Don Olaf
Sicily. Land of the cannolo and the Speedo.
Beating old fears
It seems that England can't cope without the Olaf Meister around. I leave, and Tony Blair retires.
They miss me, since the Spice Girls probably re-formed to fill that gap left by me. And now that there are no more kick-ass black belts like me in town, terrorists are striking again.
It took me two days to get used to be alone, in my old room, and work in remote with my colleagues. And just when I was getting comfortable, I was out again.
You may remember Jumba (his real name is much longer, Gianbattista, but since he's a short guy I've always called Jumba, or J) from my 2005 report of the massive Milton Keynes Green Day concert. He's got the kind of face that is difficult to forget.
Why you may not know is that he came back again in London. And again. And again. Alone, with different girls, or just to see me and exploit my free accommodation to enjoy the city.
Few months ago, knowing that I would come back to Italy for a while, I decided it was payback time, so I forced him to invite me to his empty parents' house somewhere down in the South.
You probably know Sicily for its reputation of an island controlled by the mafia. All those American films, all those stereotypes, well, they all come from here.
I'm personally much more familiar with the North of Italy and the rest of Europe (and some parts of the world) than with the South. For some reason I've never gone there, even for a short weekend, proud of my northern origin. I remember swearing many years ago that I'd rather explore the Southern Hemisphere than Sicily. Funny thing, I'm moving in South Africa. Oh well.
You probably know Sicily for its reputation of an island controlled by the mafiaOn the map, Sicily is that triangle close to the tip of my boot-shaped peninsula. If only we could move it, I'm sure we could use Sicily as a football and score to Gheddafi a great goal.
For years I've avoided it. But, since I've been on a roll since I moved in 2007 and reached my 30th birthday, I decided that it was a great chance to visit the old boogey place.
I met Gianba at the airport, and checked in for the 2 hours flight to Catania. Our final destination was Scoglitti, the place where Gianba's parents met and lived many years ago. On the map, Scoglitti in on the longest side of the island, facing North Africa. As soon as we landed, the heat hit me just like it did back in 2005, when I stepped for the first time in South Africa. It was hot, and I wasn't ready.
We quickly got our car (with air conditioning) from the car rental and we left the Etna, one of the few active volcanoes in Italy, behind us, driving towards the Deep South.
The travel reminded me of my Los Angeles to Las Vegas crazy trip. There is only one way to get to Vittoria and then Scoglitti, and for 150km we drove in the middle of nowhere, far from the sea and from any big city.
Unfortunately, unlike America, the roads were quite wild, and with only 2 lanes. This never stopped the true Sicilians to pass us in any occasion, in every dangerous corner, in every direction. Gianba explained me that they simply don't care about the rules. After all, if the Italian Government doesn't really care about them, why should they? This is the explanation anyway. In a country controlled by the mafia (in a low key way from the old ways), there is no place for other forms of government.
The land around us was brown, and dry. In Sicily there are many towns without water, and people need to drive to the closes public fountain to get something to drink or use to cook. I could see alternative form of energy getting used (mostly wind turbines and solar panels) but it seems that the island need more, much more.
We reached Scoglitti and Gianba's empty house 3 hours later. Luckily his parents installed a water tank underneath the property, big enough to provide fresh water to the house for their summer holidays. So, after a quick setup, it was time to go down town and finally experience the Sicilian way.
Sicilazyians
After three days spent in Scoglitti, I soon realized one thing: they do fuck all the whole day. Nothing. Zero.
The daily routine goes this way, with small differences if you're 15 or 65:
- wake up once the sun is up and sleeping in the bed is too uncomfortable, just in time to enjoy a breakfast with brioche and granita, reading the local newspaper
- back home or a stroll on the beach for a quick tanning / swimming session
- Lunch, that has to last at least 2 hours.
- Siesta. Until 7pm, when they wake up for dinner or they talk with the neighbors about the latest gossips.
- Dinner and out in the only piazza where everyone goes, with kids, until 1-2 am
- back home, some sleep and start again.
Do they work? Not many of them. Talking or listening to locals they just get the benefits as unemployed and then keep a shop open maybe 2-3 hours a day just to have enough to survive.
Sure, they know how to enjoy life. Shame they're doing it with dodgy money.
Ok, this was my northern racist rant. But I have to be honest. The town was beautiful, straight from a postcard. The food? Absolutely amazing, even if after 6 years of London probably the simplest home made food would taste like ambrosia.
We experienced everything that we could in our short stay. The brioche and granita (such a great combination!) is a must in the morning , just like the arancine or the sweets (the real cannolo siciliano with sweet ricotta is something outstanding).
We tried the local pizza (with fried aubergines and ricotta cheese, way too heavy - as Gianba, who spent the night in the toilet - realized soon after).
We even tried the local fish restaurant and it was a strange experience. The place is called the Sakalleo, from the name of the fishermen's boat that every day sails and comes back with fresh fishes for the restaurant. Even with their central location (in the piazza) they are hidden, and you need to go upstairs before realizing you're inside a restaurant. I met many gourmet-tourists, people who travel to enjoy the food, and some locals. There is no menu, just whatever the fishermen delivered in the morning gets prepared and served to the table, continuously.
I never tasted such fresh fish, with just little condiment (oil, some chili, some lemon). In only three days I put maybe 5 kilos. I had ice cream at least 4 times a day. And I forced Gianba to buy some too.
And what about the beaches? Damn fantastic. They were free, the Mediterranean Sea was warm and, as long as you could find a way to entertain yourself, well worth for a 6 hours session of doing nothing in the sand.
Gianba and I played some stupid games with a football for hours. I won every single time, but he's such a good loser.
The first day we looked around and we got surprised with the amount of beach bodies around us.
The girls, in very (very) small bikinis, perfectly toned and tanned, and the guys, every single one of them with Speedos (usually white, you could see the religion, not many Jews down there).
Then, not far from the youth, you could see people over 30s, well overweight and happy with their belly.
I asked Gianba about it, and we both agreed that once the Sicilians get settled, their life changes dramatically. They need to get fat to show their parents and friends that they are doing very well, just like some tribes in Africa. Girls get knocked up as soon as possible and, well, they literally explode.
I pretended for most of the time to be some English tourist, and we quickly became the attraction of the beach.
Did we see anything else? Nope.
For three days our routine was similar to the true Sicilian's. Enjoy life, don't work, swim and eat. Such a great life style.
On Monday, our holiday was over. We traveled back to Catania to catch the flight to Milan and said goodbye to Sicily, land of the cannolo in the Speedos.
And, for once, I had to admit that for so many years I was so wrong.
Posted by Olaf Olgiati the 11 July 2007
You may remember Jumba (his real name is much longer, Gianbattista, but since he's a short guy I've always called Jumba, or J) from my 2005 report of the massive Milton Keynes Green Day concert. He's got the kind of face that is difficult to forget.
Why you may not know is that he came back again in London. And again. And again. Alone, with different girls, or just to see me and exploit my free accommodation to enjoy the city. 
You probably know Sicily for its reputation of an island controlled by the mafia. All those American films, all those stereotypes, well, they all come from here. 
You probably know Sicily for its reputation of an island controlled by the mafiaOn the map, Sicily is that triangle close to the tip of my boot-shaped peninsula. If only we could move it, I'm sure we could use Sicily as a football and score to Gheddafi a great goal.
I met Gianba at the airport, and checked in for the 2 hours flight to Catania. Our final destination was Scoglitti, the place where Gianba's parents met and lived many years ago. On the map, Scoglitti in on the longest side of the island, facing North Africa. As soon as we landed, the heat hit me just like it did back in 2005, when I stepped for the first time in South Africa. It was hot, and I wasn't ready.
The travel reminded me of my Los Angeles to Las Vegas crazy trip. There is only one way to get to Vittoria and then Scoglitti, and for 150km we drove in the middle of nowhere, far from the sea and from any big city.
The land around us was brown, and dry. In Sicily there are many towns without water, and people need to drive to the closes public fountain to get something to drink or use to cook. I could see alternative form of energy getting used (mostly wind turbines and solar panels) but it seems that the island need more, much more.
After three days spent in Scoglitti, I soon realized one thing: they do fuck all the whole day. Nothing. Zero. 
Ok, this was my northern racist rant. But I have to be honest. The town was beautiful, straight from a postcard. The food? Absolutely amazing, even if after 6 years of London probably the simplest home made food would taste like ambrosia.
We even tried the local fish restaurant and it was a strange experience. The place is called the Sakalleo, from the name of the fishermen's boat that every day sails and comes back with fresh fishes for the restaurant. Even with their central location (in the piazza) they are hidden, and you need to go upstairs before realizing you're inside a restaurant. I met many gourmet-tourists, people who travel to enjoy the food, and some locals. There is no menu, just whatever the fishermen delivered in the morning gets prepared and served to the table, continuously. 
