It was raining when we left the Agriturismo and caught a train from the grim stazione of Gioia Torre. There were many hours of travel ahead of us and so our expectations for the day were low. We had a couple of hours to kill in the port of Villa San Giovanni on a grey Sunday and our first priority was to find a quiet-enough doorway to huddle in to talk to Gen (sis in law) and Jez (brother) whose beautiful twins Asha and Max had just arrived.
So many places were closed but we eventually stumbled into a cafe/bar crowded with china figurines and elaborate marzipan decorations. We were ushered in by Nonna, her thinning hair dyed ink black, then served by Giovanna who on detecting our English called out her brother. Sydneysider Nino was back to visit Mama and he was the jovial, hospitable, big-bellied Italian-Australian out of central casting. After we ordered our panino caprese ‘my sister, she makes the bread’ and a bergamot soda ‘made here, specialty of the region’ Nino kept bringing us tastes – of parmigiano ‘aged for 36 months’, then delicious stuffed eggplant ‘I try to make it like Mama does but..’
And he brought us stories too. One of which was elaborate praise of his fabulous new mobile phone deal because on his previous plan he went over his 700 mins of calls per month. It was easy to see how that might happen. We spent a fantastic 90 minutes in the cafe and had to work hard to extricate ourselves so that we didn’t miss our train. After Nino insisted on a photo with an Australian flag we left, waving Ciao Ciao to all three of them who went back to their lunch at the table behind the screen decorated with colourful fake flowers, in the flickering light of the blaring midday TV.
The day continued to exceed our expectations with a wacky train ferry combination and a conversation with a particularly lovely and interesting woman who was the tour guide for a group of English and Australians touring Italy by train. Bettina was Austrian living in Amsterdam, spoke at least five languages perfectly (can you hear my admiration?) and had decades of connection with Sicilia. We could have happily talked to her all day.
Then we arrived in Siracusa and the island of Ortigia and I was immediately and instantly besotted. It was a famous city of Ancient Greece, apparently rivaling Athens in importance and there are remains of temples to Apollo and Athena in between Baroque churches and crumbling palazzos and narrow medieval alleyways.
We stayed in a small hotel in a beautifully restored building that sits on top of some 15th century Jewish ritual baths discovered only twenty years ago. There are layers upon layers upon layers here, some from cultures and periods I’ve barely heard of before – Swabians anyone? That night when we walked into the white marble expanse of the Piazza del Duomo I had tears in my eyes from the beauty of it all.
From Siracusa to Noto to Ragusa the grandeur of Baroque architecture is totally on show in South East Sicilia. It is quickly drummed into the visitor that there was a massive earthquake in 1693 that levelled all of these towns and all were rebuilt in splendid Baroque opulence with seemingly every second building a church. Each had some architectural similarities but each town was so different.
We’d read that Noto was finest in afternoon light and the golden buildings did glow perfectly when the clouds parted as we watched from the bell tower of another beautiful Chiesa. And nearly leapt over the side in surprise when the bells started ringing.
Then Ragusa perched on top of hill with so many alleys and stairs and inadequate maps and lack of GPS coverage amongst the narrow streets. Tourists looked perpetually lost and when we set out late for dinner at night it felt like we were wandering in an Escher drawing. Going up some stairs to end up below where we thought we’d started.
