View from the Pier

We never know how high we are till we are called to rise
And then, if we are true to plan,
our statures touch the skies.
- Emily Dickinson, 1830-1886

 “Anyone who comes to Palermo without seeing Monreale arrives on a donkey and leaves as an ass,” says an old Sicilian saw, and rightly so.

Under Norman reign, Muslims, Christians and Jews co-existed here peacefully and prosperously, borrowing heavily from each other’s heritage.  Nowhere is this legacy of tolerance more evident than the enduring beauty of Monreale’s cathedral, on the outskirts of Palermo. King William II epitomized the Norman open-mindedness to the various ethnicities absorbed into his growing kingdom. In building the duomo, he tapped into the architectural traditions of the conquered Arab populace, and incorporated decorative techniques from the Byzantines, with whom the Normans traded on forays into the Eastern Empire.

Yet William wasn’t a saint—it’s said that building the duomo was an attempt to outdo his grandfather Roger II’s grandiose palace “chapel” in Palermo.  Another bit of lore says that the cathedral was inspired by a dream, and that the site on which it was built was the Norman king’s royal hunting ground.  This legend claims that William, worn out from stalking deer and boar on the reserve, took a snooze, during which a vision of the Madonna directed him to treasure his father had buried.  Upon finding it, he used the manna from heaven to fund work on the cathedral, which began  in 1174.  Today it is considered as the granddaddy of all chaiesa in southern Italy.  

Politics and public relations being the age-old arts that they are, William ensured that he would forever go down in history as the benefactor of this massive monument to his faith.  He makes two appearances in tile on its walls; in one depiction, he is being crowned by Jesus himself.

I decided to explore the exterior first and embarked on ascending the cathedral’s tiered terraces, which are connected via dimly-lit halls made the height of Medieval man.  The claustrophobic corridors made me thankful that the masses of pilgrims who trek here each spring had not yet descended.  After a challenging hike upward, I reached the duomo’s highest point, sharing it with a portly Australian woman.  She wiped the sweat from her brow and with a grin, good-naturedly lambasted herself for the beer she had at lunch.  We exchanged smiles as we took in the panorama of the immense volcanic Mount Caputo off to the right, and below, red-tiled rooftops amid emerald foliage stretching to the sparkling bay of Conca d’Or.

Gingerly making my way back down, I came to a halt behind a British couple, as what little illumination there was in the dim stairway was suddenly extinguished.  Above the woman’s head on the wall, a tiny light blinked.  “Push the button!” her husband commanded.  “You push it!” she retorted, as though doing so might trigger a nuclear meltdown of Monreale.  I was skeptical that the switch was relevant to our situation but push it he did, and lo and behold there was light.

Eventually, I found myself alone on a small terrace and paused, taking in the brightly-colored ceramics on an adjacent stairway.  Nearby, the dark and light stone of a tower’s exterior was emblazoned with a pattern of circular carvings that seemed luminous in the late afternoon light.  Leaning on a railing that separated me from the town several stories below, I spotted a white dove being groomed by a dark pigeon on ledge.  The duo seemed fitting mascots for this realm created by William the “Good,” a red-haired Franco whom the Arab chroniclers of the period credited with every human virtue. 

Descending the heights, I emerged into the nave, where I availed myself of one of the tall heavy red votive candles being sold for one euro.  The keeper of the flame also handed me a thin taper, accompanied by a burst of rapid-fire Italian.  I got the gist, and lit my votive with it at one of the many icon stations surrounded by a sea of flickering offerings. 

I raised my bowed head and let it tip all the way back, the better to admire the cathedral’s mosaics, which told the stories of the Bible to the illiterate population of the time.  I stood with eyes raised upward, awed at the billions of tiny tiles meticulously mapped out to explode in a huge, technicolor tapestry of faith.   Then, I felt as much as heard the familiar strains of “Here Comes the Bride” being struck on Monreale’s massive organ. 

As the chords reverberated throughout the immense chamber, we tourists collectively drew in a breath and turned to watch as a bride and groom begin their long journey down the aisle and a life together on a Monday afternoon in May. Under a canopy of brilliant tiles on a glistening gold background, the couple seemed oblivious to the crowd of sightseers from around the world witnessing their sacrament. Or perhaps here, in Monreale, they take for granted the assemblage of people from far corners under this roof, built by the talents and hands of so many cultures and creeds.

More likely, Monreale’s residents, like the rest of us, have individual moments and many places in which inspiration is bestowed to see things from the highest point of view. Sacred monuments like Monreale can indeed often imbue the ability to clearly see–and choose to overlook–very human attributes like ego and fear. Even more divine is the idea that such a lofty perch lies within and travels with us.

……

For more images of Sicily, see Travel Photos: http://www.viewfromthepier.com/travel-photos/

http://www.bestofsicily.com/mag/art253.htm

http://www.bestofsicily.com/monreale.htm
 
http://www.sicilytourist.com/incominginsicily/palermo/monreale.htm
 
http://www.italyheaven.co.uk/sicily/monreale.html

Monreale