Under the Sicilian Sun: Bikinis, Umbrellas, and Finding My Own Pace

Navigating Beach Days and Renovations, in the Sicilian Heat

I've been thinking lately about how it's going to be beach weather in Sicily very soon, and I swore never to let anyone I know, other than Jeff, see me three-quarters naked. Don’t get me wrong, I have logged plenty of hours at the beach and in pools—I have the sun damage to prove it, just like any Gen-Xer. But I’m just not there these days. The idea of sand stuck to zinc sunscreen on my back, down my cleavage, and up my hooha? Nope.

yes, this is AI-generated

Because summer in Sicily is hot. February in Melbourne is our hottest month, and the past week has been no exception. It has looked like this:

How does anyone know what to wear in this city? We don’t. Melburnians know that if it’s going to be a hot day, we’d better bring an umbrella and a coat just in case.

August is the hottest month in Sicily. The equivalent period of summer in my town last year looked like this:

This is why Sicilians spend August on holiday and at the beach. Everything shuts down because it's a constant game of bake and plunge.

I don’t like the heat, which makes me a shit Sicilian; I’m more like a geisha who whips out her umbrella at the mere mention of the sun. When it’s hot, you’ll find me under the air conditioner, sprawled out on the floor, eating an icypole. So, like my last three visits to the island, should I just avoid the beach, look at it from the shore, and say, Mmm, the Mediterranean really is that blue?

The thing is, my friend Angela has a pool at her country home just out of town, and she’s already warned me to prepare for daytime drinking and pool games. And all I can think is, should I up my Wegovy dose and lose more weight before I go? Because it looks like I’ll need bathers, but my thighs still touch when I walk, so... How can I say no to Angela? (Nobody can.)

Let me catch you up. When Jeff and I were in Sicily last time, we bought a house there. I know! It’s a fixer-upper right in the middle of town, near the piazza, my family, friends, the butcher, baker, fruiterer. And I'm heading back for a few months—on my own (!)—to manage the renovations.

First off, I haven't been away from Jeff this long in ages. There was that one time when Jeff went to the Philippines for work, and that other time when he decided to live away from home for six months, but we’re different now. I know it will get easier after a few weeks as we each hit our own groove and start filling our calendars. But I can’t stop this feeling of dread—it hurts right under my sacrum, like a heart attack. The fear is occupying a lot of space in my already busy head.

My friends, who I've asked to help me get a fridge, a car, and a coffee machine ASAP, have told me to be tranquilla. And that's exactly as it sounds. Be cool, chill out, all in good time. It may very well be my undoing, this inability to let go, to stop needing things done NOW, to order something on Amazon and get it the next day. I've always had a hard time "being tranquilla," hence all the medication, alcohol, cannabis, lost friendships, and so on.

Sure, I may be without a fridge for a few days, and I won't have my coffee machine yet, which is actually an even bigger drama. But the piazza is up the road, and no coffee in Sicily is ever a bad coffee. Looks like I'll be eating with family and friends for a while—which is excellent because they’re feeders, but not so great when you’re getting new bathers.

I love change. I love a little uncertainty. That’s why, when my mother asks me why I would want to live in a small town in Sicily, I tell her, I’m bored, I need change and a little uncertainty is good for you. But I say it in my loudest Sicilian, which sounds like I’m saying, Because I hate my life, I’m bored, I miss my friends, the ruins, cheap pizza and the best spaghetti vongole on the planet. I want something new!

And Mum says, But you have to move everything, and that’s a lot of work.

To which I say, We’ll figure it out.

And then she says, You can’t possibly go alone, without your HUSBAND.

And I say, But I am.

But I don't know how it will go, and that's why I'm a little scared.

But let’s get back to the real question: One-piece (black) or burkini (also black)? And what’s the perfect umbrella—small enough for my bag, strong enough for the Sicilian sun?