Sicily, A Piece of My Heart

Sicily is not subtle. It arrives all at once. It smells like oranges and sea salt and sugar and sun-baked stone. It is loud in the best way: the market vendors calling out, the ocean crashing, the espresso cups clinking in small bars where time moves like honey.

My love for Sicily is tangled up in memories. Summers spent under a parasol, eating granite with brioche. Afternoons climbing narrow village streets in sandals that should have known better. Dinners that stretched for hours, always loud, always full of stories.

What I love most about Sicily is how deeply it lives in the body. The food isn’t just delicious, it's emotional. Pasta alla Norma tastes like poetry. Arancini are edible nostalgia. Cannoli are not a dessert; they’re a declaration. Every bite feels like something you grew up with, even if you didn't.

When I design trips to Sicily, I don’t just think of beaches and ruins (though, yes, they are glorious). I think of pacing. Of rhythm. Of giving people time to understand the Sicilian contradiction: wild and warm, chaotic and generous, complex but never complicated when you let go of expectations.

I always tell people: Sicily doesn’t perform for you. You have to show up ready. Ready to feel. Ready to taste. Ready to be invited into someone’s kitchen, or someone’s silence.

Whether you want Baroque cities or tiny coastal towns, vineyard lunches or hikes near Etna, Sicily delivers with soul. All I do is help you meet it halfway.