Restoring a Damp House in Sicily, Part 4

March 10, 2010

xx

My husband, newly arrived on the scene, has clawed his way down to stone. I phone the project manager with the news.

The crew turns up the next day with hammers and chisels. Now that Kim is here, the garrulous workers completely ignore me, peppering him with questions and concerns—never mind that he doesn’t speak one iota of Italian.

Something about a manly presence in the house has lit a fire under the crew. They really get cracking. Chink chink chink. Chunks of plaster fall like overripe fruit, unveiling enormous blocks of tawny stone.

Madonna! They look pretty freakin’ old. I’m prone to wild mood swings in Sicily, and now I’m on the upswing.

“Stones from the old Norman castello!” say nosey neighbors who wander in the house through the open front door, wondering what all the racket is.

They tell me the entire neighborhood scavenged rubble from the castle that once stood on this site before it crumbled in Ragusa Ibla’s great earthquake of 1693.

Norman castle in Ragusa Ibla before 1693 earthquake, copyright S. Tumino

Finding the ancient Norman rocks is a delicious surprise.

There are more surprises to come in the near future, though none nearly so pleasant.


***

xxx

Win this book!!!!!

I love this tiny up-to-date (2009) guidebook. It packs in information in the form of many top 10 lists. It includes charming out-of-the-way places—the author knows the hidden nooks and crannies of Sicily—and  a few fold-out maps.

HOW? Between now and March 26, write a comment on any of my blogposts. The best comment wins. (“Best” could be funniest, most enlightening, most touching…)

Restoring a Damp House in Sicily, Part 3

March 1, 2010

The roof’s been fixed; the rain’s been staunched.

Old Terracotta Roof Tiles on a Sicilian House, copyright Jann Huizenga

xxx


…xxxxx

xxx

xxx

I turn my attention to the interior of the house.

Please find me some old stones, I implore. Vi prego. There must be stone under the many layers of plaster and wall tile. Let’s expose it!

“What do you need old stones for, anyway? asks the project manager, tossing his head impatiently. “If you want stone, we can put pietra finta, fake stone, on the walls.”

Fake stone? Could he be serious?

“It’ll be faster and cheaper than looking all over the house for old stone. It looks better, too.”

“But,” I wail, “I love old stuff! We don’t have old stuff in the Stati Uniti!!!! That’s why I’m in Sicily!”

I long to wrap history around me like a well-worn cape. Sicilians, having lived among ruins for millennia, want to shed the old cape for something flashier.

***

A week or so later, I get a call in Rome. “Non c’e pietra.” There’s no stone.

I’m stunned.  This is an old Sicilian house. There has to be stone. Or have I managed to purchase the one and only stone-free house in all of Italy?

***

There’s a new twist to the plot. My husband decides to travel from the U.S. to far-flung Ragusa Ibla to see for himself what’s going on. It’s the first time he and the house will meet—nearly a year after I’ve bought it—and I’m nervous. His interest in the project has not been keen. What’ll he think?

When he arrives at our mossy-smelling home late one afternoon, there’s rubble wherever you look. He wears a fixed frown and raises an eyebrow.

Then he hunts around for a tool. There’s nothing in the house but a vintage can opener. He climbs a ladder in the salone and starts scratching at the vaulted ceiling. He claws away with his rusty little can opener until fingers start to bleed.

“So who says there’s no pietra,” he yells from atop the ladder. “Look at this.”

Peeking through the plaster is a hint of beautiful stone.

Ceiling of a Sicilian house undergoing restoration, copyright Jann Huizenga

x

He comes down from the ladder and steps onto the balcony with a wan smile. Plaster has settled into his hair. The sky is full of evening light; the bells toll as if they’re going mad. The small smile transforms into a dual-dimpled grin.

x

San Giorgio Cathedral at dusk, Ragusa Ibla, Sicily, copyright Jann Huizenga

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Pazienza, a Sicilian Mantra

January 30, 2010


I hire a team of architects.

I fire a team of architects.

I leave my husband in New Mexico and take a job in Rome in order to be “close” to Sicily.

Roman Gypsy

And, oh, what a job it is (why don’t I have any luck with Italian bosses?).

The whammies start to add up.

I hire a project manager (the handsomest of men) with a swagger, cool sunglasses, a Range Rover, a mop of curls, an Etna-like temper and—how best to put this?—a hands-off management style. Which I only learn later. His mantras are Non sono d’accordo and Non e possibile.

My Roman job swallows me whole, but on rare occasions I sneak down to Sicily to prod, cajole, wring my hands, and gnash my teeth. I prowl around the damp house—it’s twice as cold inside as outside—and wonder how it’ll ever be livable. Why in the world is the building permit taking so long?

Pazienza, Sicilians tell me. I’m not a patient person, but I’m beginning to suspect I’ll need some endurance to get the life I want to lead.

What is the life I want to lead, anyway?

A stop-the-world-I-want-to-get-off life, a turn-back-the-clock-a-century life. A new life. A second life.

A friend forwards an email from a British guy who is temporarily living in Italy: “Anyone buying any kind of property in Italy needs counseling. I send my deepest sympathies to the lady in Sicily…”

New Roman friends respond with audible gasps, like in a comic book, when I tell them I’m renovating a house in Sicily. They call me coraggiosa and then laugh themselves silly.

My husband remains reluctant, though not opposed.

Lo and behold, 8 months after I buy the damp old house and after endless phone calls, faxes, and DHLs (my project manager avoids email), I am in possession of a building permit. The legitimacy of my existence is confirmed.

“It’s your Christmas present,” says my best friend on the island, an expat Sicilian-American upon whom I lean like a crutch.

Never mind that the dollar is at an all-time low. Or that our retirement nest egg is about to dissolve like salt in water. Or that I feel I’m flying off a cliff.

Let the work begin.

House Renovation in Sicily

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