Back in our part of town, the Albergheria quarter, we aimed ourselves toward the Mercato Ballaro’ (Ballaro Market), a few convoluted blocks from Giorgio’s B&B. Squeezed amidst a warren of narrow streets, this purportedly 1,000 year old market has a definite North African feel, reminiscent of an Arabic souq. Colorful awnings supported by poles protected equally colorful produce, fish, clothing, and bric-a-brac. Not high on the tourist agenda, the market was mostly filled with locals. Although we did feel conspicuous as obvious outsiders, we never felt threatened. Still, I did not pull out my camera to further confirm our tourist status. We simply strolled and observed, stopping once to buy a large bottle of water (which turned out to be sweetened — it tasted horrible and we left it in Giorgio’s fridge for someone else to hopefully enjoy). Our trusty city map pointed the short way back to Giorgio’s via a maze of tiny streets, however none of these little alleys were signposted and we quickly became lost. Regretfully, we abandoned the short cut to return to the wide, but familiar avenue to pick our way back home.
The Albergheria quarter is the most run down of the city. Reminders of its former Arab rule, street signs still bear names written in both English and Arabic. While the main streets of the city center are immaculate, the avenues and ways of this neighborhood are often lined with garbage. Here and there, refuse from the sprawling flea market teetered in putrefying piles, sometimes so disgusting we had to avert our eyes. At times during our walks the odor of unnamed decay so strongly permeated the air that we had to hold our breath as we passed.
One morning, peering out our window, we watched garbage collectors pick their way through the area, jumping off trucks and emptying large garbage bins, collecting piles only if they were heaped right next to the bins. If a pile of waste was several feet away, it was left. Wads of paper littered the streets and directly in front our our B&B, a long fallen pole had obviously lain there a very long time.
Not all of the streets were so malodorous, but clearly it was not one of the better-maintained areas. A couple of blocks from our B&B sat two large crumbling buildings bombed during the war. To this day, they remain empty and destroyed, young boys playing lively games of soccer around their abandoned walls.
I asked Giorgio about a very unusual-looking structure nearby which had intrigued me since first spotting it. This very thin, scarred tower poked upwards about two stories high and was topped with what looked like a stone shed. Giorgio explained it had been a water tower during WWI.
After our full day of exploration, we retired to our room, but soon it was time to join Giorgio and the other guests for our planned evening tour of Palermo. Cramming six of us into Giorgio’s tiny car (meant for a very tight five) we took off. In front was Lief from Holland. The back seat held Natasha (Lief’s girlfriend), Elizabeth (a student from southern California), and Gino and me. I, being the smallest, was perched on Gino’s lap. Giorgio made sure I knew to duck if we saw a police car. Of course!
We headed for the city center and parked in an alley. Giorgio led us, like obedient puppies, to an obscure upstairs trattoria. Most of us ordered pizza, but Giorgio ordered grilled “calamaro,” which is the whole of what is usually cut into pieces of calamari. Being a calamari fan, I took mental note be sure to order that at some point before we left Sicily.
Then began our walking tour. The Kalsa district, where we had explored by ourselves earlier that afternoon, was our first destination. Contrasting with the deserted alleys we had encountered during the day, this neighborhood possessed a very different feel in the evening hours. Families were out to enjoy the night and the atmosphere was lively and festive.
In his inimitable and humorous style, Giorgio explained the sights as we walked and then, working his influence or sorcery, we floated like ghosts past the museum sentries and into Chiesa della Santa Maria dello Spasimo.
This church was never completed and remains roofless. Despite this unique feature, it is a popular venue for concerts with performances regularly held there. Built in 1506 by monks, it has through the years been used as a theater, a barracks, and a plague hospital. Over the years, it fell into disrepair until the city finally reclaimed it and spruced it up for its present use.
Having the church to ourselves in the quiet night, we all sensed the aura of magic pervading the dark. Old pieces of columns and stone leaned against the insides of the church creating an informal archaeological display. As we took a group picture (unfortunately, not with my camera) in the center of the space, the flash illuminated drifting dust motes. Youthful, but equally mesmerized Elizabeth announced “I am so going to throw a party here!”
Leaving the church behind, we followed Giorgio to Piazza Marina, passing Palazzo Mirto along the way. This palazzo belonged to a Sicilian noble family and still contains the original furnishings as they were. Since it was after hours, we could not go in, Giorgio’s magic notwithstanding. (Gino and I made a point to visit it on our last day in Sicily when we returned to Palermo to catch a plane to Athens.)
Our little band of merry tourists paused in front of 14th century Palazzo Chiaramonte (aka Palazzo Steri), adjacent to Piazza Marina. Built in 1307 by one of Sicily’s most powerful families of the Middle Ages (Chiaramonte), Giorgio explained that it had been a court of the Inquisition in the late 1600’s. Suspects were interrogated and sometimes tortured in the basement of this palazzo. It eventually became a court of law, but now happily hosts exhibitions and also functions as administrative center for the university, despite its dubious past.
Across the street from all this past horror was the Piazza Marina, which, according to Giorgio, was the sight of more recent horror. Now filled with wandering pathways and plants and a few busts of important people of the past, the jaw-dropping sight of this park is its surreal trees. Peering through the iron fence protecting the park at night, we stared at the unbelievably huge trunks, branches dripping with thick and stringy tree “hair” resembling rope — tree dreads. Giorgio called the trees magnolias, while others state they are ficus, or banyon, or a type of fig. I read they are officially “ficus magnoliodes.” Whatever they are, they are gigantic and weird — something you’d find in a Harry Potter or Star Wars forest.
But the trees, strange as they are, hold an even more interesting story. In 1909, a New York police lieutenant name Joe Petrosino (himself an italian immigrant who left Italy for America in 1873) travelled to Palermo to meet with the head of the Sicilian mafia. He was in search of information about various members of the Italo-American mafia who, after causing havoc in New York, fled back to Sicily to evade American justice.
The story Giorgio related to us, as we stood a few feet from the tree, was that Petrosino had made arrangements to meet Don Vito Cascio-Ferro right here at Piazza Marina late one night to obtain information. Petrosino was later found at this very site, shot dead. Don Vito Cascio-Ferro was suspected of the deed, but he had an iron-clad alibi that held fast. I found it interesting that none of the guidebooks mentioned this infamous occurence in their descriptions of this lovely garden, but I confirmed the story through other sources after I returned home.
Piling once again into Giorgio’s little car, he piloted us through the crazy Palermo traffic back “home” – it had been a long, but very fulfilling day.
A word about Palermo traffic, and Italian traffic in general: It is very much like wading through rough waters. You, the pedestrian tourist, pause tentatively on the sidewalk, as if poised on the edge of the shore, waiting as one wave crashes after another. Finally there is a little break, miniscule, but enough to offer a minute of courage as you to dive into the sea of vehicles, moving steadily as the swirls of cars eddy around your feet. You bravely keep going, avoiding the metallic hulks of trucks careening around the corner, escaping the whirlpools of vespas swarming past in a buzzing cloud. Finally you arrive at safe harbor on the other side of the sea…until you need to cross the street again.
On our very first trip to Italy (in Firenze, to be exact), we were very unsure how to navigate these dizzying streets, so we devised a method we dubbed “Latch.” This entails waiting for a native to come by, also wanting to cross the street at the same spot. Then, as the local stepped out into the sea of traffic, we shadowed them as closely as was socially acceptable. We simply latched onto their steps, albeit surreptitiously, until we arrived at the other side. After seven trips to Italy, we have become quite comfortable and adept at crossing busy streets on our own, but Palermo is one city where we dragged out this old method. We would just look at each other, say “Latch,” and…latch. It’s like a kid crossing the street with his parents, but without the hand-holding.
Parking too, appears to be an adventure in Palermo. Vehicles of all kinds are parked every which way: forward, backward, sideways, cockeyed, double-parked in the street, or lined up like sardines along the sidewalk, forcing pedestrians out into the harrowing street. Coming from a town where the police will ticket you for parking (even only for a few minutes) facing the wrong direction even on a quiet residential street, we were eternally entertained by these parking indiscretions.
