You Just Have to Look

So, what’s it like to spend most of December and January in a little Sicilian seaside town? If you are someone who likes to soak up culture over cappuccinos and cornettos on sunny terraces in cute Italian towns, San Vito lo Capo is not the place to come. The town itself is not quaint or cute, or rich in history. The setting is spectacular, though, with the rugged coast to the west, the blue Mediterranean to the north, and the reddish mountains to the east, pink-hued at dusk. The sunsets over the sea are stunning. There is much wonderful climbing to be found within a 20-minute drive as well as some stellar hiking on nearby Monte Monaco and Riserva Naturale dello Zingaro. As for the town itself, most of the buildings are too modern to have their decay appear charming. San Vito seems to be a place that, years ago, was the “It girl” of beach vacations. She’s the once-feted starlet who is now past her prime and looks the worse for wear. In the winter months, when it’s too cold to lie on the beach and there are only a few locals and scruffy climbers around, most restaurants and shops close for the season. After the Christmas holidays, San Vito becomes a bit forlorn. 

However, if you do come here to appreciate the setting, to play on cliffs and mountains, and to get away from the character-building Canadian winters, you’ll have your pick of vacation rentals at bargain prices. We have joked that the money we save on buying fresh produce from the farmers’ market here pretty much covers the cost of the AirBnB.

And there is always beauty to be found if you look for it. There are the lemon trees planted along the streets, offering fruit to any who can reach it. There is the line of carefully arranged laundry flapping outside an otherwise austere, shuttered house. There are people who put food out for the stray cats and build them little houses. There is jasmine in bloom.

As I walked toward the grocery store today, an old man ambled slowly back and forth in front of a house, as though he was waiting for someone. Though missing some teeth, he was quite trim and spry. He held a few jasmine blossoms between his fingers and was smelling them in small sips, like drinking from a cup of too-hot tea. Jasmine is like that: intoxicating and addictive, but overwhelming if you get too close for too long.

I greeted him and stopped to inhale from the chaos of blooms erupting from the large hedge that spilled over a nearby fence. He approached and we spoke about how lovely the scent was, and I asked him what the flowers were called in Italian. He told me that I should take some, that it was his friend’s house. When I hesitated, he gestured to the fallen flowers on the ground. Their life is fleeting anyway, better if someone is there to appreciate it. 

So, I broke off a small sprig and I too “sipped” the scent as I walked down the road, and then trailed it behind me along the aisles of the grocery store. The cashier looked down at the blooms in my hand with an ever-so-slightly raised eyebrow, no doubt thinking, “Tourist!”

When I returned home, Ulysse asked if he should be concerned about these charming old Italian men.

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