Sicily — On The Sicilian Passeggiata
On Sunday evenings in Sicily’s capital, I join the rest of Palermo at the Four Corners where the city’s cardinal landmarks connect. Corso Vittorio Emanuele draws a line between the sea to my right and the cathedral to my left, while Via Maqueda binds the train station behind me with the theater toward which the masses now head.
Via Maqueda is filled with people. Some linger outside of restaurants holding glasses of wine while others share cannolis, alternating bites as they watch the flow of people move past them. Vendors have set up shop on either side of the street with spreads of goodies before them: artisanal earrings, wood carvings made on sight, an array of light-up toys - cheap thrills more than one child will convince their parents to purchase. My eyes bounce from sight to sight as I continue to walk toward Teatro Massimo.
The next day, I see my ceramics instructor, Alessandro.
“I saw you yesterday,” he says. “But you were in such a rush you didn’t see me.”
“You were running.” His friend and fellow ceramicist, Guido, chimes in. “We tried to call out to you. Where were you going?”
My face flushes as I turn back to the wheel. Something stops me from telling them I had no place to be.
The next Sunday, I challenge myself to stay behind the Sicilians in front of me so I do little more than move in place at increments slow enough to make any New Yorker impatient. I successfully complete the dare, but the walk feels excruciatingly slow. As soon as I return to the Four Corners, I hurry toward my apartment, Sicilian pace abandoned.
Over the next few weeks, I continue to challenge myself but no matter how often I remind myself to slow down, the pace feels unnatural. Why am I unable to embrace the spirit of the passeggiata? Is this the make-it-or-break it cultural experience that prevents me from truly becoming a part of this community?
At first, I think the problem is a product of Palermo’s culture. I am a 22 year old girl alone in a city engrained with catcalling and overly hospitable men. A man can’t follow me down the street if he can’t catch me; I can’t feel somebody’s eyes on my body if I move quick enough to become a blur.
But as I slowly teach myself how to walk, allotting my entire Sunday evening to a stroll that won’t result in a calorie deficit large enough to balance out a gelato stuffed brioche, I realize my discomfort is more a product of the American culture I know, the same culture that tells me to get from Point A to Point B as efficiently as possible.
In Sicily, the passeggiata is less a physical exercise than it is an exercise of socialization, unification, and community. Palermo saves walking for the end of the week when everyone comes together regardless of which religious service they attended that morning, what they ate for Sunday lunch, and what they will do a few hours from now when they disperse into offices, market stalls, or retail jobs. The Sicilian passeggiata requires exerting less energy but somehow elicits an even greater energy in the people who stop to chat, eat, or simply smile as they appreciate a street on which they wish to linger. The passeggiata is the equivalent of an espresso break or a bus that takes three hours to come. It encompasses that spirit of longevity and leisure and lack of plans; it stretches a moment for as long as it can possibly go, for as long as it takes to become something more than the moment itself.
I take one final passeggiata the Sunday before I leave Palermo. I feel as though I’ve finally tricked the Sicilians into thinking I belong here; my pace is in line with everyone else’s. But perhaps they don't care that I am an outsider. It does not matter whether I am American or even Sicilian, Greek or Spanish, Arab or Norman. All that matters is that I do not run.