As I wandered through the streets of Carini, Sicily, I tried to take in every detail:
The whimpering stray dog that followed us into the castle on the hill.
The curious children on the street repeatedly asking us, “Who are you? Who are you?” despite our attempts to ignore them.
The intimidating men who loitered in the town square with scowling faces.
The detailed, ornate frescoes adorning the ceiling of the Duomo di Carini.
The beads hanging in front of the door of the quiet pasticceria, where we picked up some biscotti for the walk home, because why not?
The compact cars, zooming down streets at full speed, narrowly missing pedestrians. Yet, nobody—neither the pedestrians nor the drivers—flinched; everyone knew their place in this mad dance.
The scent of fresh bread appearing from nowhere, wafting into your nose as if to say, “You’re welcome.”
The small flags hanging on wires above the street, which, if I understood my uncle correctly, indicated that it was recently someone’s birthday.
The crumbling, eroded steps that marked the older parts of town.
The dozens of Manninos resting in the above-ground mausoleums of the cemetery, which was surrounded by a peaceful reprieve of absolute silence.
The many hand gestures—swipes made under the chin, hands clasped as if in desperate prayer—amplifying the exasperation of every conversation.
And finally, la bella vista—the towering, monstrous mountains that encircled the hazy azure sea, framed by sunlight piercing through puffy white clouds.
It’s hard to imagine that this is the setting in which my father spent his childhood. I have heard stories in the past, but now I have a clear picture of this small coastal town perched in northern Sicily.
What were once fragmented ideas have now crystallized into a precious, yet imperfect jewel. And for that, I am deeply grateful.
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As I wandered through the streets of Carini, Sicily, I tried to take in every detail:
The whimpering stray dog that followed us into the castle on the hill.
The curious children on the street repeatedly asking us, “Who are you? Who are you?” despite our attempts to ignore them.
The intimidating men who loitered in the town square with scowling faces.
The detailed, ornate frescoes adorning the ceiling of the Duomo di Carini.
The beads hanging in front of the door of the quiet pasticceria, where we picked up some biscotti for the walk home, because why not?
The compact cars, zooming down streets at full speed, narrowly missing pedestrians. Yet, nobody—neither the pedestrians nor the drivers—flinched; everyone knew their place in this mad dance.
The scent of fresh bread appearing from nowhere, wafting into your nose as if to say, “You’re welcome.”
The small flags hanging on wires above the street, which, if I understood my uncle correctly, indicated that it was recently someone’s birthday.
The crumbling, eroded steps that marked the older parts of town.
The dozens of Manninos resting in the above-ground mausoleums of the cemetery, which was surrounded by a peaceful reprieve of absolute silence.
The many hand gestures—swipes made under the chin, hands clasped as if in desperate prayer—amplifying the exasperation of every conversation.
And finally, la bella vista—the towering, monstrous mountains that encircled the hazy azure sea, framed by sunlight piercing through puffy white clouds.
It’s hard to imagine that this is the setting in which my father spent his childhood. I have heard stories in the past, but now I have a clear picture of this small coastal town perched in northern Sicily.
What were once fragmented ideas have now crystallized into a precious, yet imperfect jewel. And for that, I am deeply grateful.
