Dusty-beautiful Palermo, wrapped in baroque, flowers, and Arab-Norman architecture. Here, a Chinese restaurant neighbors Polish goods; just across the street, there’s a shop called “Products from Romania,” and around the corner, a Bangladeshi family feeds me fragrant Indian curry — even gifting warm lentil patties. Then they switch on the soft evening lights to make our photos look better.
They didn’t let us into the majolica museum — closed on Mondays. But we didn’t lose anything: look how the Arab art brought here in the 12th century finds its roots again in the El Habib shop — the Hand of Fatima, Islamic floral motifs, and Italian decorations now coexist in one window, ready to brighten the homes of locals and tourists alike.
Like an old rag-and-bone woman, I drank in not the baroque, but these things — sneakers drying on balconies, sacred icons under glass on every corner, flower pots in the most unlikely places, signs sometimes elegant, sometimes handmade, but always authentic. Here you know exactly where you’ve come.
The Palermitans showed me their inner courtyards, holding back guard dogs, explaining what those yellow tubes are for — to lower rubble during restorations. An Algerian young man, initially confused, pointed out the main monuments (so I saw them anyway) before understanding that I was searching for hidden corners.
Thank you, city. Multiface, chaotic, but so alive, welcoming, and generous. Your true beauty isn’t where the tourist guides take us.