I was expecting an easy and relaxing Mediterranean summer. The plan was to spend a few months au pairing somewhere that matched my criteria: sunny, relaxing, by the beach with great food, and the potential to learn a new language. Italy seemed like the perfect place. I managed to connect with a family in Catania, and was ready to trade in a muggy and bustling Washington DC summer for a sweet and calm reprieve on a Mediterranean island.
A summer in Italy–in alluring Sicily no less–sounded dreamy and romantic and straightforward. It was just what I wanted. Soon after arriving, however, I realized Catania, and Sicily in general, for better or for worse, are not those things.
The idea I had of Catania was quickly replaced with the reality of Catania. Catania is not dreamy; it is bold. Catania is not romantic; it is raw and edgy, Catania is not straightforward; it is complicated. It is chaotic and loud and gritty. It is confusing and hard–particularly for a 25-year-old American girl on her own. But Catania is robust. It is resilient and layered and charming in ways that are typically not charming. It is authentic and rich with life, culture, and with what I would passionately argue is the best food in the world.
Each day, I walked 45 minutes in the shadow of Mount Etna to reach Catania’s center. The journey included: hurrying over a half-sidewalk under a bridge where the cars zoomed by too quickly, remembering which side streets to turn down and which ones not to, and, despite any confusion or doubts that would inevitably arise, attempting to maintain with each stride the illusion that I knew what I was doing.
I had certain check points I’d set for myself along the way. I’d take a breath when I’d see the small, dimly lit panetteria where I’d sometimes buy a crunchy pizza secca for the road. I’d take another when I’d see the old men playing chess across from Piazza Cavour, and know I was close. And I’d take one more when I reached Jardin Bellini and wondered how early is too early for an arancino. Depending on the answer, I’d continue on until I wound up at la pescheria, the fish market, where I spent most mornings spectating.
I listened, trying to translate in my head as vendors yelled to each other while gutting their morning catch. It became almost routine that, afterwards, I’d sit down with a fresh spremuta and a cornetto at a cafe that shared my last name. I’d spend the following few hours shaking hands with Catania. Wandering her lava stone streets, eating food I still have dreams about, and observing the passersby that I would often and lovingly re-name after my relatives that they resembled. A lot of things confused me: bus schedules, why people were always shouting while smiling, the social acceptance of eating ice cream for breakfast (and with bread, at that), the over abundance of makeshift parking spots, and how I could have possibly been underestimating eggplant for my entire life. Eventually, and as long as Etna was quiet and the sky didn’t glisten with ash, I would follow her peak back to my host family’s house.
Just to be there is exciting, like an immersion of all of the senses, all of the time. Just to be in Catania is to hear it, to smell it, to taste it, to feel it. The bellows of the fishmongers; the tangy taste of caponata; the baroque- and ash- stained architecture casted over Etna’s veins; the air that consists of the perfect blend of tobacco, tomato sauce, and brine; the cool of the 10 AM granita; the couple that appears to be arguing, but is not; the stacks of artichokes and melanzane; the accordionist weaving through the streets playing “Parla Piu Piano” on repeat; the suggestion of the street lights; and the city’s ever-present, ever-incessant strength, remembrance, and persistence.
To know Catania is not necessarily to love her. But I love her, and I do not say these words lightly. One cannot love Catania without loving her purely, without understanding what it is to love someone–not in spite of their flaws, but because of them. I wonder, though it’s futile, if Catania loves me back. I would argue that she does: I feel it when I’m serenaded by the man in Piazza del Duomo. I feel it when she feeds me, not only (though especially) with her food, but also with her intensity and warm-like-summer energy. I feel it in the way she quiets down at night–not completely, but enough to let me rest. I feel it in her sea air, in her intersection of culture, in her noisy sidewalks. In her relentless grip on my awareness that makes it impossible to be anywhere but the present. In her authoritative nature, setting boundaries and limits with an understanding that to love someone means letting them learn to be okay with a bit of discomfort.
When I went to Catania for the first time, I quickly realized the city was not what I wanted it to be: it was arguably better. With each visit since then, I’ve rapidly received her gruffness and splendidness simultaneously. If I am lucky, life will lead me back to Catania again and again, and I will brace myself every time.
