One Month At A Time

With a road trip in the offing, I had been thinking of compiling a playlist, one that reflects the joys of the open road and the summery weather – despite the rather long odds against either of these occurring. Experience has taught me, however, that compilation begins as an enjoyable trawl through musical memories but turns soon enough into a chore – especially when you know that Spotify’s algorithms will do the job for you even while you sleep, and that other people’s playlists are available for plunder.

However, the decision not to bother with the playlist really was clinched when I read the following: a person might expect to live for 83 years, which may sound like a long time but, when expressed as 1,000 months, does not. By my reckoning, I may have only 120 months to go – and the last one slipped by alarmingly fast. With my time running out, I was grateful, therefore, that the results of my recent medical tests proved positive (the nurses told me there and then) but miffed that the consultant consumed a whole morning of my life (but only ten minutes of his) by calling me in, weeks afterwards, to read out the notes. He could have Skyped me.

Concern about my diminishing allocation of months is leading me to evaluate the returns from all sorts of time-usage. I had, for example, been reluctant to spend part of my allowance calling technical help-lines for assistance with pesky problems on my email accounts but, in the end, I was driven by despair to do so. My emails were bouncing back with explanations such as “DNS server not recognised” from people I have communicated with for years. Could it be that Wonderman readers now had to “opt in” to conform to the implementation of new data protection regulations? The help-lines were predictably painful: one kept me on hold so long that my battery expired and I had to start all over; another put me through to an expert so lacking in expertise that I was convinced it was his first day on a job he had obtained by false pretences.  Success, of a kind, eventually came when a chap convinced me that I was just another unfortunate victim of the latest Windows update and that Microsoft is working to resolve the problem. By then, conscious of the ticking clock, I was ready to accept any explanation.

The time spent was productive in part, however, since I learned a bit more of the International Phonetic Alphabet, an indispensable aid for speaking one’s postcode. The letter M, for example, is spoken as Mike, not Manchester. Apparently, international agreement on the phonetic alphabet was reached in 1956 and it was no small feat, considering the complications. C, for example, might be Country or Cycle – and that’s just in English. In fact, they chose Charlie, which must be confusing for Italians, with their Ciao and Cappuccino. H is represented by Hotel, despite the fact that many people regard it as silent in that context. If they were to revise the alphabet for present times, they could simplify things by taking into account the fact that technology has extended the global reach of English: C could be Computer, H could be Hardware, A could be Algorithm and so on.

I probably won’t be invited to the symposium for the review of the International Phonetic Alphabet, despite my sensible idea. I thought this as I made my way one sluggish morning to the gym, determined to use the time to physical advantage even if the brain was unproductive. I searched Spotify for a workout-friendly playlist and came across one titled “Kinda thing my dad plays when he’s working in the garage and stuff.”  It must have been compiled by someone with months to spare I thought, resentfully.

Touristi

I have just returned to base-camp after three weeks of touring Sicily and, even as I digest the experience, I have a hunger for more travelling. The next trip, however, will be within the UK and will include a sea crossing to the Orkney Isles. This means that I will have to take with me more than the shorts, sandals and lightweight shirts that sufficed for the Mediterranean. Prudent tourists in Britain must be prepared to dress for a variety of climatic conditions.

Whatever we wear and wherever we are, however, we always stand out to the locals. We may shun brightly coloured leisure clothes, cagoules and funny hats; we may even hide our maps and guide books; we might discard our backpacks, shoulder bags and (worst of all) bum bags but they will still recognise us – fish out of water, fair game. The natives of Devon and Cornwall used to call us “grockles” – perhaps they still do – a name that has a whiff of contempt about it. But who can blame them? A once proud community of seafarers, miners and farmers, reduced to the ignoble roles of providing B&B, cream teas and boat trips to spy on seals might well feel resentment. Then there is the invading army of second-homers that has exiled their children – but that is another chapter in the story.

The business of tourism certainly provides an income for locals but, if over-exploited, it can destroy the attractions that created it in the first place. Destinations that rely on the appeal of beautiful landscapes, historical buildings or quaint cottage industries must safeguard the integrity of such assets or risk losing their customers. Some of the places we visited in Sicily balance on the knife-edge of this dilemma but we also spent time in ordinary, every-day places, where life goes on without tourism. Milazzo, for example, is a port from which tourists catch ferries to Lipari and the other Islands. We stayed there for a week and soon learned to avoid the area around the port if we wanted to buy anything. Just a few streets back, where tourists do not venture, we could pay local prices – our presence an unexpected curiosity, not an opportunity to overcharge.

One morning, we screwed up our courage to buy from a traditional looking fishmonger’s shop. On the counter was the head of a swordfish, displayed vertically so that its “sword” pointed a metre into the air: behind it was a massive chunk of its torso and, next to that, a large slab of tuna. It was clearly a family concern, the labour divided so that the husband wielded a very sharp set of knives to cut the portions, while the wife took care of the wrapping and payment side of things. On the walls above were images of the Virgin Mary, Jesus and assorted angels, all of whom looked down upon us to ensure an honest, Christian transaction with no cheating or extortion. And lo, it came to pass that we had a delicious, reasonably priced supper of tuna steaks that evening.

The contrast with a mainstream touristic experience was to follow: we went to Taormina. The old town is certainly cute and unspoiled but the retail outlets are exclusively devoted to serving the tourists who throng the streets in search of what I am not sure, though there is a spectacular Greek theatre on the edge of town. We soon left the crowds to seek the house where D.H. Lawrence lived for a while and Casa Cuseni, the villa saved by another Brit, Daphne Phelps. Both locations were deserted. Likewise, in Lipari, the quaintly winding streets were the main attraction and, after a short while, we found interest in the archaeology museum, along with a few Germans who struggled to translate the captions.

Before leaving, we had a drink at a cafe. When I asked our waiter for the bill, he went to get it from the till and I distinctly heard the cashier ask him “Touristi?”  We were charged accordingly.

The Tourism Industry

At the ticket office of Palermo’s Archaeology Museum, the attractive, engaging young woman at the desk mistook us for French and addressed us accordingly. Perhaps she was misled by some detail of our dress, which is not quite as M&S as might be expected of British cultural tourists of a certain age. However, my partner, who fantasises about being of more exotic extraction than she actually is, was flattered anyway. Having expected to converse in either Italian or English, I was momentarily thrown and responded with some stuttered Franglais. The charming lady soon had us sussed and switched effortlessly to fluent English. She explained – after we had paid the entrance fee – that the two upper floors of the museum were closed for restoration (our guide book had predicted, hopefully, that the work would be complete by 2016) but not to worry, the most important treasures were all on display. I thanked her, in what I hoped was confidently spoken Italian, determined to salvage some dignity since I felt we had been outed as regular, monolingual Brits masquerading as continental polyglots.

The economy of Sicily depends heavily on tourism, yet there appears to be scant public investment in the business. While private enterprise exploits every opportunity to operate bars, cafes and souvenir shops at all the catchment points, officially operated facilities are minimal. The Valley of the Temples, for example, attracts 600,000 visitors each year yet, when we visited, the queue for tickets was 45 minutes long and there was just one toilet – attended by a chap who expected a tip. What becomes of all the entry fees? Sicily’s archaeological sites generally are unkempt and devoid of wardens to safeguard them. Likewise, some of the palazzi, though stuffed with ornaments, furniture, paintings and other objects, have few, if any, curators to dissuade thieves and vandals. In one such palazzo there is a bedstead, supposedly slept on by Garibaldi, with a makeshift “Do Not Touch” sign hung on its headboard. I stroked it anyway, just to make my point.

The paucity of investment in the heritage business reflects a more general observation: that while there is much private wealth, public squalor is everywhere evident. Country roads are dangerously eroded, but tattered tape and faded warning signs remain in place of the repairs that ought to have been made long ago. Lay-bys and lanes are treated as drive-by rubbish dumps. Public beaches and urban spaces are similarly scattered with garbage, while, alongside them, private lidos and terraces are lovingly tended. And on this island, the contrast between public poverty and private wealth feels ironic considering its archaeology, which evidences a tradition of public splendour in the ancient temples, amphitheatres and fortifications.

While Sicily’s governing body lacks either the will or the means to invest in its tourist infrastructure, it does have an organisation that could, if it chose, help to sort it out. I refer to the Mafia, a collective that amasses vast amounts of illegally acquired money, much of which could be invested in the legitimate growth-industry of tourism instead of being furtively laundered. Furthermore, the Mafia has considerable business and organisational skills and, assuming that its business goal is profit, it should have no objection to taking on the job. It is said* that the American branch of the Sicilian Mafia ceded the heroin trade to the Sicilians in the 1980s, with the result that Naples, for example, was ruined, its traditional economy and family structures laid waste by addiction: surely it is time for a corporate social responsibility makeover?

We are currently in Milazzo, where the heights are dominated by an enormous complex of defensive walls and towers, founded by the Arabs, and added to by every subsequent invader. When we visited, we found the ticket office staffed by a lady who took the fee, a man who tore off the tickets and several hangers-on. One them greeted us with a grin and a torrent of Italian, the gist of which was are you Germans? “No,” I said, “Inglesi.” She smiled and said welcome, then gave us an old brochure translated into German. It was all she had.

*Peter Robb: Midnight in Sicily

City Living, Past, Present & Future

I love predictive text: the algorithm on my phone has taught it to anticipate my words, thereby saving me the tiresome task of typing my full name and lots of other obvious stuff besides. However, I am not sure when or how it learnt to suggest the word ‘Richard’ after ‘cliff’. It’s not as if I’m a fan. The place we are staying in overlooks a flat roof where a family of seagulls has nested and, while watching the youngsters stretching their wings, I typed a note into my phone thus: “Are seagulls aware of the difference between a parapet and a cliff Richard edge?” Whether they are or not is of academic interest, since it is apparent that seagulls do not care. However, without the building (there being no cliffs in the vicinity) there would be no nest.

The appropriation of our buildings by wild creatures is an unintended consequence of urbanisation – a subject that currently fascinates me. I am staying in the Sicilian fishing port of Sciacca, which is halfway between two of the Mediterranean’s most significant and extensive archaeological sites – the Valley of the Temples to the east and Selinunte to the west – both of which were founded by the Greeks between 600 and 400 BC. The Valley of the Temples is actually a misleading description, since the temples themselves sit high on a ridge, where they were visible to sailors from the sea; but the city they served, Akragas, on the slopes of said valley, was once the fourth largest in the world. Nothing remains of it, save the outline of a few streets, whereas the main temple, Concordia, has survived almost intact. Likewise, at Selinunte, the city of Selinos boasted 100,000 inhabitants and was, at its peak, one of the richest and most powerful cities in the known world. All that stands above ground now is a fragment of a temple (reconstructed in 1958) and parts of its defensive walls. There is also a musealisation (a novel word for my algorithm) of a religious sanctuary. A musealisation is an arrangement of ancient stones set out by archaeologists in an interpretation of what might have been there. I would have liked to see a musealisation of an ordinary, humble dwelling but perhaps that is deemed too mundane to draw the crowds.

It seems that these ruined cities were victims of their own success, sacked by covetous invaders, though it is true that earthquakes, the silting-up of ports et cetera also contributed to their downfall. On a less epic historical scale, the modern, hill-top town of Favara (near the site of Akragas), whilst never in danger of being sacked, did suffer economic decline in the latter part of the 20^th century – a common fate of towns dependent on industries that disappear. Two of its residents, however, aim to kick-start a renaissance. They have bought a block of run-down dwellings in the centre and turned it into an arts-cum-creative complex which hosts events, exhibitions and workshops. The morning that I visited, there were just a few other tourists but, by lunchtime, the place was overrun by boisterous Italian families (it was a public holiday), which may be evidence that their plan is working.

The main exhibition there featured the work of Japanese architects who are preoccupied with resolving a particular problem of urban living: lack of affordable space for housing, especially for singles. Miniaturisation is one solution, but it comes at the cost of social isolation so, to counter this, they are experimenting with purpose-built shared houses which minimise bedrooms but make the most of communal spaces to encourage sociability and creativity. It may be reminiscent of student accommodation but they are optimistic for its future. They have even coined a word for their vision of modern urban living – “co-dividuality”. It’s an adventurous concept but my algorithm just cannot get the hang of it.