I go to Palermo for the first time in thirty years of age, although it's roots in Palermo from the paternal side. The first day, the first thing I decided to dive into the "Vucciria", the historic market popular for me the most legendary and representative of the city, the whole of Sicily. Why Vucciria I have heard so much about; I read a story by Andrea Camilleri dedicated to it; Vucciria I dreamed in the famous painting by Renato Guttuso flamboyant, and then find it on time on the list of places to visit key guide of Palermo bought before the trip.
And I already imagine stalls, stalls and shops in the carpet, to expand like an octopus in alleys, streets and alleys around Piazza Caracciolo; I imagine a floating crowd that moves up and down between sellers and goods on display, all side by side, to make it look even bigger the entire area; I imagine the many colors of the vegetables, the oblong Cucuzza green, the fruits of the sea well exposed between ice and water spray that bathe balate on which you walk, fish sword sticking out sheared, red-quarters of animals hanging on hooks above passersby; I imagine a concert of screams, a litany of abbaniate launched by the merchants, giving the impression of being in league with each other to confuse people and turn them into customers; and the shouting of the people, young boldly, women laden with bags and bags, kids fun, elderly at home in a world that is familiar to him from birth; I imagine the pungent smell of fresh fish, seafood, all of the many varieties of olives to taste, of cheese, of frittume of spleens and intestines cooked barbecued raising columns of smoke on the road.
And I already imagine stalls, stalls and shops in the carpet, to expand like an octopus in alleys, streets and alleys around Piazza Caracciolo; I imagine a floating crowd that moves up and down between sellers and goods on display, all side by side, to make it look even bigger the entire area; I imagine the many colors of the vegetables, the oblong Cucuzza green, the fruits of the sea well exposed between ice and water spray that bathe balate on which you walk, fish sword sticking out sheared, red-quarters of animals hanging on hooks above passersby; I imagine a concert of screams, a litany of abbaniate launched by the merchants, giving the impression of being in league with each other to confuse people and turn them into customers; and the shouting of the people, young boldly, women laden with bags and bags, kids fun, elderly at home in a world that is familiar to him from birth; I imagine the pungent smell of fresh fish, seafood, all of the many varieties of olives to taste, of cheese, of frittume of spleens and intestines cooked barbecued raising columns of smoke on the road.