Posted 20 September 2008 by Carol King

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September 15th is officially the end of the summer: people are back at work and kids back at school. With temperatures reaching 47C as D-day approached, it didn’t feel like the end of the summer, but rather its peak. Come the 14th the weather acquiesced: rain, the first in three months. Maybe there was something to D-Day after all?

The following week temperatures skittered around 28C to 35C, evenings were cooler and summer gear had changed. By night a light jacket and by day jeans and short-sleeved attire. A visit to the beach saw me among a dozen people at most, evidently from northern Europe judging by their pale skins. The beach huts were closed, bulldozers picked up wooden pallets to be stored until next year, and the remaining sun beds were bereft of parasols but at least free.

The week before it had been packed with scantily clad locals in designer beachwear from thongs for the women to speedos for the men: and they have the bodies to wear little too. It seems unlikely they all work out so it must be down to that diet of ice cream, pizza, and miniscule shots of dark coffee. Then just a stroll from a sunbed to the bath-warm waters of the Med seemed an effort. Happy memories.

But that is that for another year….

Posted 12 July 2008 by Carol King

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Spent last night at a bar called Blu, a Tunisian friend playing the bongos and singing. It was jam session with an international cast as he was accompanied by an American and some Sicilians on guitars and maraccas. But he sings like Youssou N’Dour and it was a laidback night punctuated by another friend belly dancing, all I can say is Tunisian woman know how to move their hips.

Chatted to some Americans who live here part of the year. As a Brit I’m lucky that I don’t need a visa to be here, spending hours in queues at the local questura in 40C is no joy. But the main topic of conversation (other than which local bar does the best mojito) was housing. Dealing with builders in the UK can be stressful, multiply that several times over and you may understand what a foreigner has to face here. There is the lingo for a start, as they don’t teach that kind of technical vocab on an Italian course. But then the builders are more likely to speak Sicilian anyway… so that’s another language to learn. Plus getting building permission to do anything may take a couple of years and knowing the right people. So houses, flats, renovations and adding something like a roof terrace tend to just happen, often with strange, rickety consequences. And then there’s the being ripped off: a word of advice, don’t but a house just after you’ve landed at the airport. Rent, get to know the locals and wait. If you become accepted in the community then most people will bend over backwards to help you, they will have a cousin, an uncle, or a friend who is more likely to be reliable. Don’t be Johnny Foreigner with a wad of money in your pocket who is open to getting ripped off.

Today was a jaunt to the beach at Plemmirio. This is a marine reserve with wonderful turquoise waters, although the coast is rocky, not sandy as is my preference. But it was great, and necessary, to cool down, and fun to watch the local ragazzi taunting each other to do increasingly dangerous dives off a small cliff. Maybe a tad risky, but people tend to live on the wild side here. The Sicilians are an anarchic lot, especially when it comes to driving: red lights are there to tell drivers to put their foot down, roundabouts are meant to be driven over, and warnings about blind bends… well, as a passenger you just want to close your eyes, cross yourself and hope you don’t end up the subject of a roadside shrine don’t you? Yet somehow it jogs along, one learns to relax, if not then it’s best to go home as otherwise you’ll end up with stress levels through the roof and a heart attack ever closer. So it’s best to learn to meditate, count to 10 or better 50, and well, just chill. Here I soon realised that there are things to worry about in life but there are also less things to fret about than I thought.

For example… If there’s a power cut, as often happens in the summer when air conditioners are being used to the max, wait. The electricity will start again. During the day head for a bar and have a granita. Work can generally wait unless you’re a surgeon. At night pop in on some neighbours and have a chat by candlelight. That TV show, well get it out on DVD. The book you were reading you can finish tomorrow. Dinner, try some salad instead. They say Italians are furbi, meaning cunning, crafty, sly, smart, street smart, clever… it has a range of meanings with good and bad connotations depending on the context. Berlusconi is the height of furbo, which speaks volumes. I’ve realised that it also means resourceful, so one can survive a power cut.

It’s also why despite an ailing economy — and there are huge problems here with corruption and bad administration, la dolce vita still exists. People look good on a shoestring; they eat well because they know how to make a meal from cheap and basic ingredients; and most of all, they know how to enjoy the day. If the sun shines, they’re happy and head for the beach. They can talk for hours about how good the tomatoes in a salad tasted. They have a coffee and eagerly pass the time of day with whoever is nearby in a way that creates a sense of community and belonging. And they joke about themselves and their political system, and prefer to look after their family first and foremost and get huge pleasure from that. It’s a different view of the world, and one I’ve learnt a lot from, and am still learning.