Marzamemi, or “marsà al-·∏•amƒ?ma”, (bay of turtle doves), as the Arabs had baptized the place, when they still lived here is a Sicilian fishing village dating back to the seventeenth century and a place already known at the time of Greek domination on the site. Set on a slab of rock overlooking the Ionian Sea and geographically located between Pachino a (South) and Noto a (North), in the south-eastern part of the Sicilian island, the small village has long been well known to the national chronicles as a tourist center for summer vacationers and public figures of national and international fame. And yet the “marsà al-·∏•amƒ?ma” that I prefer is the one that, far from the summer clamors, in seasons less attractive to speculation, outside the margins of seasonal business offers the visitor as well as a beautiful lady a little ‘old, nostalgic and decadent as only a non-summer afternoon can give, like the Venice of “Anonymous Venetian” or as the Normandy of “A man and a woman”.
In winter the skin is no longer tanned by the sun and we go for a walk surrounded by more protective clothing, where everything becomes more personal and intimate and we talk to each other in a low voice almost whispering. If you want to walk through its streets you meet friendly faces that have the taste of ancient friendships, everything that is alive, whether human or animal, re-appropriates the ancient stones. Under the shy Sicilian winter sun the lukewarm yellow light paints everything, the rustle among the stones of the light afternoon wind envelops and gives back to the context its ancient vocation as a place where everything is familiar to the sight and why not, from the old local inhabitant to the old dog who has been wandering around with placid confidence among the “maroti”. Marzamemi has the power, as only certain places know, in the seasonal periods out of the mad summer crowds, to lead the attentive and not trivial visitor on the road to reconciliation, if not with the “infamous world” as Venditti sang, at least with his own inner silence with nature and therefore ultimately with himself.
Sorry if that’s not much.
