Palermo wakes early

Horatio Clare looks back on living in a place where he once dreamed of becoming what he has now become

Via Fillippo Cordova is a mundane street north of the centre of Palermo. My flat is an unfinished apartment on the roof of a tower block, with views of the ships in port, the Favorita football stadium, the Ucciardone prison, where Mafiosi poison each other, and Monte Pellegrino, the majestic rock which overlooks the city, and Palermo’s domes and spires. I have moved to Sicily to become a writer and I cannot believe my luck.

Nowhere in Europe has more vivid life or dramatic death than Palermo. Palermo wakes early, in tides of traffic and children. My street is not far from the Favorita park, haunt of soldiers, prostitutes and snakes. My days begin at Bar Alba, a 1950s crown of a coffee shop serving the world’s best fresh orange juice and most delicious arancine, crusty golden rice balls presented with a flourish, the way a lover offers a rose. Horses with cigar-smoking riders head for the hippodrome to practice for Mafia-fixed races. The paper lists shops which burned last night, punishment for not paying protection.