Camille Cusumano

All photography, except for the third and fifth photos down, by Polly Cole; all available for sale; details at her site.

A family reunion in the old country—it had such a nice ring to it. But when I read my brother Tom’s email suggesting our clan meet in Sicily come summer, I had misgivings. He doesn’t remember what it was like, I thought, the 12 of us—10 siblings and two parents—under one small roof, sharing one-and-a-half bathrooms all those years ago.

These days, a family gathering means more than 50 people when you include Mom, spouses, and 39 kids and grandkids. And then there would be a few dozen relatives on the other side of the Atlantic, three generations of our late father’s first cousins. That’s a lot of pressure on the plumbing, not to mention the nerves.

I love my brothers and sisters to no end. We are your classic tight-knit big Italian family. Our affectionate (and sometimes querulous) emails stream over the Internet. Birth, christening, marriage, and occasionally an elder’s passing on are annual mandates for our inimitable brand of Sicilian conviviality.

Yet, if you look at the distance we’ve put between each other since leaving that overcrowded nest—our homes spread from New Jersey to California, from Prague to Timor, and down to Buenos Aires—you might conclude as I did that we required a lot of space to vacation together.

I knew that many “normal” families happily cruised together on city-size ships. But, I didn’t think that even a whole island was big enough for the likes of our mercurial bunch.

OK, so I was wrong this once.

It turned out to be one of the best family vacations since our parents stuffed 10 of us, crates of food, and beach paraphernalia into a station wagon for a few days at (poor) Uncle Pasquale’s beach house at the Jersey shore.

In fact, there was a fairytale aspect from the moment I arrived in Cefalú, on Sicily’s northern coast. The popular resort, an hour’s drive from Palermo, is picturesquely framed by the Mediterranean Sea and a sheer craggy rampart of the Madonie Mountains. Brightly painted wooden fishing boats park on sand or rock beaches where warm and gentle glass-blue waves lap the shore.

The family home for the next week was a palace. The Palazzo Maria, a far cry from the 1,000-square-foot Cape Cod we had grown up in, was a restored medieval building, with a restaurant and enoteca (wine shop) on its ground floor. Bordering the Piazza Duomo, it rose five floors catty-corner to the imposing 12th-century basilica, or Duomo, with its two steeples, abbey, and cloister built under the reign of Roger II.

Tom, who undertook the yeoman’s task of booking our lodgings and planning the week’s events—which would include festivities with the Sicilian branch several days after our arrival—did well in choosing Cefalú as a base. It offers a crowd-pleasing mix of beauty, outdoor activities, shopping, art galleries, cultural sights, and, of course, plenty of restaurants.

Cefalú comes from the Greek word (Kephaloidion) for head—and it’s instantly apparent why this name was bestowed on the area. The “heady” Rocca, a massively bulging promontory, 270 meters high, dominates the village. A crenellated wall and other ancient ruins crown its summit. If you don’t mind a stair-master-from-hell workout, you can hike to breathtaking (literally and figuratively) views and ruins.

Another plus was that from Cefalú one can easily take day-long or overnight excursions by car to any of Sicily’s important sites. One day, a group of us drove to Agrigento to walk the impressive Valley of the Temples. Within easy drives on Sicily’s well-maintained auto-routes are Erice with its lofty perch and mystical pre-Greek vestiges; Taormina, the aptly-called “aristocratic jewel” above the Ionian Sea; Siracusa with its abundance of ancient sites and archeological treasures; and Selinunte and Segesta where there are also Greek temples and ruins. A hydrofoil offered daily departures from Cefalú’s harbor to the Aeolian islands. But for me, having traveled Sicily often over the past 30 years, la dolce vita under my nose and spending time with family was enough.

The only drawback was that not everyone could make the voyage. My oldest brother Jim’s wife became pregnant and would deliver at the time of the trip; my youngest sister, Donna, couldn’t leave her United Nations post in Indonesia, due to outbursts of civil unrest there; and poor Mom, 84, fell and broke her hip and was still in rehab come her departure date.

However, 32 of us made a good show. Over several days in late June, we arrived to storm the palace and its six spacious, antique-furnished apartments. Each sported a plaque on its door with its name—Ruggero, Turiddu, Costanza, Guglielmo, Federico, and Joanna—and all were decorated in a rich palette of primary colors. A few families spilled over into apartments a five-minute walk from there, but the palazzo with its splendid rooftop terrace would be the nightly gathering area. We’d run in and out of each other’s flats to visit and see who had the best-stocked pantry and fridge.

Just like the old days, I shared my quarters, the airy royal-blue interior of Turiddu, with two sisters, Tina and Grace (left). We loved sitting on our little third-floor balcony with its views to sunset over the sea and the Aeolians or watching the bustle below in the cobbled square with its fringe of café and boutiques.

We could see who among our group was exercising his or her blood-right to far niente (do nothing) in the cafes whose espresso machines we kept hissing and whose stock of custard-filled brioches and cannoli we seriously depleted.

From the piazza, each day, by and by, a clutch of us would make the five-minute stroll to the main beach down narrow streets, sometimes clogged with cars and small fruit-delivery trucks. On the way, we’d pass the Museo Mandralisca, which holds archeological artifacts, such as Greek and Arab vases, old coins, and paintings, including the Renaissance Portrait of a Man by Antonello da Messina. Shops overflowing with lovely hand-painted ceramic wares, much of them from nearby San Stefano di Camestre and Caltanisetta, would stall us in our tracks.

We’d stop to marvel at the waters still running into basins under a pink stone arch in the lavatoio medievale, a former “village laundro-mat” that dates from the Middle Ages. We’d walk through another venerable Arab archway, called the Porta Pescara, and, ecco, there was the broad scallop of sandy beach plastered with wall-to-wall towels. In summer, Cefalú can get packed with sun bathers, but none of us minded them, especially the hand-gesticulating crowds, who recalled the Italian ghetto of our youth (in New Jersey).

Occasionally, I took refuge in the relative solitude of a beach at the edge of town, past the lighthouse and Torre Calura, a rocky tower ruin. To get there I had to walk a brisk 15 minutes, hugging the coast, through the Porta Giudecca, the historic Jewish neighborhood (which disappointed my Jewish brother-in-law, Dan, for its lack of an interpretive plaque); past the boat harbor; and little cottages fronted with bougainvillea, lanterna, and oleander. After a libation on the cliff-top terrace of the Hotel Calura, I’d climb down the staircase about 200 feet to the secluded beach and swim out to a rock with snorkelers.

Early or late in the day, when the sun was not so intense, some of us would make the invigorating climb up the Rocca, following the signs and arrows up steep alleys or stone staircases, then walking the dirt trail until we were atop the sheer precipice. Amid stone pines we looked vertiginously down on the Duomo and out to sea for miles. It was absolutely stunning. There were many relics to visit on the way up, including ninth-century castle ruins, a couple of small churches, ancient cisterns, the fortress wall that belted the Rocca’s precipitous border, and my favorite, a small pre-Christian Temple to Diana where I would spend some contemplative time.

One afternoon, my brother, Sal, and I walked along the rocky seacoast where young bronzed men with well-defined muscles were spear fishing for octopus (pulpo). They showed us how they stored the ghostly white fish, that appeared on many village menus, in a tide pool with seaweed. As Sal and I slid off the rock into the clear water to cool off, I said, “I hope they don’t mistake our legs for octopus tentacles.”

We laughed and bobbed in the salty sea and as we soaked in the perfection of the moment—the sun’s warmth in a cloudless blue sky, the Rocca facing us like a forbidding monolith onshore—we decided we would cook the family meal that night. This was a harmonious change from our standard political debates.

That night we added our own sizzling garlic to the smells that wafted out from the nearby restaurants. The sausage and rigatoni we cooked up for our masses was just one of our memorable meals that brought us together on the roof. After a long, hard day of sun, sand, and sea, we’d take siestas, and showers, then sip aperitifs on the square. Dinner, with respect for local custom, was never before 9 p.m. We’d all contribute goods gathered from the many town purveyors.

A spread might include marinated sardines, tangy caponata, an array of sharp and creamy cheeses, crusty breads, fresh peaches and figs, oil-cured olives, prosciutto, pepperoni, sun dried tomatoes, pesto dip, bitter greens, local olive oil, and arancia (deep-fried rice balls stuffed with meat, cheese, and veggies).

One night, my sister, Terry, made cucuzza, a tomato-rich dish packed with memories of our grandmother who grew the long crooked green squash in her garden in Elizabeth, New Jersey. Nostalgia came in many bites—from the eggplant appetizer, biscotti, and Torrone nougat candy to the many bottles of red wine, especially the popular Cusumano label (which we pretend is our relative).

Strains of Mob Hits, The Big Night soundtrack, and Pavarotti sounded from Tom’s iPod as the lemoncello, Fra Angelica, and Sambuca flowed into glasses after dinner. We shot digital photos against the stunningly spotlighted Rocca and occasionally danced and sang with the little kids. We told the same old family stories but with new twists and turns, over and over, until 4 a.m.

Although there were plenty of restaurants, our best meals were our own up on the roof. Several of us had had a few disappointments in the local eateries—no doubt the result of too many tourists in town. However, two places pleased us. We enjoyed the seafood and pasta dishes at Ostaria di duomo and Il Saraceno, both of which seemed capable of dealing with our unwieldy crowd.

THE REUNION
Then came time for the Big Moment—the raison d’etre of our trip—the reunion with the cousins in the two villages, San Giovanni-Gemini and Cammarata, where our respective maternal and paternal grandparents were born. Only a handful of us had ever met the Sicilian branch. They, occupying the land of our bloodline since time immemorial, had never set foot on American soil. Only one in their group spoke some English, while only about four of us spoke some Italian.

A bus transported nearly three dozen of us (left) to the neighboring villages, about two hours south of Cefalu. Many of us sat silently gazing out at the passing landscape, harsh and rugged, yet in places irrigated to a quilt-work of lushness to grow food. Tom pointed out Monte Cammarata, the highest point, over 5,000 feet, in southern Sicily.

Watching the bones of rock pierce through a velvet-green mantled peak, some of us thought sadly how our father should have been here for this historic meeting. He had seen Sicily only once, late in his life. But he drilled us as kids about how the island was a crossroads for every tribe of people—the Phoenicians, Greeks, Romans, and the Serbs, Goths, Vandals, Saracens, Arabs, Normans, Byzantines, and Spanish. When he was feeling especially proud of his heritage, he had told us we were not Italian, but Sicilian. He had many pithy sayings, including his favorite, Salsiccia his own (a word-play on To each-a his own)

The bus, too long and wide to travel the village-proper streets, deposited us in a square of San Giovanni. Our cousin, Rena Tuzzolino, and her husband Enzo met us and after a hundred hugs and kisses took place began touring us on foot through the village, which I first saw some 30 years ago. It had not changed much since then and as always its Middle-Age past was still in strong evidence in many edifices.

Thirty-two of us, ranging in age from eight months to sixty-one, followed Rena and Enzo up and down narrow, winding cobbled streets. Taller than the average Sicilian and dressed like foreigners, with our Teva and Birkenstock sandals, we were a curiosity. Although my siblings and I are no less Sicilian, blood-wise, than our father’s cousins, our next two generations are a classic American stew seasoned with Irish, English, Norwegian, Ukraine, Russian, Philippine, Chinese, and African American blood. Old villagers came out of their dark doorways to peek at us and greet us with friendly nods, smiles, or handshakes.

Ducking under many sturdy archways erected during Arab rule, we visited the old Norman Church, the castle ruins, and stopped by a nondescript gray stone house. We peered in at its ground floor where animals were once kept. This was where our grandfather was born in 1887. In 1903, he set sail on the Palatia from Hamburg, Germany, for America, coming through Ellis Island. He died in 1938 and never met any of his grandchildren.

Across the way, lived Nicolo Tuzzolino, our Dad’s Sicilian counterpart. The reigning patriarch and his wife, Concetta, dwell on the top floor of the four-story marble and concrete home that also houses their four children and seven grandchildren. The home is built into a steep hillside and many times I have savored, from its terrace, vistas of the alternately straw-brown or farm-green land. On clear days, I’ve seen all the way to smoking Mount Etna.

I watched seventy-nine-year-old Nicolo’s swarthy face, framed by wine-dark hair, light up as he received us. In the past, when some of us have shown up at his home, he has burst in tears of joy. But when my father came, he was paranoid briefly that it was to reclaim the land my grandfather left behind. Nothing could have been farther from the truth—our father was a city slicker through and through.

Paces away from Nicolo’s home, Rena and Enzo led our straggling procession to the town hall, where the mayor, Vito Mangiapane (who shares a surname with our maternal great grandmother) met us and gave each of us a signed book on the history of Cammarata. He told us he was honored that we made the long trip back to his little mountain village of 6,500 inhabitants. He pointed to the town’s age-old emblem—a woman nursing a serpent on either of her breasts. It was designed by a Spanish count to represent how the Cammaratesi welcomed foreigners. “Nourish others and let yourself go hungry,” Rena translated the symbolism, explaining how the people here had always welcomed strangers.

This revelation of such extreme generosity hit a nerve as we all remembered how anyone—friend or stranger—who appeared on our doorstep at meal time was invited to sit and eat. I recalled a letter from my father, years into his empty nest, in which he said he was in the process of “adopting 10 more kids, one for each of you guys,” from around the world, spreading his postal-worker pension thinner than we could imagine.

That evening in nearby Casteltermini more than fifty of us sat down together to break bread—and twirl pasta—in the Lupo Nero, the restaurant in the agriturismo Parco Sette Lune. a 300-acre reserve with horses, donkeys, skeet shooting, and hunting. Tom who had just begun discovering Sicily in 2000 and meeting with the warmth and hospitality of our Sicilian kin had gone all out and even had commemorative T-shirts made for every one of us. They featured an insignia with our names and the date with the bright red and gold, Trinacria, the ancient three-legged symbol of the tri-cornered island. Best of all, each of us received a seven-foot-wide family tree dating back to 1834 that Tom, Rena, and Enzo had assembled.

As we all sat and marveled how Tom’s planning of this impossibly successful trip led to this moment, he stood and gave a 20-minute brindisi, or toast. Tom spoke the English and his fluent Italian-speaker daughter, Christina, (who dates home-grown Sicilian men), repeated all in Italian.

Punch drunk on wine, food, toasts, and the hyper-smiling and gesturing one does to reach across a gap of language, time, and place, we all stayed up late, well past exhaustion.

Back in Cefalú we still had a whole weekend to recover. Each day, we slowly collected in an al fresco café and discussed for hours where the day might go. The church bells might remind us there was a thing called time. We avoided the heated, nerve-jangling political debates our family often engages in. Topics of conversation were nothing more controversial than whether to have a second espresso, where to shop, or who did nephew Michael’s new, fat baby, Olivia, who was born in Italy, look like.

It was as if after years of having gone out into the world to slay our respective dragons, we could finally far niente—do nothing—but savor la dolce vita. In this sense, this trip was a coming home of the most memorable sort.
Oh, and last I heard, Palazzo Maria has had no plumbing problems.

Four generations meet in Cammarata, Sicily

Guidelines that made our family reunion abroad successful (or not):
1. We had, Tom, one person willing to take charge of the big planning—finding a suitable place, lodgings, time frame.

2. Tom used our family email list to check in regularly on who was on board with the idea. Since we spread from Prague to California, the Internet was indispensable for us.

3. He began to plan the trip and its time frame about eight months ahead of time. Because we have teachers in our family, we were not able to choose off-season times, which would have been cheaper.

4. We had the benefit of Tom’s having been to Cefalu and seen the lodgings. But still for our large group he needed to work with someone abroad—Massimo TK of Sicilian Break.

5. Each individual or families were responsible for their own airline arrangements, but we shared tips on possible airfare bargains.

6. When planning this far out, it’s important to check on lodging cancellation policies.

7. And trip insurance would have saved my brother, Jim, the loss of a lot of money on our mother’s first class airfare. Mom fell and broke her hip and was still in rehab come departure time.

8. If people had gripes with their lodgings (invariably they do) once they arrived, it was their responsibility to work it out with Massimo, not Tom, who had done his best to meet requirements.

9. Never discuss politics on a family vacation. We were golden here.

10. Eat, drink, and recall the good times with gusto.

SERVICE INFORMATION

Sicilian Break, Via Porpora, 11; tel: 39-0921-925060; fax 39-0921-922259; www.sicilianbreak.it

Information on Cefalu: www.cefalu.it

Palazzo Maria · Piazza del Duomo, 18 · 90015 Cefalù (PA), Italia · Tel. +39.0921.925060 Fax +39.0921.922259 · info@palazzomaria.it

Lupo Nero at the Sette Lune Park. The web site (in Italian only at this time) is: www.settelune.com.