The Spiral Path (scroll down for story - scroll right for photos)
A photojournalist’s unplanned Sicilian journey — from fog and Fibonacci to fountains and quiet revelations
“Where is Erice?”
That’s what the customs officer asked me in Zurich, just before waving me through. I had taken two buses, a transatlantic flight, and a five-minute sprint to make my connection to Palermo. By late afternoon, I was stepping off the funivia into the fog — backpack slung, camera zipped tight, trying to remember why I thought this was a good idea. There was no real plan. Just a reservation, a couple lenses, and a vague instinct that if I wandered long enough, Sicily might meet me halfway.
I’m usually good with directions. That’s one of my few self-assured travel traits. But in Erice, I got lost every single day. It’s not a big place — a compact knot of cobbled streets and centuries-old stone buildings — but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get back to my hotel without help. The phone I brought didn’t work. The data plan I bought didn’t work. The hotel’s Wi-Fi didn’t work. I’d wake before sunrise, unlock the old wooden door with a skeleton key, and slip out into the silence, unable to lock it behind me. Every step felt like I was breaking a rule I couldn’t name.
Erice is a quiet place — so quiet that it almost rewires your brain. Before the tourist buses arrive, it’s just you, the wind, and the stone. Sometimes I wouldn’t hear another human voice for hours. I wandered fog-wrapped alleys and made photos of cats on castle parapets, trees half-disappearing into mist, and snails spiraling up dried stalks — moving through the silence like everything else.
That snail photo turned out to be more than a poetic moment. Just around the corner from my hotel was the Ettore Majorana Foundation and Center for Scientific Culture, and on its wall was a large banner for a Fibonacci exhibit. I went in, curious. We talked — or tried to — and before I knew it, I was photographing a symposium of scientists visiting for a conference on quantum entanglement. I didn't fully understand what was being said, but I understood enough to know I was far outside the boundaries of my original plan.
That night, I found myself at the head of a long dinner table with physicists, doctors, and intellectuals — all of whom assumed I spoke better Italian than I did. I caught fragments. I smiled. I nodded. Five years of high school Italian didn’t quite prepare me for this. But I was there. And sometimes being there is enough.
I was supposed to photograph Mirela and her hotel staff before I left. She’d asked me, warmly, the morning before, but when the time came, the staff didn’t wake up in time. She wanted me to stay — kept saying it. Every morning she’d set out an incredible spread of pastries and espresso, but when I told her I couldn’t eat gluten, she went out of her way to prepare a hard-boiled egg just for me, along with cheese and salami that somehow tasted more generous than anything else I ate in Sicily. I tried to explain, gently, that I had to catch a bus — that there was a key waiting for me in Palermo. I don’t think she fully understood. I left without the photo, carrying a little guilt and a lot of gratitude.
The bus ride to Palermo was easy. The data on my phone even started working again. But as soon as I arrived in the city, the signal cut out — again. Palermo didn’t wait. It surged. Traffic everywhere. People yelling, vespas shrieking past, something exploding in the distance. I didn’t realize until hours later that I’d arrived during some kind of festival. I never figured out what it was. But the noise lasted well into the night — and into the morning. I lay awake listening to fireworks, engines, music, and the echo of voices that never seemed to sleep.
The contrast was constant. After the fog and silence of Erice, Palermo felt like a different planet. A new rhythm: relentless, unpredictable, electric. I started my first full day at the Fontana Pretoria, photographing the statues before wandering deeper into the city. I stepped away from the tourist paths and found a red basket rising to a second-floor balcony, while a woman in an apron and a small boy moved through the alley — a quiet thread between generations, woven into the fabric of daily life. Then, deep in a crumbling alley far from the crowds, I captured a man riding a Vespa through a corridor of vibrant graffiti — raw, real, and alive with story. Later that afternoon, I found myself in the middle of a street party still humming from the festival. People were drinking, dancing, embracing in the chaos. And right there, somehow separate from it all, a couple shared a private moment. She was seated, leaning back with her arm gently wrapped around his neck. He stood above her, bending low into her embrace, their eyes locked just before the kiss. I took the photo. It felt like a moment stolen from a different story.
I ended the day at Palermo Cathedral. I bought a rooftop ticket and climbed up for aerial shots of the city. At the far end of a narrow walkway, another photographer was camped out with his tripod, waiting for a clear shot of the dome. Only one couple remained: an older man and his younger girlfriend, wrapped in their own slow-motion moment. The photographer waited and waited. I could see him losing patience and actually took a picture of that. When they finally moved on, he set his timer, darted down the walkway, and stepped into their spot — the place he’d been staring at all along. His tripod remained where it was, and the dome still perfectly composed. The world’s most patient selfie. And just like that, he exited the scene and finally, I got my clean, peopleless shot of the dome. I was the last to leave.
The next morning, I woke early and photographed Palermo Cathedral again, this time before sunrise. After that, I wandered the city without much purpose, scouting out the train station for the ride to Cefalù the next day. I ended the day at Teatro Massimo and took a photo just as a bat flew through the frame.
Cefalù was quiet. I arrived by train and walked straight to the cathedral. It was nearly empty, and I was just about to leave when a nun entered and began sweeping the floor. I raised my camera. Stillness, grace, light. All in one gesture. It was the image that made the whole trip feel complete.
After the cathedral, I wandered uphill and met an older woman who told me her grandmother once owned much of the land we were standing on. The street, she said, carried her family name, and the original outdoor cooking stove built into the wall still worked. After our conversation, I continued up La Rocca di Cefalù, exploring the castle ruins and ancient walls before reaching the panoramic view of the city. By the time I came down, it was around lunchtime. I wandered the town, photographing hand-painted pots, the beach, and the old Porta Pescara gate that opened to the sea. I searched for something gluten-free to eat, but it wasn’t easy. That challenge alone could be its own story.
When I returned to Palermo in the late afternoon, the walk back to my room took me past San Cataldo. A gypsy woman sat on the stone steps, her eyes low, an empty cup in her hand. Just across the piazza stood a newlywed couple, quietly talking, maybe planning their next move. They seemed wrapped in a softer kind of celebration. I took a picture. I wish I shot it better. But that’s what it was: joy and desperation sharing the same stones.
The next morning, I went out early and wandered through a long row of fabric stalls — thanks to Margherita, the caretaker at the bed and breakfast. She had pointed me there the day before. We talked each morning over coffee, and she became my sounding board throughout Palermo. She spoke decent English, with some help from Google Translate, and gave shape to the city when I needed it most.
After the market, I climbed the bell tower at San Giuseppe. It started to rain. I stayed longer than I should have, fixated on getting the perfect umbrella shot from above. By the time I came down, it had turned into a thunderstorm. One of the worst I’d ever been in. My jeans are still stained with Palermo mud. But just across from Palermo Cathedral, in a quiet archway, I got the shot — the umbrella image I had waited for.
Then came something louder than thunder: drumming. I followed it. A boy was pounding a snare drum on school steps, his rhythm echoing off Palermo’s stone while other kids sat nearby, balancing cotton candy on their knees. Joy and rhythm collided in a spontaneous street scene — one child’s music becoming the heartbeat of a city.
Later that afternoon, I looked up and saw an elderly woman on her balcony. I asked if I could take her picture. She looked down at me and said, "Why would you want to photograph an old lady?" I told her the truth: "Because you’re beautiful." She smiled and said yes. She was ninety-four. The photo is one of my favorites.
I ended the day at San Agostino. I had hoped to buy a ticket for rooftop access, like I had at other churches, but there were no tickets. I spoke with the Padre, told him I was a photojournalist from Rhode Island. He disappeared for a while and returned with a ring of keys. He led me through back hallways, up a narrow staircase, and through a small door that opened onto the roof. From there, I looked down into a quiet quadrangle garden. A girl stepped to the fountain and stood still. I took the shot.
The trip wasn’t planned well. No itinerary, no reservations beyond the basics. Just a camera, a backpack, and a lot of walking. But sometimes the spiral doesn’t lead you away from the center — it pulls you in, one loop at a time, until you realize you’ve been inside the story all along.
ERICE (scroll right for photos ➡︎)
1. Moonlight Over the Ridge
The Church of San Giovanni glows under moonlight, perched above Erice’s northeastern slope — a cinematic welcome between stone and sky.
2. Dog Under Streetlamp at Dawn
A single pool of light holds a dog still before sunrise — watchful, alert, and alone in the silence before the town wakes.
3. Stray Cat on Castle Parapet
Perched on the edge of Castello di Venere, a solitary cat meets the camera’s gaze. Below: a fog-draped valley, still and tense.
4. Side-lit Trees and Fog
Clouds move like breath across a mountain pass. Wind-shaped trees catch the morning light, path curling into a dream.
5. Snail on Umbelliferae
A lone snail climbs a dried stalk, silhouetted against pale fog — the vastness gone, the spiral remains.
6. Sunrays and Tower at Giardino del Balio
For a few seconds, sunrays broke through the mist in front of the tower. A fleeting moment of light — patience, rewarded.
PALERMO (Act I)
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7. Generations in a Palermo Alley
A red basket rises toward a balcony. A woman in an apron and a small boy move below — three generations in one quiet exchange.
8. Grit and Graffiti
A man rides a Vespa through a crumbling alley, vibrant graffiti bursting from stone. Palermo’s pulse, unfiltered.
9. Festival Gaze
In the midst of music and chaos, a couple finds stillness — a gaze held just before a kiss, a world apart from the noise.
10. The World’s Most Patient Selfie
Atop Palermo Cathedral, a photographer waited with his tripod aimed at the dome — just like me, or so I thought. A couple lingered forever at the end of the walkway. He waited. I waited. Then, finally, they moved. But instead of taking the shot, he pressed the timer and ran into their spot — the world’s most patient selfie. My photo was of the dome. His photo was of himself..
CEFALÙ
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11. Stillness in the Cathedral
A nun sweeps the floor of Cefalù Cathedral — a single act beneath centuries of light, carving silence into stone.
12. Story in the Stonework
An older woman explains her grandmother once owned the hill we stood on. The outdoor stove still worked — and so did memory.
13. Among the Ruins, Above the Sea
Castle walls and ancient stones crown La Rocca di Cefalù. From here, the city folds into the sea — time layered in stone.
14. Threshold (Porta Pescara with woman)
A woman stands at Porta Pescara, facing the sea. Stone and shadow frame her like a portal between the past and the present — a quiet threshold at the edge of Cefalù.
PALERMO (Return)
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15. Joy and Desperation, Shared
I stood on the steps above her. A gypsy woman sat low on the bottom step of San Cataldo, holding an empty cup and watching a newlywed couple across the piazza. Between them: scattered rose petals. One frame, two stories.
16. Fabric Stalls
Color, texture, and rhythm — bolts of fabric cascade through a Palermo street like a curtain lifted on everyday theater.
17. Rain and Reflection (Umbrella in archway)
The downpour hadn’t let up since I left San Giuseppe. Seeking shelter, I slipped through two open doors across from Palermo Cathedral. Inside, others waited out the storm. One girl stood at the threshold, her back to me, facing the rain and the cathedral beyond — a still silhouette in a world turned to water.
18. Street Music, Sweet Tooth
A boy plays a snare drum on school steps as cotton candy rests on his friends’ knees. Joy and rhythm echo through Palermo stone.
19. Balcony Light
“Why would you want to photograph an old lady?” she asked. “Because you’re beautiful,” I said. She was ninety-four.
20. Rooftop Garden, San Agostino
A girl stands at the edge of a quadrangle fountain — seen from above, unlocked by a key, at the end of a spiraled climb.
📸Postscript: Echoes from the Spiral
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21. Fibonacci Symposium
Not a metaphor — the spiral was real. A banner outside the Ettore Majorana Foundation led to a symposium on quantum entanglement. I photographed the visiting scientists that afternoon.
22. Fontana Pretoria (No Water)
My first stop in Palermo. No water, no tourists — just stone and presence. The shift from fog to noise began here.
23. Teatro Massimo, with Bat
Left of center, a shape mid-flight. I thought it was a bird. Later, I zoomed in — bat wings. Palermo always had another layer.
24. Rain Beneath the Tower
From the bell tower at San Giuseppe, I watched two figures walk below — umbrellas open, Palermo Cathedral rising behind them, and the mountain watching behind that. A layered moment, just before the storm turned.