Tour Me Out
- Joanna
- 9 hours ago
- 11 min read
I think I've eaten so many spinach arancini... at this point I could probably become a critic. The bad ones? Sure, I still eat them... but then I get irritated with myself for having ruined a perfectly good meal opportunity on something a bit ick.
But the good ones? Man. l have to physically tear myself away... to prevent me just staying there and eating one right after another...
I've taken this strange pride in tracking them down too... pinpointing the right street eat shops, following traveller's recommendations, five stars, and, of course, hunting specifically for the very rare gluten-free versions. They are NOT easy to find... but eating those ones make me feel so much better. I do admit, I happily toss "bloated and gut-wrenched for the entire day" to the wind for an excellent spinach arancini.
Oh yes. Absolutely worth it.
There was one place I found that specialized in arancini... or arancina. Apparently, it's arancino in the east of Sicily and arancina in the west. Arancini is actually the plural. Anyway... this shop had everything... vegan, gluten-free, eggplant, mushroom, hot peppers... even a pumpkin & blue cheese creation. I never got the chance to try that one, though I probably should have.
I was desperately obsessed with spinach. It was hard to move on.
And ya... like I said, if you're not spending every day touring churches, there isn't a whole lot else to do except eat arancina and drink Aperol Spritzes... and rosé.
Thank goodness for Palermo's street art.
Did you know you can get Aperol Spritzes to go in Palermo???
Yes... TO GO!
Canada is a far inferior country in this department. When I get home, l intend to protest for legal, freely available, grab & go Aperol spritzes. Enough is enough.
I love Palermo.
Love it.
It’s the kind of place where I feel like I could wander forever. Every street and every alleyway offers something... something happening, something to admire, something to photograph, something to eat or drink, something completely unexpected... The city is full of wonder! I’ve already confessed my obsession with street art. Still, it’s everything else too... the tiny cafés tucked into corners or spewing out onto the cobblestones, the craft stalls, the artisans painting right in front of you, the street tempting you at every step, the open-air markets overflowing with colour and piles of fresh vegetables, the carts stacked with oranges and the guys who will squeeze a juice for you right on the spot.
I really do love Palermo.
This city knows how to turn an ordinary alleyway into something magical. Strings of lights, little decorations, like hearts, flags, flowers, playing cards... whatever someone felt like hanging up! It all works and it all adds to the atmosphere. And the laundry draped from every balcony? That’s the real Sicilian charm right there. All together, it gives the whole city this lived-in, warm, utterly unique beauty.
And photos? They don’t even come close to capturing how it feels.
Love it.
BUT… as incredible, welcoming, and vibrant as Palermo is, the city carries a very dark and bloody past. In fact, it's not all in the past... much of this darkness still lingers, its turbulence still affects many of its citizens even today.
I did a “No Mafia” tour... thinking it would be a nice change from the usual food tours I tend to do… and it absolutely was. It was exciting... and I learned a lot about the Mafia (Cosa Nostra) in Palermo… though it was longer than I expected. The tour started at 10 am and didn’t end until nearly 1:30 pm. I was a bit of a knob... honestly... and somewhere along the lines of my steadily malfunctioning brain, I read my ticket completely wrong. I thought the tour started at 11. I'd written 10 in my itinerary AND in my phone... So why I set my sights on 11 am is a mystery to me.
So there I was... enjoying a lovely, lazy and leisurely morning... planning to try a new arancini place for breakfast before casually strolling over to meet the group. Everything was fabulous... until my peaceful morning exploded at exactly 10:04 am. That's when I got a WhatsApp from the guide... they were starting, wondering where I was... and here was her location pin to find the group when I was ready.
Crap.
Instant frenzy..
There was no breakfast arancina that morning… just me galloping through the streets of Palermo... frantically begging that damn little blue Google Maps dot to lead me in the right direction. And yes… I still managed to go the wrong way. Twice.
Turns out Google Maps doesn’t pair well with blind panic.
I got there... finally.
The guide was very knowledgeable and engaging, but with so much information and constant talking, it was easy to get a bit overwhelmed. A few times, I caught myself drifting off. Not to sleep, obviously... but my mind just wandered. I tend to suffer from a short attention span at times. I don't mean to be unkind or judgmental at all, but listening to someone speak for over three hours straight is tough enough, in any situation… but when the English is a bit broken, it becomes much harder to follow and maintain focus.
The Cosa Nostra has a very dark history. In the 70s, 80s, and 90s, Palermo was almost like a bloodbath, with constant killings. The Mafia, as most people imagine it... thanks to Hollywood, it's all suits, cigars, and dramatic cinematic menace.
But the real story began very differently...
**this blurb is a bit Google, a bit Chatgpt and a bit me.
"Back in the 19th century, in the rural towns around Palermo, groups formed supposedly to 'protect' land and families. It didn’t take long for those groups to become organized clans, each with its own boss, underboss, consigliere (advisor)... and a ladder of loyalties beneath them. Secrecy was everything. Loyalty wasn’t optional. Fear was a language everyone understood.
For decades, the Cosa Nostra tightened its grip on Sicily. Especially Palermo. Extortion, or pizzo, became a quiet tax locals were forced to pay. Businesses couldn’t breathe without the Mafia’s permission. They controlled smuggling, rackets, political connections... and reinforced all of it with a level of violence that still haunts Sicily’s memory.
The people who lived through this era talk about it like a dark cloud that hung over everything: you kept your head down, didn’t ask questions, didn’t say names out loud. You didn’t get involved. You just lived around the danger and hoped your family would survive.
Then the violence escalated. From the 1970s to the 1990s, Sicily endured the 'Mafia Wars'... murders, car bombs, and brutal internal purges. It was a terrifying, chaotic chapter. And out of that darkness rose two names that nearly every Sicilian speaks with reverence: Giovanni Falcone and Paolo Borsellino. Two judges, two friends, dedicated to dismantling the system from the inside. They led the Maxi Trial... the first time the Mafia was prosecuted as a true criminal organization, its hierarchy exposed in court. Their success was monumental... but their lives, tragically, were cut short by Mafia bombings in 1992.
Their deaths shocked Italy. But they also ignited something powerful: a wave of public defiance, a refusal to remain silent any longer. Thousands marched, businesses began saying NO to pizzo, and a new generation grew up rejecting the shadow the Mafia had cast for so long.
This is the Sicily you feel today. Palermo is no longer defined by the Cosa Nostra... but by the people who stood up to it. By the activists, the shopkeepers, the families who refused to bow. By organizations like Addiopizzo, where stores proudly display stickers declaring they don’t pay Mafia extortion. By the art, the culture, the reclaimed spaces that once belonged to fear."
Not as glorious as Hollywood makes it out to be.
Dark, fascinating, and utterly surprising.
I think I’ve mentioned how tough it is to cross the street here. Impossible and dangerous. You really take your life in your hands as soon as you step out into the street. Cars don’t care. They really don't. Our "No Mafia" guide told us that it doesn’t matter how kind and lovely of a person you are... once you get behind the wheel of a car, your personality MUST change.
It’s almost like a creative driving style.
Sicilian style.
Lanes are suggestions, rules are flexible… and pedestrians DO NOT matter. It’s chaotic, fast, assertive... and full of sudden decisions.
The guide said that the rule of crossing streets in Sicily is "commitment." As soon as you take that first step, you have to follow through… no hesitating, no slowing down, no turning back.
Why?
Because by then, the cars and mopeds have already seen you and done the math in their heads. Any changes we make as pedestrians will throw off their calculations… and that’s when things get messy.
Good to know. That piece of advice was very well taken.
I also took another tour. This is the one I briefly mentioned in my last blog…
The one that I was on with the lady from Texas, who accused Canada of being bad for graffiti.
How rude!
I’m still irked about that one.
Anyway…
I really wanted to visit a little medieval village called Erice. It came highly recommended... by travel blogs, websites, influencers… you name it. Funny how you end up feeling almost coerced into going to these “must-see” spots... like your entire trip will be a failure if you don't. Honestly, I almost skipped it altogether... simply because I couldn’t figure out how to get there.
At all. Seriously nothing.
There was no transportation to Erice.
No bus. No train.
Yes… of course, I could take a taxi… but that was hardly something I could afford. Finally, I found a day tour that included the village, so I booked it immediately. $140. The reviews for the day tour weren't great... but I went in with full knowledge that it was basically a transportation service with a "tour-ish" label slapped on top.
There were three vans, each packed to the brim... which meant this transportation company was making an absolute mint. My van had seven people... one girl from Japan, two from Kelowna, three from Houston, Texas... and me.
Our first stop was Segesta, home to one of Sicily’s most iconic ancient temples. Communication there… was... exhausting. It all definitely left something to be desired. First, we had to pay a surprisingly steep entrance fee. Then we were told we had to take a shuttle. Only problem? There was no shuttle to be found. The woman kept repeating, “The big bus! Go the big bus!”
Alright, fine... we would find the big bus.
Challenge accepted.
Finally, a “big bus” appeared. But as we all went to board, a very pushy tour guide sternly shooed us away, informing us that this was a private bus... and we were not welcome.
Back to square one.
We all stood around for another 15 minutes or so... confused and contemplating walking. Although the walk probably would've done me good after having been in the van for a couple of hours, I had paid a lot of money for entrance... and as it included a shuttle, damned if I wasn't getting on a bloody shuttle.
A smaller bus did eventually show up, and we all loaded on. We all could have fit on the big bus... and it would have saved a bit of gas and manpower. But... I do what I'm told. The shuttle took us up the hill and dropped us off at the start of a trail that would lead to the Segesta amphitheatre.
We were told we had 30 minutes to enjoy the amphitheatre and the view before the shuttle would arrive to take us back down the hill. Easy enough instructions… for most of us.
I think.
Some people from the other vans didn’t quite grasp the instructions, which set us a solid half hour behind schedule.
Some people…
The Elymians, an ancient people of mysterious origin, founded Segesta. The site itself was peaceful and uncrowded... a rare treat for a tourist spot. But it is November.
After exploring the amphitheatre and being dropped off at the bottom of one hill, we climbed up another to the Doric temple, which was truly spectacular. A 5th-century BCE masterpiece... roofless, yet astonishingly preserved... and standing dramatically against the lush Sicilian landscape. Legend has it that it was probably never finished because funds and labour were redirected to war.
The only odd touch? Three modern art installations were planted right in front of the temple. They looked as if they’d gotten lost on the way to a completely different museum. They were big, gaudy, colourful... and undeniably bizarre. One was a red lobster riding a blue horse.
But Segesta itself?
Absolutely stunning.
Did I mention the gift shop at the bottom of the hill sold spinach arancina?
After that, our van stopped at the salt pans... which may sound cool in theory... but... were horrendous in practice. They were flat, full of water, wind-blasted, and altogether unatmospheric. Our guide didn't seem to know much beyond, "There are three types of salt."
Inspiring.
And yes... perhaps it's an important stop, given the history of salt production here. It goes back to Phoenician and Roman times and was vital for trade and food preservation. But standing around looking at evaporating puddles for 25 minutes?
Not thrilling.
Not thrilling at all.
Many reviews wrote that they should spend less time at the salt pans and more time in Erice.
I concur.
One of the girls from Texas grabbed a whole handful of dirty salt from a nearby crusty pile that looked like it had been there since the dawn of time. She actually hauled it back to the van and put it in a ziplock to take home with her. To Texas! I asked her, "What are you going to do with it?" to which she replied, "Maybe cook?"
Hmmmm... that could get awkward if it turns out to be bath salts or some weird ionic compound.
And finally… Erice... a stunning medieval town perched high atop a mountain, which instantly explained why I couldn’t find any public transportation. The place is seriously elevated. Steep, high, hilly... breathtaking. From the moment I arrived, it felt like stepping back in time. Narrow winding alleys, cobblestone streets, ancient stone walls, and dramatic vistas stretching down to the coast made it wonderfully enchanting.
And the churches.
SO. MANY. CHURCHES.
Erice’s history is pretty remarkable. It began as an Elymian settlement, then passed through a number of civilizations... Phoenician, Greek, Roman, Arab, Norman... each leaving its own mark on the town’s architecture, culture, and spirit.
I loved the Castello di Venere (Venus Castle), a Norman fortress built on the ruins of an ancient temple dedicated to Venus, the goddess of love. Venus was deeply tied to the sea... as her origin story has her emerging fully grown from the ocean foam. So the castle’s elevated position overlooking the northern Sicilian coastline is perfect for her. Many Venus temples were built in high, coastal locations, connecting her divine presence to both the heavens and the sea.
People prayed to Venus (or Aphrodite, if you prefer) for love, beauty, fertility, happy marriages, and successful relationships.
After all that exploring... uphill, downhill, uphill, downhill... repeat… repeat... repeat... I was ready for a break. I ducked into a tiny café for a well-earned pistachio cannoli and a spritz.
I think I deserved it.
The man running the place was wonderfully jolly... practically ushering me inside with open arms. I settled at one of the outside tables, which wobbled a LOT thanks to the incline and the lumpy cobblestones. The chair wobbled too. The entire process was a full balancing act.
The moment he set the spritz down, I reached for a quick photo… and somehow hit the unstable table with my knee. The entire drink launched itself across the table, splashed all over me, and then smashed onto the cobblestones.
Oops.
Shit.
The man came out... and suddenly, he was no longer “jolly.” In fact, quite the opposite. His entire vibe had shifted from “Welcome!” to “Get out.” I don’t think he liked me anymore… at all.
It wasn’t my fault!
These damn cobblestones are going to be the death of me.