After a rollercoaster Christmas and New Year back home (Northampton, UK, for anyone unsure), I fled to Sicily. My Stansted to Palermo flight was ludicrously cheap and Ryanair did a fine job getting me there in one piece. England was grey, unrelentingly damp and colder than a witch’s teat so I thought, ‘Flee to the Mediterranean, a stonesthrow, albeit with a prodigiously good arm, from North Africa, and see out the winter, cocktail in hand, on unspoilt beaches, enveloped in fresh sea air like a modern-day Hemingway.’ I’m a pretentious sod like that, at times.

Palermo greeted me with a tremendous thunderstorm and days of driving rain. And it was cold. So cold. Outside and in. Not metaphorically. Well, sort of metaphorically. That’s by the by. The apartment in which I was to spend two weeks, whilst no doubt ideal in midsummer, was more akin to a warehouse walk-in freezer in January. A shirt, two jumpers, a coat, a blanket around my shoulders and a blanket around my legs was the standard attire for almost every moment, waking or asleep. Breath billowing in silvery plumes, huddled around boiling pasta, there was a small fan heater, but it would trip the electrics if I used it simultaneously with any other electrical device and I was never going to give in and shell out for one of more dependable quality. What’s worse, I was taunted at all times by the air-con unit, out of service for the duration of my stay due to a leak in the roof directly above it.

Woe is me and all that. It was still bloody brilliant, but bloody cold to boot.

I was in Zisa, a district to the west of Palermo’s historic centre. It’s a poor area; apartments piled high, abandoned cars, all manner of debris lining the streets, and a spirited bunch of youths whose entertainments over the fortnight included trying to kick their way into an occupied building, riding motorised scooters without properly protective headgear or reflectives and, on the final night of my stay, constructing a road barricade out of pallets, discarded tyres and whatever they could steal from nearby building sites. It was a sight to behold, five, then six, then ten or more children, barricading the entrance to a one way street, a quite popular and necessary one way street judging by the traffic that wanted to use it, the youths shouting instructions, gesturing left and right and, after the initial buzz of playing ‘traffic cop’ had worn off, simply drop-kicking passing vehicles and throwing parts of the barricade at anything and every vehicle in sight. Several locals tried to reason with them, but to no avail. A clip round the ear would’ve sorted ’em right out. Perhaps.

Having been to Italy before, some aspects of the culture can be a little intimidating. Staff in shops, cafes and restaurants can seem standoffish, but at the same time they’re on minimum wage and you’re stood there, wasting their time, with your finger up your arse trying to work out why ‘calde’ means hot. Palermo is something of a trial by fire, especially in the off-season, when meandering backpacks are rare. In case you don’t follow to the end, or I don’t get round to finishing the arc for another year, I’ve been here five weeks now and I’m fully in the flow. I love Sicily.

However, Zisa was an experience, and not one I was especially ready for as a first delve into Sicilian life.

It was not without its charm, though. Every morning, these fellas would set up a vat over a gas burner, fill it with half a ton of potatoes, boil ’em up, take out most of the water, load the pot onto the back of the Ape (interesting bit history, the old three-wheeled vehicles – https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Piaggio_Ape), and drive them down the road to somewhere, or someone, in need of vast quantities of freshly boiled spuds. Not the most exciting bit of insight there, but it was nice to know that they’d be out there doing their daily routine each time I went for my 10am coffee break.

Palermo’s historic centre is gorgeous, full of the breathtaking architecture you’d expect from historic Italy, and many little hidden treasures you happen upon by chance. I happened upon this courtyard by chance, in a bid to escape a sudden downpour. By chance, this also happens to be the location of Laboratorio d’Arte Angela Tripi, a renowned and highly respected local sculptor of historic and Christian scenes (Angela Tripi – Palermo).

• A sculpture (right) outside a building (left).

• Teehee!

There are so many gorgeous hunk of rock around Palermo I shan’t try to document them all. You may contact me directly for a more thoroughly tedious slideshow. This is Porta Nuova though, and it’s the entrypoint, from where I was, to the historic centre and it’s an impressive portal into the meat of the city.

The Palatine Chapel (Cappella Palatina – Wikipedia) took my breath away. I’ve included a few photos and will go as far as to say its construction was influenced by a mixture of styles, Norman, Byzantine and Fatimid, and is a stunning example of the most beautiful elements of various cultures coming together. The whole city is full of this fusion of influences, such as pointed arches, intricate mosaic patterning and rounded domes.

See?

There’s the big man right there. And him as a wee man below. Whatever, look at how insanely beautiful the place is. Like the cover of a Batushka record.

• Saw this lil’ angel fella having a good ol’ boogie. Get in lad!

• A decorative arrangement of carcasses.

• The cherubim rock, too.

• I’ve seen several of these other-worldly beauties around, with a few more in Marsala. Absolutely stunning trees. I may not know arboriculture, but I know what I like.

• Love a big ol’ mural too.

So, here we are, it’s the end of the ‘Palermo’ chapter. Turns out I didn’t take many worthy photos, adjusting as I was to a sudden switch in scenery. Palermo took it out of me a bit and by the end I was almost ready to ditch Sicily altogether and move on. The ‘old me’ would’ve balked at this level of honesty in an open forum but, honestly, I was doing slightly less than brilliantly.

A visit to the Capuchin Catacombs (no photos out of respect for the dead, fill yer boots here -> Catacombe Frati Cappuccini – Il Sito Ufficiale) woke me up to the fragility of life and the fleeting time I have on this earth and a long and typically Sicilian train journey (read: getting off a train because it’s cancelled and waiting for another train, which may or may not be cancelled as well, left to stare at the cancelled train, sitting there, doing nothing, just being all ‘cancelled’) left me wondering as to why I’d chosen to spend any time at all on this odd little island.

Then I had two blissful weeks of self-care in Marsala and now all is well with the world again. Stay tuned for more.

Ciao ragazzi.

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