Postcards from Sicily: Granita, Gentrification and the Gay Monks of Catania

Temporarily logged off, spiritually rehydrated, and still deeply suspicious of empire—ancient or modern.

It’s Wednesday.

I’ve been off the Twitter since Saturday and, remarkably, my blood pressure now sits somewhere just above “herbal tea” and just below “pleasantly disinterested by NATO policy.” I’ve been blissfully disconnected from the endless scroll of American carnage and British constitutional foreplay.

My guess, without checking, is that US politics remains a flaming bin full of ego and grievance, currently being wheeled down Wall Street by Elon Musk in a DOGE onesie, while the UK continues to politely cannibalise itself under the weight of unread WhatsApp groups, judicial vendettas, and men called Rob.

The chaos rolls on. I, however, do not.

I’m in Sicily.

Let’s start with Catania.

It’s gorgeous in that way southern Italy often is: a sort of glorious decay, where faded grandeur meets total infrastructural collapse and somehow still tastes like fresh ricotta. The buildings lean. The streets are smeared with the patina of centuries. It smells like oranges and diesel. The entire city needs a pressure washer and a city planner, but you forgive it instantly because the food is out of this world and the people smile with their whole face.

This morning, I went to visit the grand Benedictine Monastery, once the second-largest in Europe. I went expecting solemnity, piety, and a faint scent of incense. Instead, I learned that most of the monks were obscenely wealthy, had personal servants, ate like minor royalty, and, if we’re honest, likely spent much of their time either drinking or shagging each other in candlelit stone corridors. Imagine a Catholic version of Succession, but with more robes and fewer moral boundaries.

This is, of course, par for the course in Sicily - a place where power has always been layered, theatrical, and faintly illicit. Over the centuries, it’s been claimed, colonised or conquered by the Greeks, Romans, Arabs, Normans, French, Spanish, and eventually, the mafia - who, depending on the day, may have had better social services than the actual state. The result is a cultural bouillabaisse where couscous and cannoli co-exist, where dialects shift block to block, and where anti-government sentiment runs so deep it’s practically hereditary.

Politically, Sicily’s always had a rebellious streak. It’s voted for fascists, communists, and populists in roughly equal measure, depending on who offered the most roads or the fewest taxes. There’s still a surprising amount of political graffiti - some of it communist, some of it neo-fascist, and some of it so incoherent it might just be a restaurant review. You’re never quite sure.

Anyway, I’m here for another little while. Taormina is next - overpriced, spectacular, and apparently full of people pretending they don’t sweat. Then it’s on to Palermo, where the buildings are grand, the politics are shadier, and the pastries might actually kill me.

A few other things worth reporting:

• There are ceramic heads everywhere. Windows, gardens, souvenir shops, and - unsettlingly - our Airbnb kitchen. They’re called teste di moro, and the story behind them is pure Sicilian drama: a woman finds out her lover is married, chops off his head, and uses it as a pot for basil. It’s a folk tale of romance, revenge, and horticulture. The local aesthetic is basically “Murder, but make it baroque.”

• The weather has been described by locals as severe. To me, it’s a breezy spring day. The Sicilians are dressed for a Siberian expedition; I’m in shorts, slops and a t-shirt, confusing everyone in sight. You can take the boy out of South Africa, but you cannot, evidently, take the warm-weather arrogance out of the boy.

• Aperol Spritz is being consumed in volumes that should probably concern a medical professional. Long naps are occurring. Some writing is happening, mostly between pasta courses, and occasionally while half-listening to very dramatic conversations about basil quality.

I’ll be back soon.

I just wanted to say thank you - for being here, for reading, for engaging, for supporting, and for not turning the internet entirely into a wasteland while I’ve been away.

There’s something strangely grounding about watching the world from a small island that’s been conquered, burned, rebuilt and fed itself back to health again and again. It reminds you that chaos is cyclical, power is temporary, and lunch is the most important institution of all.

More soon. From the kingdom of granita, gay monks, and people who dress like it’s January when it’s 20 degrees Celsius.

A la prossima.

🐻