Cars,
bicycles, buses, and most numerous of all, mopeds, created this hazardous spaghetti alla traffico that, in no
uncertain terms, meant chancing a short venture across a road was a potentially
life threatening prospect. The ice-cream van I parked my derriere alongside was
occupied with varying and numerous consumers, as the proprietor passed over
serene amounts of granita; a traditional cold food, which can only be described
to the non-Sicilian pallets of this world as a mixture somewhere between
ice-cream and sorbet, which can be eaten or consumed as a liquid. Granita is
said to have originated back when the mountain people of Sicily had no other
means of attaining ice. They used the preservation of snow which had fallen in
winters, and stored it underground in especially built caves, which were used
as a storage unit to keep the snow through hotter months. The snow would then
form this slushy soft texture, today known as Granita, which is often sold and
consumed throughout the day, but quite often accompanied as part of a
traditional breakfast, along with an Arancini ball – another local delicacy. I had
eaten two of those this morning as I was welcomed to Sicily by my very
hospitable host, Nora. She had convinced me – as she plonked this Scotch Egg
resembling item onto the table in front of me, alongside the cocktail glass
filled with granita – that this would indeed be the finest local breakfast that
I would experience. Nora, I must confess, was found to be telling me a
delicious truth. The ball of Arancini was filled with a Ragu and rice blend
with cheese and spinach, melting into each other in a concoction of exploding
rich flavours. As I took my first sumptuous bite into this crispy bread crumbed
exterior, my mouth filled with a perfect, or so it seemed, percentage of each
item, and I was at once convinced this must be added to the breakfast menus in
the U.K. I was so enlightened by this new found tasting sensation, that as I
sat here on my wooden bench, I was tempted to buy another.
I
convinced myself this was a perfectly acceptable thing to do, on the principal
that they were very cheap, filling, and it was my only night in this vivid
city. In any case, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to get one back in Yorkshire.
The
problem with this was that the best local patisserie in town, Savia, was just sitting across the road
from me. This was a road that was congested yet, it was moving. Imagine the M25
at the end of a bank holiday. Still, the crossroads just up ahead was allowing
a sequence that passed vehicles to flow in a transition akin to a slow motion
freeze frame – alike VHS on slow fast-forward – which at any moment could burst full into life.
I
sat, observing, carefully waiting, and biding my time. I watched as local’s
manoeuvred their way across the four lane traffic – four lane traffic which I
might add, only had two lanes, one going in either direction. Cyclists never
dismounted, they just contorted into shapes weaving and upending themselves as
they mangled in-between two diagonally parked cars that protruded into the
road. Parallel parking takes on a whole new meaning in Sicily. Via Etnea, named
like every other street in Sicily for its direction of flow (in this case,
towards Mount Etna), was one of the busiest streets in town. To get to Savia in one piece would take more than
just careful consideration. I watched a local cross the road with success; a
woman walking at normal pace, through the mid-traffic flow. She disappeared
momentarily behind a bus, (or as I’d hoped, behind, at the time), until she
reappeared twenty yards down the street, her red dress seemingly sprouting from
the ground. I watched another successfully cross, then another. And then
another. All of them without fatality. What was I worrying about you might
think?
Italy has one of the highest road density traffic rates in Europe, along
with their characteristically impetuous nature to treat pedestrians like
bowling pins; I was feeling anxious at best. Earlier that day, I had almost
imprinted my face into the bonnet of a Fiat Panda. Luckily, the woman driving
didn’t see me, but instead changed route to avoid a head on collision with
another car, and diverted back to the correct
side of the road. It was then I figured crossing a road here takes a
certain level of skill, and driving here a certain level of madness.
Savia was
waiting. My Arancini was waiting. The dripping cheese and spinach filled ball
had me salivating at the prospect. I stood and made the short walk to the edge
of a shallow pedestrian walkway. Safety would be lost once I stepped off the
curb. I was walking. Before I knew what my legs were doing, I was walking,
straight out in front of a moving bus. My hands suddenly rose out to the side
of me, like they would stop a moving vehicle filled with thirty passengers who
at this point in proceedings were no doubt taking bets on just how many injuries I would sustain as a result. But it didn’t hit me. My legs kept moving. It occurred
to me, as I was half way across the road, as the bus chugged, passing behind
me, that so long as I kept moving, I was safe. So that is what I did. Two cars
left just enough space for me to divert in-between as they slowed to a pace a
snail would be elated with, the labyrinth of cyclists and mopeds were weaving
in and out of moving cars which were going sideways, diagonally, parking two
cars wide, and accelerating into oncoming traffic. I weaved, and bobbed until
the curb of the opposite side was in touching distance. My feet felt airless.
My body, I was delighted to note, was all intact.
I
had made it safely across the perilous via Etnea without incident. It was
another lesson learned, for sure. As I stood admiring my fully equipped body
and brushing myself down with a patter of pride, I reflected that Savia was waiting. My Arancini ball was
waiting. But still, behind me and all around me, Catania was in motion.
