Sicily

Manna For a Gypsy

In need of manna after two kilometers up and down the crumbly trail of red ochre earth, fine like cake flour, I find it at Museo della Manna, a little house built into the hill. It’s sandy stones and clay tiled roof make it appear earth-born, as if made by the hill itself.

At the door, a guide greets me with water and indicates displays about manna. Slash the trunk of a local ash tree with a knife and the violet-colored sap erupts. Contact with the air turns the sap solid white. It’s stored in sticks and used as a sweetener.

It is August, both sap collecting time and vacation season for Italians. I return to the bright baking path and peer over beach cove after beach cove densely dotted with colorful umbrellas and half-naked bodies. To the left, red rocks thrust straight up to the sky and gape with horrified, long-mouthed caves. To the right, the steep cliff drops to the luminous sea.

Riserva Naturale dello Zingaro, or to local Sicilians simply Lo Zingaro meaning “the gypsy,” is a fitting nature reserve for a wandering female explorer. The entrance is a short uphill walk from Scopello, an old tuna town. The streets, walkways and buildings are of stone and fill at night with artisans, flame jugglers and rich gelato.

I ease my way down steep rock-hewn steps, thinking of all the shepherds, fishermen and travelers who have stepped right here to follow the same siren call to the sea. The beach looks white, but it’s not sand. Instead, my feet sink deeply into palm-sized smooth stones that cover the cove. I am the only white skinned person. Everyone is chestnut-hued and the dulcet tones of Italian speech waft like a lulling fragrance. I pick my way carefully in the narrow territory between people and find a towel-sized space near the sea. Real estate.

“You are from England?” a tiny, dark woman asks.

“No, Alaska.”

Her name is Lucia. She lives in Rome and stands closer than my wild-open tundra comfort level for space. When she finds out I studied voice in college, she sings a song she learned long ago. No one around finds it strange.

But I do. I know the song! Imagine her in a studio in Rome; me in a voice teacher’s office in Fairbanks, perhaps at the same time, half a world away, both learning this song. It’s about unrequited love, as most are, and I remember singing it with a certain boy in mind. I wonder what boy may have charmed her and is she remembering him now as she closes her eyes and sings Italian words I know by heart over the waters of the Mediterranean Sea?