none when I started the trip. But her incessant ministrations and concern soon began to make me feel positively decrepit. She was a truly kindly woman – so it didn’t seem likely that this was some elaborate game of one-upsmanship she was playing, calculated to make me wilt on the spot. Therefore, I soon began to suspect she saw some infirmity in me that I hadn’t realized. Her caution that I be assisted over every cobblestone (while the 86-year-old was assumed to be perfectly capable) might have become a self-fulfilling prophecy. It got so that I paused on the bottom step of the bus every time we stopped somewhere – waiting for a wheelchair to be pushed forward to scoop me up, poor invalid I.

Actually, I was one of the few to stay in good health throughout the trip. Almost everyone else, including my nursemaid, eventually came down with a bad cold or flu. I think those long, grueling airplane flights might have been partly to blame. I don’t know how I avoided catching anything. Maybe it was because I kept popping Vitamin C pills, although I’d never really had much faith in that preventative before. But two members of our group got so bad, they had to be confined to their rooms for several days – and they had to call a Doctor. One reported that this was a cultural experience in and of itself. An avuncular man came to her bedside, looked at her tongue, prescribed antibiotics – and charged a hefty sum.

(An aside on health care – an ordinary Italian wouldn’t have been charged for a Doctor’s visit. The Country has long had socialized medicine. However, our tour guide said that the average citizen pays about 43% of his/her income in taxes to cover all the services received. But most of the people don’t grumble about that – they think they are getting a good deal. Also, there are no overt sales taxes levied in Italy. At least, no sales tax is ever added on separately. When a restaurant menu says an entrée is 10 Euros, 10 Euros is all you pay. Your bill doesn’t end up being an irritating and unwieldy 10.90. So generally, I found food and shopping to be a bargain around Sicily. It seemed I was spending less than I would have spent for comparable items here at home.)

At any rate, if I ever do truly become an invalid, I might consider moving to Sicily and applying for citizenship. All my expenses will be covered!