Sicily

Quality is a word that keeps coming to mind here in Sicily. It is as if the best characteristics of the French and the best characteristics of the Germans blended together and became Italy. You have the passion, romance, and moment-to-moment enjoyment of life blended with perfectionism, intelligence, and pursuit of the best in every arena. Everything is done well. Be it a pastry, playing World Cup football (soccer), or a pair sunglasses, the goal will be pursued till it reaches it’s best possible state.

Now I will be the first to admit that I’m biased here. This is my inaugural journey to the motherland – Sicily. In 1918 my great-grandfather arrived in the United States via a boat. Like thousands of other immigrants, he came with little to no money armed only with his trade. Baton Rouge, Louisiana, was his choice location to settle and open his tailoring business. I knew him in his later years. Spending time in my great-grandfather's tailor shop were precious moments to me. I never knew what to expect, but always looked forward to time with my Italian Paw-Paw. There was a deep sense of pride in every suit he made and hem he stitched. As I would stand on the wooden box in front of the mirror in his shop he would move around me with his measuring tape chatting in Italian and making me a beautiful imaginary dress.

Paw-Paw refused to retire. He would have died with needle and thread in hand at his shop if we had let him. Against his will at the age of 94 the family ‘took away’ his drivers license. That was no happy day for him. Soon after the doors of his tailor shop were closed and he begrudgingly spent his days at home. At the age of 97 he passed away and with him went the old world trade of tailoring.

As I travel Sicilia, meet the people, eat the food – I am gaining much insight into my great-grandfather and my Italian heritage. The passion for the best things in life ran true through his veins. Being here is also helping me make sense of my strange affection for olive oil, garlic, and every other Mediterranean food. I would like to blame my Sicilian roots for my endless search for outstanding food.

Despite the language barrier, I’ve never felt so at home in another country. The way of life here makes sense to me. The people, the places, and the pace of life are strangely familiar. Little things like the abundance of Vespas, or coffee made rich and strong sets me to giggling to myself. It’s like all of my favorite things in life are actually part of a functioning society wherein these people all appreciate the same things! (Granted this is from a completely humanistic point of view…)

I can’t help but sit back and savor the perfection of the cannoli, the breeze of the sea, or the style of the Italians passing by.

In the midst of this, I am faced with my own American identity. The flipping of my flops is the first giveaway. Even my posture is a bit different. Have you ever noticed that? Americans have a certain way of walking and simply standing. Now this might be my imagination, but it seems to me that in the States we are not as concerned with the perfection of your handbag or desire for more fine jewelry.