I am back from my 17-day ancestral explore to Sicily with six women—my sisters Barbara and Irene, cousin Maria, and niece Angela. Friend Louise, who spoke Italian, also joined us. Sicily is a beautiful must-see region of the world filled with hearty food, epic history, incredible architecture, breathtaking views, and wonderful people.
We divided the trip into two parts. During the first week, all six of us stayed together in B&Bs. We didn’t mind bunking in the same room and beds, but required working coffee pots, at least two bathrooms, and a location within easy walking distance to most of the sites we wanted to see. As much as we were willing to walk, touring Sicily and visiting family required a car. Train and bus schedules were not consistent, and we had luggage. I hired Insight Sicily as our transport service.
We began in Palermo. Our flight arrival schedules varied, so we experienced different taxis, but the same white-knuckle rides. The drivers navigated the highways and tight streets with speed and little regard for signs. To be clear, each of us knows how to drive in city traffic (New York City and suburbs and Los Angeles) and safely manage around drivers who have a need for speed and excitement. This should not have surprised us. Palermo driving was at a whole different crazy driving level.
Even though some women had to walk several blocks with their luggage because the driver could not fit his mid-sized car through the tight streets, we all made it to our first B&B in Palermo’s Old City section. Walking the neighborhood offered a variety of restaurants, historic sites, and shops to explore. La Martorana Pasterira became our favorite breakfast coffee, cannoli, and cornetto spot just across the street.
Stone blocks formed the roads, and curbs suggested a sidewalk. Outdoor bistro seating and everyday sidewalk sales cluttered the sides and leaked into the streets. Everyone walked in the streets—not hugging the sides, but in the middle, two or three abreast. Despite the clutter of people, cars, vans, delivery trucks, motorcycles and small vespas drove through, ignoring imaginary dividing lines and turn signals. Motorized scooters and bicycles dodged pedestrians and vehicles. Near misses with speeding scooters were a daily event. We survived uninjured and developed sharpened eyes and ears for the electric motor hums.
Our van driver took us from Palermo to Castellammare del Golfo, my great grandparents and grandmother’s homeland. The B&B was in the heart of this charming city.
Most of the narrow stone streets angled down or up at least 30°. Our driver weaved through. It didn’t seem possible for a large van to fit in the width of the streets, let alone allow for two cars to pass each other.
The sidewalks were better suited for safe walking. Vehicles stayed on the road. Pedestrians, however, crossed the busy streets, disregarding crosswalks. Walking across the side streets required extra attention since, as we learned in Palermo, stop signs were a suggestion.
We had a wonderful visit with our family in beautiful Castellammare del Golfo. Read A Sicilian Family Reunion. I will return.
A few days later, our van driver drove us to Trapani. We had one day to walk
the city and tour Erice—a stunning medieval village set on the very top of a very high mountain. We had been in Sicily for a week, and the traffic and roads seemed reasonable to us now. The intense vehicle and pedestrian traffic became our normal. Half of our travel party returned to the States from the Trapani airport, leaving me, Irene and Louise to continue south.
Irene secured a mid-sized car rental at the airport. Louise rode shotgun, and I folded myself into the backseat. The car looked a bit beat up with light scratches on the sides and a dent in the back. Tire sensor lights blinked. The big name rental company knew of these shortcomings and assured us that the car was in good working order. The trunk hood worked, so our luggage fit in like a Tetris puzzle. We were off.
Sicily is a stunning, mountainous region. Roads lead up, around, hair-pin back down then up again. We passed valleys of vineyards, citrus orchards and prickly pear cactus farms. Clusters of trees and wild cacti surrounded the landscape. Greek or Roman ruins, and cathedral towers and domes stood out in the distance. It would have been a pretty drive if I wasn’t so terrified of the cars, trucks, and motorcycles passing each other and in front of us. Construction zones with workers and cones did not slow them down. Irene, a seasoned and brave driver, drove us through the cities and twisty villages. Louise, who has been living in France, knew the nuances of the road signs. I kept to the back seat, confirming navigation decisions from my phone, and not looking out the window.
We experienced our most challenging drive in Agrigento—a southern Sicilian city famed for its incredible preservation of ancient Greek temples to the gods. We were late for our guide’s appointment, but he willingly waited for us. He took us through the magnificent history, architecture, artistry, and culture. The temples have been standing since 450 and 500 BC, in various states of ruin, providing hints and evidence of ancient stories. The sun set over the Mediterranean, and a glorious full moon rose over the Concordia temple. Just beautiful.
It was dark as we walked back to the car. Our B&B apartment was a short drive away, but the route proved harrowing. Once off the main street, Irene steered us uphill, almost around a round-about (a parked car blocked one side), and uphill some more. Motorbikes and compact cars passed us. Old home buildings tightly lined along the narrow streets overlooked the mountain’s edge. The host claimed plenty of parking, but all we spotted were cars lined up on one side, taking up valuable space for the two-way road.
Despite the moonlight, the dark night made it difficult to read the street names that were posted on the sides of the buildings. Irene deftly parallel parked in a tight squeeze of a space, and we continued on foot, looking for the apartment. Motor bikes and scooters and small motorcycles lined the streets. Finally locating the right door and retrieving the key from the lockbox, we retraced our route, retrieved luggage, then walked up two extra long flights of marble stairs. We stayed in for the night.
The next day, we set our sights on the Pietro Griffo Archaeological Museum, the Necropolis Park, and the Turkish Steps. We had to drive down the mountain. Google Maps had us continue deeper into the mountainside neighborhood. The streets seemed narrower. Google’s little blue arrow had us drive down, then up, and then somehow we missed a street. Luckily, we were close to a convent with a small parking lot. We turned around, adjusted our direction, and followed the blue arrow.
The street we needed pitched so steep it looked like we were driving off a cliff. An electric bike rider rode past us in the opposite direction. Granted,the ancient city planners designed and built this city before the dawn of cars, but even a donkey-pulled cart might have scraped the sides. Slowly, Irene crept the car, squeezing past stone walls and heavy wooden doorways. The car’s crash sensors beeped incessantly.
Made it!
At the bottom, we had to make a six-point hair-pin turn and head straight down a narrower and steeper street. Louise got out of the car to direct. I stuck my phone out of the window to video. Irene nodded that she was ready when a pedestrian squeezed by and knocked on the window.
“Don’t go this way,” he advised in Italian, but he had no advice on backing up. Louise waved a small Fiat through. The driver opened her window and shouted that our car would not fit. Her little car bore a variety of scrapes and dent wounds.
Going backward seemed more impossible than forward. Irene eased off the brake. Down we went—slowly, without a scratch! Louise got in the car once the road widened a bit.
There were a few more of those hair-raising anxiety turns and squeeze throughs. Either they were not as tight as the first one, or Irene found her rhythm.
After Agrigento, we spent two nights in Ragusa, where the B&B featured a garage. Louise managed traffic control as I guided Irene to back in, leaving enough room for the driver-side door and trunk to open. We required experienced parking directions from a resident at the Siracusa apartment we were staying in and did not move the car until we left for Catania.
We returned the car to the Catania airport. There was no need for a car in this busy walkable city, and the tour to the Etna volcano included transportation. Our taxi and transport rides sped through streets lined with outside markets, restaurant seating, people walking in the roads, and dodging motorbikes and scooters. Stop signs, crosswalks, and limit road dividers rules seemed optional. Chatty drivers deftly turned their visual attention to us passengers in the back seat. We never witnessed or experienced an accident or fender bender. By this time, the intense driving culture felt normal, and I was no longer afraid to look out the window.
I am writing a magical realism series. The Eyes of the Strega, is inspired by Sicily’s rich history and my mysterious ancestor, Margherita, whose story has been passed down through generations.
