We are near one of the worlds active volcanoes. Our host recommended Paolo as a driver and guide, and with the promise of Lew and John going climbing up the side of the mountain, Elaine and I drove along, the plan was to be dropped off for some shopping, cappuccino, and perhaps a little down time in the middle of our down time.
Paolo picked us up ten minutes early, and we piled into his larger-than-usual-for-Italy Nissan Pathfinder. Fortunately, he is an Italian Driver who understands by upbringing and custom that stop lights are set back. Before you would stop at intersections, (important if one is to stop, which most Sicilian drivers do not, so maybe that is a picky point for me to mention…). He is a handsome 38 year old man with a wicked sense of humor, a degree in economics, and curiosity embedded in a quick intelligent mind. Obviously fun. He also has, he said, a German sense of time. He was always waiting for us, and ready to go on to the next thing, and trying to rein us in. He never stopped at any shopping place, and insisted that we saw things that were important for him to ‘explain-me.’ Mt. Etna was steaming, and at the top where, by the way, there was no shopping, we could see all the way to the sea trying to twinkle back up at us through the haze and clouds. It was impressively far away, with former volcano cones – lots of them, even recent ones, in the way. One from December’s flow. Those are the left over hills created by the up-pressure of magma. They look a bit like Mordor would look in my imagination. This is an active volcano and earthquake area, and unlike Mauna Kea in Hawaii – it is “well-behaved,” said our guide.
Lunch with Arancino – the local street food, sold everywhere. Steaming hot rice cones, filled with peas, rice and meat, or spinach. Yummy and much better than when I made them – or tried to.
We never got to the shopping part of things, but we did climb into a volcanic cave, hoping that it would stay inactive while we were there. It did. The ride up there and the return was spectacularly beautiful. Our guide drove us through his home town, which, he told us, had the record for the most unfinished public buildings in Europe. Unfinished? Yes, he said – the buildings are unfinished, including low rent apartments – large concrete structures, uncompleted. Public buildings, like a swimming pool, a stadium (for polo?), and a large police complex (very large) all go unused, their structure like the bare bones of dreams and ideas, with no flesh to make them human. Why? He said – it is a common enough problem – the money disappears midway, and then no one knows how to complete things, or they find flaws in the design, and no one is allowed to use it or enter. Shaking his head, he says that it is too common in Sicily; all politicians are corrupt, dishonest and steal. We shake our heads in common understanding.
The dessert choice here was Granite – pistachio or almond – of course, and a brioche. For breakfast? Also brioche, and a cappuccino. I watched the gentleman across from me in the bar with his tiny cup of espresso, and his large brioche – the certain kind made here, and his came with a clump of something chocolate on top, and on one side. He first dipped the brioche into the coffee, piece by piece, winding it through the chocolate, mixing with the coffee slowly, one tiny pastry-bite at a time before popping it into his mouth with an air of satisfaction. When nearly done, he then tore off pieces to finish around the sides. Finally, he gave a bit to the pigeon at his feet. The owner of the bar looked on this behavior with an indulgent air, and a slight smile. Pigeon-lovers are everywhere.
Tiny shops are open about 8:00 am, but then everything closes about 12:30 for 4 or 5 hours. The morning bakeries are full of people, mostly men, in shops the size of my kitchen. On the streets, behind those tin doors that clamp down when they are closed, are mysterious marvels. Some, when open, show shops of modern elegance, another a boxing ring, a hardware store, one opened onto another atrium residence, several into larger spaces holding cars, apartments, and treasures we imagined. The fruit sellers simply pull up in their miniature trucks loaded with produce, and people form up to buy. He weighs the produce with a balance scale, and several sizes of lead weights he puts on and pulls off to reach his total. He couldn’t figure out how to charge us for one peach, and just told us to eat and enjoy.
We have had little successful shopping. Either we cannot find any, or there isn’t a center large enough for us to get what we needed. I need a post office, but don’t know how to ship a small package, if I can find an office. Ahhh – the problems…
Our accommodations continue to amaze me with just how vast they are. There are several apartments it seems, and maybe a business or two, on the ground floor. There are multiple egress gates and doors. It is too big to say that it needs work- I don’ know where you would stop once started, but this place has tile and stone, concrete and tiles for endurance, a well, now covered in this third floor garden. I can’t even begin to describe size in a place that has 12 foot ceilings, kitchens above the second floor kitchen, a garden above the street. The cozy apartment next to use houses a family of pleasant Germans.
I called it fecund in a past blog. The fruit falls from the trees, letting the turtles eat as they like, and the variety includes enough to engage fruit flies that hover in the air like fog, following dropped pieces of soft or rotting fruit. Pieces of the palm trees, lemon, limes peach, persimmon and pomegranates, olives and bird of paradise all mingle with others. A palm tree sit in the center, maybe six stories high. Fecund, somewhat buggy, but very alive. Trash is carefully separated, and we’ve seen no evidence of mice or other rodents, although there is plenty for them to eat.
My head has begun to turn back toward home. I only realized it about 2:30 am. I found myself unable to sleep well, longing for the sounds of my family and friends, my closet of fresh clothes, and my own bed. Writing.
It is time. Although I treasure my time remaining, I also missed my routine, and familiars. Travel, even when delightful, has a tendency to create an isola within myself. My own island, separate from the tides without, finding personal introspection within. Isolated linguistically, I become observant, but not really involved. There is no one here to argue with, to challenge, to have discourse with. I will miss the bells, those insistent, clanging, resonant, irritating bells.
It is nearly time to rejoin the continent.