Apr.
6/09

Tapophiles of the World, Unite!

I think I may have forgotten to mention my cemetery jones.

Along with exploring the wine and food of a different culture, nothing else quite provides a window into someone else’s world but a cemetery.

And so, it should come as no surprise that the highlight of my trip to Sicily — we spent most of our time in Palermo — a couple of summers ago was a visit to the Catacombs of the Capuchin Monks.

A monk wrapped in a heavy brown robe with a rope tied around his waist takes our money. We arrived 20 minutes before closing–most retail establishments and non-restaurants close in Sicily at 12 or 1 pm and open again at 4–and so I shriek and am the first to race through the halls.

Catacombs of the Capuchin Monks

Underground it’s cool, a welcome contrast to the blast-furnace heat above ground. It also had a slightly funky, musty smell that not everyone appreciated, based on the squinched-up faces.

In our entire group, I was the only one running around with a big grin on my face. Also the only one to wear a maniacal grin the whole way and to not-so-surreptitiously snap a few photos only to be stalked by a guy who yells No foto! Of course, I’m ignoring the signs everywhere that say NO FOTO NO FILM, but the non-flash pics come out better anyway.

Bodies hang on walls, are stacked in alcoves, thousands and thousands. Some, dressed in their finery, still convey their personalities. Back in the day, it was a status symbol to inter your dead here.

Next up: the catacombs of Paris.

By Lisa Rogak