Under the Volcano

Miracles can happen in the shadow of Sicily’s Mt. Etna.

I am anticipating both despair and excitement as I arrive in Sicilyin the early morning, ready to explore the city of Catania.Catania, sitting at the foot of Mt. Etna, is one of those perfect Mediterranean destinations: small enough for a stress-free break yet with plenty to see and do. Here, you get local cuisine (those legendary Sicilian desserts), historic monuments, a sometimes-smoking volcano on one side and the seaon the other. All year round.

But when I arrive, it is raining and has been for days, the woman at the newspaper stand tells me. The rain has rendered the usually shiny city wall as bleak as the expressionsof the pescivendolo – fishmongers – at the pescheria (fish market) beside the cathedral. There are fewer fish to catch after rain, I hear.

I drag my luggage through Porta Uzeda, one of the city gates, to my hotel in the city center, just behind the fish market.

“Are you here for Sant’Agata?”asks the receptionist, catching me off guard.

“Err … should I be?”

Saintly Celebration

So here’s the story. Agatha, or Agata as the locals call her, was Catania’s hometown girl back in the third century AD. Born into a noble family, she dedicated herself to the Christian God, defying a Roman decree to embrace pagan idols.Her breasts were amputated as punishment.

She is now the patron saint of Catania and a number of cities in Italy, Spain, San Marino and Malta. She is also responsible for protecting wet nurses and martyrs and against anyEtna-ish eruptions. In short, her popularity lives on, and is celebrated with special festivals twice a year: August 17 and February 3–5.

“Just stay here, you’ll see why!” barks the barista at a cafe in Corso Sicilia, one of the town’s main streets. His enthusiasm is contagious. A steady flow of street vendorsis moving into the city center, and Sicilian lemons, caramelized apples and toys are on display everywhere.

I have barely had a chance to sip my coffee when a commotion outside sends me rushing into the street. Trumpets and drumbeats reign,the air is thick with incense. The traffic stops as acereopasses.

Atraditional Sicilian cereo is a wooden cart with colored palls supported by eight poles; it can be 3 meters tall and weigh about 900 kilograms. Laden with the city’s noble families’ flags, crystals, angels, statues of the Virgin Mary and various saints, the cereo is an ancient art crafted by devoted Catholicsin Catania that later spread throughout Europe. Eight burly ladscarry the cereo,each with a rag wrappedaround his foreheadto soak up the sweat.Apparently, thiscereo is just a preview of what is to come.

Street Party

The next day, firecrackers erupt at around 7 a.m., getting me quickly into a festive mood. I run into the street –after all,this is my first religious festival or what is left of an ancient tradition. Sicilians are proud of their identity. Palermo is the old Arab and Norman capital, Agrigento has the country’s largest Greek temple and Taormina its amphitheater. In particular, Catania loves to brag about its Baroque arts legacy trio: theEgyptian elephant obelisk, the Piazza dell’Elefante town square and the Amenano fountain, named for the river that flows beneath Catania’s cathedral. In the Piazza dell’Elefante, a giant elephant statue carrying an obelisk – U Liotru in the Sicilian dialect – has proudly stood for centuries. Arab cartographer Muhammad al-Idrisi documented it in the 12^th century and wrote that it was already placed within the city walls, although it was later moved by the town’s Benedictine monks.

Back in town, the feast continues. Families in their Sunday best have traveled from provincesas far as Agrigento some 170 kilometers away.People crowd the cafes along Corso Vittorio Emanuele, one of the main streets, and snack on arancini, Sicily’s all-time hunger crusher, consisting of fried or baked rice balls rolled in breadcrumbs, washed down with latte di mandorle (hazelnut milk). Then there is the real Sicilian breakfast:gelato wrapped in a soft brioche.

To celebrate Agatha, revelersadorn their white tunics with a rosette-shapedmedallion and strands of ropes around their necks. Each devotee carries a giant candle, to be offered at the cathedral altar.

Catania resembles a live circusmore by the minute. Traffic police appear nonchalant, tacitly acknowledging that much of their work has already been accomplished by illegal parking attendants. It could be said that when it comes to traffic Sicily remains “complicated”, its management handled by individuals rather than by authorities.

Deep burgundy drapes bearing the letter“A” (Agatha) fly out from the balconies of churches and shops. As the sun rises, larger cereoparade toward the city hall, dodgingthe masses of wares in the fish market.

Here, each cereo is rapturously cheered below the mayor’s balcony. Town dignitaries in crisp Armani suits and dresses sheepishly wave from on high, appearing reluctant to join the masses below. I follow the devotees, nowsnakingout along Via Etnea, Catania’s busiest street, stopping brieflyat the Church of St. Benedict and San Biagio. The latter has been cordoned off; only invitees may enter to join the Mass at midday, leaving disappointed revelers hoping for a last-minute sneak in.

Pride of Place

I admit that Catania is not Sicily’s most picturesque city, nor can it offer remnants of the island’s Arab past, but it does offeran earthy sense of belonging and pride.

After a filling lunch – seafood of course – I need an afternoon walk. Luckily, Catania satisfies my urge for ancient monuments. In the city south, Castello Ursino beckons me.The castle courtyard houses pieces of Roman columns and stuccos, while inside is a Modigliani painting exhibition. This moated edifice remains Catania’sbest preserved example of Norman architecture, undamaged by the frequent earthquakes and volcanic eruptions.

Most of Catania’s monuments are in the city center, easily reached on foot. The church of San Nicolò l’Arena in Piazza Dante boasts a Benedictine monastery featuringmarble cloisters, housing the university as well. San Biagio was erected over a half-unearthed Roman amphitheater, and makes quite a view for the uninitiated.

Sicily’s legacy as a Greek colony is evident in the Greek theater and odeon (smaller theater for music and dance performances) just off Via Greco, ironically sandwiched betweenmodern residential buildings.

I stroll along what is said to be Italy’s most Baroque avenue,Via Crociferi. Having been featured in various Italian movies, the street has acquired cult status, and with it an eerie feeling. It’s the only street in Catania without the usual piles of parked cars; rather, this narrow avenue packs a number of Baroque edifices into one tiny space. Beware of the Stendhal syndrome! It’s as if you were walking on a film set: for 500 meters or so, you are surrounded by 16^th century ash-azurish-colored churches, wooden doors and astonishing marbled facades in pure Baroque style.

All for Agatha

As the sun sets, Catanians are out and about en masse. No one is left out of this popular celebration. Sicilians and migrants hawk anything with a hint of value: rosaries, lucky charms, amulets, flowers (real and plastic),candles, prayer books, fruit (fresh and dried)gelato, granitas, nuts, candies and pirated CDs and DVDs, to name a few.

Feeling peckish, I turn to where kiosks offercrispelle and croccante. The real deal iscrispelle, which I had never tasted before.

“Can I have two pieces?” I ask thebespectacled ladworking the stall. He and his sister manage their wares; there is no cash register, just a deep-fryer and a sieve.

Crispelle turns out to be deep-fried ricotta and anchovies while croccante are caramelized almonds; I munch happily as I follow the crowd.

Up north, retirees throng around Villa Bellini, while university students hang out in the Piazza dell’Università and Via Alessi, dubbed the bar zone (Nievski, a historical pub cum trattoria, is the most popular). The real social hub is, of course, Piazza dell’Elefante. Unsurprisingly, at night it transforms into an open-air circus. You see Italians haggling with street vendors for a couple of pirated CDs, couples smooching under the city lights, Italian mamas shouting at the top of their lungs, “Federico, non correre!” Little Federico, of course,runs like there is no tomorrow.

Her name is on everyone’s lips:“Agata”. The wintry air is thick with incense. Priests meander,wildly splashing holy water over the smiling folds.Gigantic candles have been lit and cereo carts carried. Half of Sicily has gathered here, I am guessing.Such is the power of Saint Agatha.

Just after 8 p.m., a commotion starts to brew at the cathedral’s portal.The archbishop leads 20 burly men, whose robustness has earned them the honor of carrying the saint’s relics on a giant cart. Bring your blind faith: These relics cannot be seen or touched; they are contained in a silver casket, supposedly adorned with a crown donated by Richard the Lionheart.

Folks start their chant in Sicilian dialect, “AGATA! AGATA! Bedda matre santa!”– Agatha, our beautiful saint.The atmosphere is hypnotizing; I suspect a few revelers are already in a trance.I enjoy the experience despite my own skepticism. Via Etnea turns into a human pit; once you’re in, you remain within. I am squeezed – and elbowed– in all directions. The crowd moves as one, up the San Giuliano Steps. The uphill street is well illuminated thanks to a blinding neon mosaic set to rival Las Vegas.

The journey ends following a loop back to the cathedral. It’s almost midnight. I am so overwhelmed by the festival feverishness that I am tempted to stay at Piazza dell’Elefante to view the water symphony for a third time.Tomorrow, smaller processions will ensue, same path, different crowds.

My lack of Catholic faith does not diminish my enjoyment one whit. After all, this is a folk festival entangled with a series of popular beliefs. But seeing an ancient tradition being valued brings something out in me. Awe, I guess, and adoration.

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