Mafia with your ice cream break: the charm of Palermo

By Christoph Driessen Aug 9, 2011, 3:06 GMT

Palermo, Italy - Most private trips are comparable to an escape. Get away from the treadmill of the everyday routine, see something different, perhaps even lead a different life, become a different person. This was why I booked an extended-weekend visit to Palermo.

A stroll through the old city centre. Columns, palm trees, mopeds, ruins. The legendary decline of Palermo on view. Many old buildings are in a state of dereliction, and garbage is piling up on many street corners.

But talking to people, one gets the sense that this is the normal state of things, and they have never been different.

'Where does the uncleanliness of your city come from?' was a question asked by German classical writer Johan Wolfgang von Goethe in 1787. The answer he received applies equally today: 'That's just the way things are here.'

In the meantime one could get the impression that behind the scenes, things go very cleanly indeed. From the windows - as if on orders from the local tourism office - the laundry is hanging - shirts, dresses, skirts, pants, underwear. Everything is drying beneath the Italian sun and in full view of strangers.

Remarkable, that Palermo lies on the sea, yet one never gets a glimpse of the water. The city stands with its back to the sea. There is no seaside boulevard, no harbour promenade. Nor do any sea breezes brush the city.

If you look from the Via Roma - one of the city's major traffic arteries and the main shopping mile - down some of the side streets, then it can look as if there's a cruise ship berthed at the end of the street.

Everywhere, delicacies are on offer, including even on Sundays, when the markets and most shops are closed.

In the refrigerated glass showcases and other gastronomical shrines there are cakes, some of them in bright colours. The guests seem deep in thought as if in a trance they pick at their croissants and sweet bread-rolls.

The hot breath of the scirocco wind is heating up the city. All the window shutters are closed to try to keep the heat out. One's clothes are sticking to the skin.

From the searing heat of the square I flee into the cool darkness of the cathedral. Here, on Europe's southern edge, one's own religion taken out of the usual cultural backdrop seems exotic.

A man wearing a suit is kneeling, his hands folded in prayer, before an altar containing a statue of the blood-stained Christ. Female tourists, seeking to enter the house of worship in short skirts, are given white paper aprons to cover up their legs.

As if by automatic reflex, the hand of each local while entering the church reaches out to the holy water bowl. Up front the priest is chanting the rosary. The ritual has something evocative about it.

In a gelataria, or ice cream shop, a family is celebrating what looks to be a birthday, or possibly the First Communion, of their son. Everyone is dressed up in their Sunday best, and even grandma is wearing high-heel shoes.

'Should I tell you a secret?' a waiter says to me. 'These are the mafia. Everybody who comes here belongs to the mafia.'

I don't doubt for a second that he tells this to every tourist to see how they react. Then something else happens and I start to think otherwise. The boy's father, wearing black sunglasses, looking very macho, pulls out a black pistol. But then, when he hands it over to his son, it becomes clear that this pistol is just a toy.

It does have something to do with the setting, that one can think these things are possible which one would under normal circumstances rule out.

Palermo has a way of confusing one's senses. The shapes of things seem to flow together in the shimmering air. Then there's the heavy wine and the steady smell of rot in the air - all this is not conducive to clear thinking. Time to go back to my room for a siesta.

It's now 9 pm. First the tables outside the restaurants fill up. People only eat outside.

In Palermo you can witness the Italian hierarchy of waiters in its full glory. The head waiter writes down the order, tears the sheet from the notepad and hands it to his right. There, a younger waiter receives it and carries it to the kitchen. That is his only task.

The actual serving of the food is the task of two further waiters. The head waiter does not lift a finger in any of this. His job is to keep up the conversation.

When I pay up, I'm asking myself what percentage of the take is going to the mafia. About 80 per cent of all the restaurants and shops here pay a 'pizzo' or protection money, people say.

In the meantime, however, there are hundreds who are refusing to bow to the extortion and support the action called 'adiopizzo' - goodbye, protection money. A special city map shows you where they are. I decide to go to one the next day.

The last day brings rain, but no relief from the heat. Thin ribbons of clouds gather around the mountains, like the rings of Saturn, only that they look dark and threatening. I take a bus to the airport and my little getaway weekend is over.