Monthly Archives: September 2016

Palermo

Image

2

The city layout of Palermo is what Shanghai should have been, a wide grid of smart boulevards enclosing neighborhoods that have, except for an ineffective dollop of asphalt, changed little in 100 years. I know this involuntarily from a premature left turn that Rick made when his navigator misread our map while seeking our classy hotel. We miraculously wound our way to the Palermo Cathedral, where Via Vittorio Emanuele, our hotel’s street, was closed to auto traffic. Our persistent navigator pleaded our case to a helpful traffic cop who allowed Rick to drive down the street with the unnecessary caution (one hopes) don’t hit anyone. (OK, she only spoke Italian, so how would I know? But that’s the Italian driving rule, no hit, no foul.)

As always, images will enlarge if clicked on.

Palermo neighborhood
Via Maqueda closed for a party
Young people at Teatro Massimo
Galleria d’Arte Moderna

We did a rapid check-in to drop off our luggage before returning the car about a mile away, allowing us to enjoy a sunny Friday afternoon stroll up the Via Maqueda, which on our return was also closed. Palermo is a city for people, not cars, and Friday is party day. The people are purposefully dressed for social social interactions.

To illustrate the resistance of Palermo to the demands of modern life, I took a short video of an intersection behind the Cathedral during a late-night celebration. This nest of capillaries is fed from the wide arteries of city planning. When driving around the city, stay on the broad streets as long as possible; the capillaries are not for American cArpuscles.

American movie entertainment, like The Godfather, gives one an impression of crime bosses, pickpockets, and corruption. Instead, I saw smiling faces, calm, sincere, handsome. On our walk from the jeep drop-off, quenched by a negroni cocktail, smiling under the crystal blue sky, my street gawking was well-served by a red traffic light. A group of teens, perhaps between high school and college patiently held the curb in easy going chatter when one outstandingly attractive young woman turned to give me a warm, curious glance at an obvious tourist costumed by Palermo as if at a ball. I smiled; so did she. I mouthed the words,”very pretty,” with a simple nod. She mouthed back, in posed English, “Thank you.” The light changed. We moved on in our separate clusters, my afternoon improved by her payment to my charm deficit … a tiny bit.

At the intersection of Via Maqueda and Via Vittorio Emanuele, a few steps from our hotel, is an intersection misnamed Quattro Canti, which translates to “four corners.” In fact, there are no corners because the intersection is a circle. Even the buildings are curved to deprive any place for a corner to hide. Each building represents a season (only summer and winter are depicted below), four kings, four patrons, and the four cheeses on a quattro formaggi pizza. (The last item is a guess, but all the statues represent someone known as a “big cheese.” Such is my improved Italian.) The first two photos below are of Quattro Canti.

Just around the corner (around the circle?) is the Fontana Pretoria where some nuns got a deal on a fountain and a clutch of naked statues. It came to be called the Piazza della Vergogna, the “Square of Shame.” The shame, it seems to me, is to have lived within modest reach of such depictions while never touching the real thing.
Shame or not, the carvings stand tall, if not erect. (Reminds me of a story an uncle once told of a racy play he saw seated in front of two church ladies who tisk’ed and condemned the on-stage pruriency, but sat until the final curtain.)

Once a religious city (in Europe, only the Vatican can claim to be stedfast), Palermo has a couple of outstanding efforts to get the attention of He who is not there.

fullsizeoutput_1b3b

Palermo’s Cathedral resembles a cluster of buildings more than a unified structure. A brilliant architect made the collection warm, proud, inviting, and harmonious. With the exception of a statue of St. Sebastian, depricted with an arrow (enforcing the mafia code of silence), this is a church that fits the purpose of a city, rather than standing apart and above it.

Stephanie put the Cappella Palatina on our list of must sees. There is no escaping the long lines, but a visit to Palermo without seeing this Byzantine chapel built by Roger II of Sicily in 1132 is unthinkable. The mosaic detail covers every square inch of the surface. (An Italian named “Roger,” really? And there were two?)

 

There are many other things to see in the Norman Royal Palace of Palermo that contains the Cappella, but photographs are forbidden outside the Chapel, and so with the vision of Sebastian fresh in my mind, my camera stayed protectively in my pants. The palace houses the legislative chamber of Sicily’s elected body, showing a desire to maintain local control as strong in Sicily as England, Tibet, and North Dakota.

If I were ever to return to Sicily, Palermo is a place I would stay for several nights. Perhaps what I like most is the sense that Palermo is a city complete. Cranes do not tower above the street life, in some frantic demand that something is needed to correct a bygone miscalculation. The city seems at peace with itself—justifiably. Construction suggests dissatisfaction. The desire to create a better future is often seen as optimism, but at its core, there is displeasure. Palermo has none of that. Modernity is a visitor who knows her place.

And that is our visit to Italy in 2016. Now home to watch Donald Trump become president. I shall never again criticize the Italians for voting for Berlusconi.

The Isle of Lipari

Posted on by
Reply

Lipari is a popular island among tourists, but it does not have the crush of shoppers who waddle the spick and sparkle lanes of Capris. Stephanie had this on her personal agenda because her grandfather was imprisoned here (house arrest) by Mussolini for unacceptable political beliefs. It falls short of the standards we set with Alcatraz or Rikers, where we house teenagers, presumed innocent, awaiting trial. Of course, Benito did not feed them; that was the responsibility of a family on the mainland that had lost its pasta winner.

I have made only occasional mention of our hotels, most of which we loved, but this one has interest beyond its breakfast buffet and clean hallways.

This place has tchotchkes everywhere. The outdoor garden is serene; a great place to read a book or catch up on a blog, which obviously, I did not.

Our first excursion took us to a simple restaurant on the main street of this two-street town. Once again, the food was surprisingly great.

San Francisco should have so many variations on spaghetti, like this one with crushed anchovy dressing. The calamari was rolled around a seafood stuffing and grilled perfectly. Rod’s fries and tomatoes were served separate from the swordfish, as if the tools to eat the steak might require room to plan an attack. The required effort was less than modest.

Rick and Stephanie booked a sail to a volcano and a couple of nearby islands for the following day, but Rod and I had been traveling for 24 days, so the lure of our hotel’s peaceful garden was too great. We stayed on Lipari.

Before their ship sailed, the group got to do a morning museum tour.

The hill to the museum
Women is distress
Amphora stacks
Greek pottery
Hawking teds
Loss of innocence
Photo of burial ground
Reconstruction

Rick and I speculated about the shape of amphora vessels, which to our sensibilities seem awkward. They are fashioned to a pointed bottom, which makes for a long carry home from Delta Kappa Groceries if you cannot set it down. But I know why they were manufactured this way.

After the boat took our travel-mates away, we strolled the narrow, non-commercial streets off the second port. These sun drenched simple homes, with murals bleached into tasteful obscurity, were the confines of Italians serving house arrest. Maybe Sing Sing will one day be a fashionable co-op, but I don’t see it.

There is not much to say about these photos (above), but I thought they captured the happy dignity of people whose place on the earth seems remote. I doubt that many would live anywhere else in the world. There is something relaxing about an island. It brings to mind a passage from Shaw’s play, Man and Superman, from an encounter in hell:

No, no, no, my child: do not pray. If you do, you will throw away the main advantage of this place. Written over the gate here are the words “Leave every hope behind, ye who enter.” Only think what a relief that is! For what is hope? A form of moral responsibility. Here there is no hope, and consequently no duty, no work, nothing to be gained by praying, nothing to be lost by doing what you like. Hell, in short, is a place where you have nothing to do but amuse yourself.” 

And so island life seems to me.

We settled at a marvelous restaurant on the slope of an ancient street. Seated beside a young Brit couple, Harry and Lidia, the conversation was entertaining, about Brexit, Trump, and a dozen other, less consequential things.

I finished off a marvelous Sicilian Cabernet, Rod contributing almost nothing to the effort, while we shared gnocchi with clams, Rod had pork with almonds, figs, and red onions. I ordered an artisanal green pasta with shrimp. We split a huge bowl of fresh fruit. The restaurant owner was justly proud of this establishment as was his wife, who does all the cooking. They seemed satisfied with life. Though we had dined outside, I made it a point to find the cook and express our appreciation to her beaming face and square shoulders.

“You oughta see her carry wood!
I tal you w’at, eet do you good.”  from a poem by T.A. Daly

Rick and Stephanie wandered by, having finished their boat trip, and ate at the same restaurant, but at a different table.

The hour was late, the night warm, the moon was full and so were we.

Mt. Etna

Posted on by
2

Our guide, Eddie, proved to be a man who could spot an edible mushroom 60 paces from the window of his speeding Land Rover, while “laboring” under the light demands of his paying passengers. On the bright side, we learned nearly as much about woodland fungus as we did about the currently sedate volcano he was hired to show us.

Road through lava stream
Rod at edge of lava flow
The gang
Unsteady Eddie
Drawing smily face

To milk the volcano of tourists dollars, the Sicilians have dug roadways through a swath of recent lava. Rod is standing a the edge of the flow. Whatever the mountain engulfed in burning rock is lost to history, but there are many examples of farms and towns snuggled unwisely at the edge of a previous flow, saved they think by the almighty, whose fiddling with the laws of nature must blunt scientific inquiry. Eddie took a blurry picture (probably because he saw a distracting mushroom) of us four, showing that there really can be a light at the end of the tunnel…at both ends. OK, it probably is not a smiley face that Eddie is drawing, but I forget the science lesson.

fullsizeoutput_1a97fullsizeoutput_1a99

Why there are so many birches on the slopes of Etna was never explained, however, Stephanie told us that the search for the largest living organism on earth has been reduced to two candidates—a mushroom or a birch. What you see in the lower cluster, cleverly disguised as a  half dozen trees, is actually a single individual growing from one root system. You can see a couple of places where enterprising miscreants cut regular sections of white bark for use as canvas, like scrimshaw. This petty theft is unlikely to injure the tree, but it is an unnatural scar on nature. My walk was diminished. boo hoo

For billions of years volcanoes have been resurfacing the earth we trod today. During the last 500,000,000 years or so, life on the surface has been covering the basalt assault in a rock-paper-scissors struggle (sans scissors) by covering the seemingly lifeless rocks with invaders from at least two kingdoms, plant and animal, narrated by a naturalist wannabe.

img_0995

Up close, one can see lots of bits of vegetation, but the overall look remains bleak. How can a few trees have grown to maturity? The ridge hikers appear ominous, like marchers in a Pink Floyd video.

Chestnut Tree
Hazel Nuts

The mountainside forests have the common nut trees, chestnut and hazelnut. Chestnut, we did not know, are protected from the uncovered hand like a porcupine.

After leaving the mountain, we were treated to a lunch with wine tastings, where I tank for drew, Rod taking only the smallest sip of each. The vineyard’s view from our table was outstanding. The wines and cheeses were perfect. Everyone else additionally got some form of cold meat. I just got loaded.

Our merry group
Cheese and nibbles
Rick walks to the temple.

The grounds, soaked by a rain during our lunch, were richly verdant.

Linguaglossa & Taormina

Posted on by
2

The drive to Linguaglossa (our only AirB&B stop) was almost uneventful, save the troublesome stops at a couple of toll booths, used by Sicilians to support a depressing socialism, with welfare, obscenely long vacations, childcare, and low crime. Takers! But I digress—as we did on the last kilometer (the American word “mile” is shorter…ha ha ha) trying to find the street listed, deceptively, as our destination. Rick navigated the narrow turns that took us around the target a few times until, by astounding serendipity, Stephanie saw a faded scrawl on the side of a building that could have been graffiti but was in fact our street paved path. This passage was easy to miss—as likely to have been a wide doorway as street, meandered 100 meters uphill, its ungenerous girth regularly narrowed by a pipe or wire on a building. There were, need I say, no sidewalks.

We squandered 30 minutes or so trying to rouse our host or disturb a neighbor enough to pry a free hint as to where to put our bags when a smiling refugee on a bicycle greeted us with limited Italian and no English, coaxing us to follow him to the “House of Stone.” He rode charitably slow, given how easy it is to negotiate streets on a 2-wheeled vehicle—no fair. Nice place, though.

The driveway
The view from the patio
Rod and Stephanie breathing
Artsy photo of garden bounty

If only all towns had streets as Bertha-wide as the driveway. This view, featured on the AirB&B web site, is not visible from the listed address, on the street below. (The owner should consult for treasure-hunt apps on iPhones.) Basta with the complaints already.

Our spirits undampened by frustration or occasional sprinkles, we set off for the 15 km drive to Taormina, which missing would have been a grievous error.

Outside the old city walls
Inside the city walls
Lots of shopping shoppers
Into ever life a little rain must fall
An art community…
…with humor..
…and nice kids.
In the US we wouldn’t dare
Everything is pretty

The popular tourist town is owed another visit, as we did not get down to the beach, at least 100 meters below, or to the castle, a couple hundred meters above. If ever I take a Mediterranean cruise (when I am much older), Taormina must be on the itinerary. Spending a week on its beach is looking more attractive all the time. Lie in the morning sun, hike to the town for lunch, ask the local girls to braid my hair…what is left of it.

image-10-10-16-at-1-14-pmThe town’s fame has been enhanced by the work of the German photographer, Wilhelm von Gloeden, who photographed many nudes, mostly male, in the early 20th century. Today, he could spend three life sentences in an American prison for having models who were younger than 18, though in Europe, he’s considered an artist.
Gloeden lived most of his life in Taormina, which can be considered a tribute to his good taste…as is his choice of subjects [in my homo opinion].

 

 

 

Before we found the primary tourist street inside the town’s walls, we lighted upon a perfectly acceptable outdoor place to lunch with a delicious rosé wine. In Italy, even simple meals are served with care. I saw no fast food in Taormina…or almost anywhere else in Sicily. Fast food in Italy is a stop by the gelato shop on a hot afternoon, not a meal. Meals are fleeting joys, like full moons, to be enjoyed whenever possible. How did Americans come to believe that a chance to sit with friends over a casual repast and conversation is something to be rushed, like the incongruous oxymoron “fast food”?

We found a simple restaurant
Rod had noodles while R&S shared…?
I loved my pasta-wrapped spinach
Children wander without supervision
Amusing pastries

I am determined to climb to this castle one day. (Better be quick about it.) There is a spectacular Greek theatre on a lesser hill, which we did not visit for lack of time (lines of tourists). A week here, with time invested on a sandy beach, would barely be adequate.

img_0816

 

 

Archaeological Days

Posted on by
1

There were two sites of archaeological interest on our schedule. The first, a museum, which starts chronicling the history of Sicily from about 300,000,000 years ago, had a display of great interest at the ticket counter. Stephanie and I agreed he was stunning. The whole museum was peppered (if that’s the word) with such students, perhaps working for a stipend as part of their studies. It was interesting to see a fine museum staffed with young people in casual clothing.

The progression of civilization on this large, historically significant island is hard to overstate, but I’ll do my best. Early settlers found flint to be a useful substitute for claws and saber teeth. An enlarged brain provided additional advantage that has since been abandoned by Trump supporters. One witnesses the progress of crude pottery taking on attractive shapes, then colors, then glazes. Attention to detail eventually gets to parts of the human form that assumes an enlarged place in human history.

I have always been curious about the black on terra cot genre that captivated the Greeks to the near exclusion of all else for a huge percentage of their glazed pottery. Has art ever been so lacking iconoclasts? Or did the potters see Prometheus and say, “fuck that.”

If only I could grow hair on my nose.
The hat keeps me warm
Here’s how you tie a toga
Not like that
Finally! A pot to piss in
Got some tail at Lydia’s
Lydia
Breast feeding twins

Eventually, the Romans dropped by, the roads got better, women are said to have gotten more attention, and anti-intellectualism bloomed in the bloody theatre. Archimedes was stabbed to death by a Roman guard who must have one too many axioms stuck up his ass. Thus, Syracuse declined for a while.

The museum was so large and intriguing that we left the outdoor ruins for another day. As I hope you agree, it was a day well spent.

A day at the actual site of the Greek and Roman ruins is hard to describe, but I have made a questionable attempt with the following video:

My thanks to Mozart for proving the only part of the audio that wears well on the ears. I can see all the flaws in this, but the pursuit of perfection (or even a 6th grade level of competence) would mean that I could never finish this blog.

Thanks to Die Entfuhrung aus den Serail, K. 384, Neville Marriner – Academy of St. Martin in the Fields, for not suing me. (I hope.)

The afternoon lunch, back on the island of Ortigia, was enjoyed in a courtyard restaurant, canopied with grape vines. 

Pizza and spaghetti
Yeah, I was shooting the waiter

Ortigia, Syracuse

Posted on by
Reply

From the start, Syracuse had promise, convenient parking, a hotel along the water front, a room on the 3rd floor (our 4th in the US, as we object to a floor zero) with a balcony, all in a smartly renovated grand building, and warm, sunny weather.

Harbor near hotel
Some streets are broad
Some less so
Some buildings are colorful
Some are ornate
Archimedes fountain
Happy Mr. Hong

Stephanie had a restaurant recommendation, giving her a mission. We three old men hustled along behind, sheepishly oohing and ahhing at the wrought iron terrace rails, elegant cornices, heavy wooden doors with big knockers, narrow alleys that curve out of tantalizing sight, while she who must be obeyed, map in hand, head high in watch for helpful street signs, led us to one of the most outstanding restaurants in Sicily. We were wise to have followed. (But we would have done so if stupid, too.)

Rod ordered shrimp with tomatoes, while I made the superior choice of fava bean cream with fried salted cod. The shrimp were too lightly cooked for his liking, so we swapped dishes, ¼ eaten. I gesticulated like an Italian (the only thing I can do like an Italian) to make some now-forgotten, cogent observation, cleanly knocking an expensive glass of Sicilian white across the absorbent table cloth. The staff were quick to blot the spill with fine table linen. I ordered a replacement bottle, assuring a long lunch.

The Rogers had a tasting menu of various small dishes. My attention was too preoccupied to record each dish, but I can explain the photos. (ehh, maybe not)

 

The traveling wannabes
Tasty fresh breads
Tuna with marmalade of peppers
Black rolls of scamp w sea urchin sauce
Salted cod on fave bean cream
Spaghetti, shrimp, sea urchin
Fresh pasta, mackerel, fennel
Fillet of yellow tail, potatoes, celery, carrots
Shrimp w chickpea cream
Lots of chocolate

It was a leisurely lunch. Last to leave, we probably cut into the staff’s siesta or other plans, so an invitation to return remains unexpected. The most expensive meal on our trip, it looked like lots of pizza over the next week…one could do worse. We didn’t.

The Mediterranean tradition of sleeping off one’s lunch alcohol worked well for Rod and me—well, me. Rick and Stephanie explored more of the city; Rick demonstrating a humiliating resistance to early retirement.

In the evening, we found the streets buzzing with excitement. This was the Saturday night before the start of school’s fall session. Half the crowd was under 25—the better looking half.

Italian youth rarely raise their voices when gathered. It seems like respect for elders, but I doubt that they even see us—we move like trees—but they do not draw attention to themselves among their friends. Americans pride ourselves on individualism and find lots to appreciate in that, putting celebrity and wealth above family and friends. Europeans value community, which gives them healthcare, free college, and gun control. We have Facebook and Donald Trump; they have slim bodies and stylish clothes. Tough choice.

Teens in a plaza
While seated at a table
We watched people
Sashay by
Looking cool
and a little distracted.

A couple of young lads, perhaps 12 or 14, were briskly walking up a broad, pedestrian street when one spotted a couple of friends his age. He pulled his companion over to greet them, kissed each friend lightly on both cheeks, introduce his friend, who shook hands. That seemed so foreign to me, but perhaps it is harder to punch or to shoot someone you have just kissed. That has always been that case for me.

We met an artist with an exhibit at a huge gallery (old, empty church). We were his last admirers of the day, but he spent time with us explaining his work while pacifying his infant son. Rick and Stephanie bought a stunning canvas from him. I took a photo of an engaging Greek subject, as is my wont—want?

He works in layers
English biographical note

Via Romana Del Casale

Posted on by
2

It must have been some time during the 4th century A.D., because that is what the sign said, a rich Roman decided to build a modest house with a private chapel, hot and cold baths, rooms all over the place…you get the picture, just what everyone needs in a country home. He and his slaves are all dead, the baths are dry, the roof caved in, and when it got excavated over the last couple of centuries, only the floors survived in a state worthy of gawking, which was our intention on a hot Sicilian day in Aidone.

This is obviously a good time to be brief, unless you care about mosaic floors—and who doesn’t? Click on any of these images to get an enlarged view.

Cottage floor plan
Carting back the kill
Man about to be gored
Peaking through a door
Flat chested athletes
Don’t use acid on mosaics
Enough already

It is hard to say why mosaics have such appeal, but the place was busy with paying tourists. Mosaics last longer than walls and ceilings. For one thing, floors rarely fall. If your boss in the year 397 had 40 rooms to be inlaid (or laid in), you could probably put off fear of starvation or of being tossed to the lions for a few years. For some, that would beat working at Amazon.com.

Pesto pasta with sun dried tomatoes
Mushrooms w basil and almonds
Simple tomato salad
Pounded chicken with bread crumbs
Panchetta wrapped mozzarella with balsamic vinegar

The Sicilians make tasty looking food, and it is (nearly) always delicious. Almost every dish could be photographed and put into a recipe book. This was our lunch, beautifully presented. Everything would have been great, but the fearsome trip to the Bristol Hotel was made more difficult by a street party that had closed access to the hotel. By happenstance, our helpful, handsome desk clerk walked by our stymied car and advised us where we could snag an overnight spot, a substantial distance from the hotel, but it proved to be a pleasant walk back.

The street party was noisy, simple, and filled with young people. I liked seeing so many kids out at night without a hint of  rowdiness. We found a large pizzeria away from the madding crowd. It was entirely adequate.

Agrigento to Enna

Posted on by
1

The hotel at Agrigento was modern. We enjoyed a bottle of prosecco on a patio watching the sunset and had a late-night sandwich before bed. Even luxury hotels seem bland in comparison to the old palaces with modern plumbing  procrustean-fitted into odd spaces we have been enjoying. Our luggage loaded, we fled to a local Greek ruin.

Nice hotel…ehh
Another temple
Will we leave this much?
Icarus is newly fallen

Sometime after the turn of the 21st century, Icarus fell to earth near a temple to someone who never existed and whose name I have forgotten. Curiously, his wings and torso were kept intact, much appreciated by the giggling tourists who stood bravely by his immodesty. (What’s to be modest about?)

The drive into Enna was by far our most challenging on Sicily. The GPS led us up a steep narrow path to a car that was kindly blocking the road, which I mean sincerely. The tapering street was going nowhere, so the careless parking saved us perhaps another 50 meters of descent in reverse. The correct route, not much wider, we would have abandoned except for an occasional sign on the way reading “Bristol Hotel.” Options were few, so the signs served mostly as reassurance. Stephanie rescued us by actually asking in Italian for directions (I was so manly embarrassed). A women offered to lead us in her car to the hotel, grabbing for herself the last, legal parking space. See! So much for seeking help.

We parked in a handicapped spot, which we had earned by this time, and a handsome, dark Italian youth (they are everywhere!) ran out of the hotel to assure us that he would move the car as soon as another spot was free. The turns to the hotel were so tight that some were 2-point turns for our experienced guide. Confident no tow truck could get into Enna, much less punish our parking sin, we checked in.

Man with a big bell
View from our balcony
Ibid, with parking
Church
Wedding
Square

Though I could not understand a word he said, the hotel clerk, who gave generous Italian directions to Stephanie, has a musical diction of rolled ‘r‘s and canolli-crisp ‘t‘s that had me enthrall, as if listening to a budding tenor. Perhaps it was not the public school system that taught respect for his language, but the lesson, whatever the source, he had taken with pride. Oh, that we could imbue such musicality and rhythm into American conversation.

His directions pointed us to a restaurant first approached from the rear. A waiter spotted starving tourists (perhaps alerted by our hotel guy) and marched us through the kitchen and dinning room to an outdoor table protected from the mountain sun by wide awnings. What a lunch it was.

Bread and wine
Roasted peppers
Antepasti
Ravioli
Spaghetti pomodoro
Pappardelle in mushroom cream sauce

After lunch we hiked to the east end of the city, where a castle once protected the citizens from roving mobs of foreign knights. One character, photo below, looks like a member of the KKK. The castle was open for anyone to wander at no charge and no oversight. Lean over the parapets at your own risk.

Rod at the village edge
A view from Toledo, or so it looks
From the tower
Friendly ghost?
The land below the castle

Enna makes few compromises to modernity, but at night kids clustered in cheerful groups below our balcony chatting, the faces of their smart phones flashing like fireflies in the murky chill of the night. They are nice kids. Never yelling, but the stone surfaces around the plaza amplify their friendships. My sleepless night wondered what it would be like to be among them. If only I could speak Italian.

A town square
The square outside our hotel
Typical street

The people of Enna have access to new cars (few are SUVs), cell phones, computers, 220V current, and all modern appliances. The town may look worn, but beneath the surface, people are healthy and well dressed, interiors are renovated. They are middle class—comfortable.

The center photo shows the single inlet to the hotel’s square. It is 2-way, though you may wonder how a single car squeezes in. They manage. Someone is first, a car in the opposite direction backs down. There are no rules, but it seems as efficient as it can be.

Does respect for the past result in respect for the present? I grew up in a city where many fine buildings were razed to accommodate a cheap shopping mall and ugly parking lots. The people of Enna live with 500-year-old, mostly unadorned buildings that people like us flock to. Do cities that revere the past build carefully today?

Some Italians build with the expectation that future generations will live with their decisions, but the devastation of an earthquake in the Italian mountains three weeks ago where over 300 people were killed by shabby construction, including a modern school that collapsed, thankfully empty, in the night, is a testament to corruption and greed from the Greeks to the present. Can we knit the past to the future? Or is that just for old wine?

An Italian Experience

Posted on by
1

I confess that a part of the joy of this day, not the only part or even the best part, was the knowledge that my brother Bob would experience real envy at my getting meet so many wonderful people. Stephanie’s cousin invited us to lunch with them at their country cottage, set into a Sicilian hillside many generations ago, overlooking the village of Mezzojuso pictured to the right as seen from the spot where everyone is standing in the  picture on the left.

Meeting everyone
Mezzojuso

Our host, Johny [his spelling], spoke conversational English, as did two others. Otherwise, we were on our own—mono-lingual Americans. (I like to presume that foreign speakers will presume my other language is French, or Spanish, or Swahili, but bilingual people know that non-Americans always carry a language brief of the countries they visit.)

image

From upper left, Rick Rogers, son of dentist, girlfriend of dentist, mother of young girl, 95-year-old survivor of German prison camp, dentist, daughter of dentist, father of young girl (I hope), young girl, Rod, me. Missing are the two hosts, Stephanie, and a hired hand. Apparently, they were making the meal we were about to eat.

The outdoor dinning table
The fish
The prickly pears
My hunky dinner companion

The table was set outside. Rod and I agreed to sit separately, though only a few people spoke English. My dinner partner was a tall, handsome, college student with pretty good English and marvelous eyes. He is studying math at Pisa University. I could go on…

The food was exceptional—duh, this is Italy. Two kinds of fish, tuna and swordfish, were pan seared with an olive, tomato, caper, mint sauce. I am sure the cook had other secrets not divulged. The fish was served with side dishes of caponata (eggplant with celery and what must be myriad spices), sliced zucchini saluted in oil and spices, and a generous basket of Italian bread. I accepted a second helping of fish and found that I was finishing my meal last! I wonder how long they will talk about that fat American who could not stop eating? The feast was rounded out with prickly pear cactus peeled and lightly sweetened in ways I cannot guess, watermelon, various Italian cookies, and outstanding coffee.

After lunch, our host guided everyone to an abandoned monastery where a few devoted artisans work to restore ancient artworks and old books. They are particularly proud of a printed anthology of Plutarch, including his Lives of the Noble Greeks and Romans, which is printed in fine-lettered Greek. It is believed to be one of only two copies extant, the other is in the Louvre. Odd that the book is being so man-handled by a restoration expert.

This will be a day long-remembered and something that other travelers cannot match. We left the group, who were headed for gelato, to drive on to Agrigento before dark.

Erice (3 syllables)

Posted on by
Reply

Imagination can disappoint, raising expectations without cause, but in Erice it failed to overpromise. The town is perched above Trapani and the Mediterranean just beyond, so I was prepared for a sweeping view from the third row of a crowded café. It is much more.

Erice has what another town has Caprisciously abandoned—good taste. It is warm and charming, without a gauntlet of designer stores nipping at the fatted wallets of the savage rich. The art works in Erice are unique; the famous pastries, unreplicated at Starbucks; and the stonework, outstanding.

La funivia is a cableway system to rise the 703 meters (over 2300′) to the city gate. It is 10 minutes well-invested. The city of Trapani makes the scale of the lift tangible. Everything is stone and the claim is that the cable system did not exist when someone lugged this stuff up the hill. Ouch.

Looking for directions?
The pavement design
Close-up, regular and unique

Walking through the gate of ancient Erice, one quickly realizes that this is a special spot. Even the paving stones are both irregular and congruent, their varied surfaces polished smooth as St. Peter’s foot by the touch of the adoring multitudes. The gentle slope passes a series of small shops, lacking the intimidation of the pretentious Capris.

Entering the town
Rod below his city sign
Narrow alley with purple
Typical side street
Dark ages gift shoppe

Stephanie discovered a marvelous pottery shop, securing the lightest gift the owner had, and it was free: restaurant advice. As a result, our lunch was an outstanding pleasure.

Rod and I shared ravioli with a swordfish stuffing and grilled onions, while Rick and Stephanie had beef carpaccio with rocket and parmesan. These were so delicous that my readers were forgotten until the crisp, fresh cannolis ended the lunch. (How on earth did they cut them in half? They shatter with each bite. Did they use dental floss? A laser?)

We walked off lunch (I wish) with a hike to the far end of the city where a castle stands prepared to defend the Erice against any threat, excepting aeronautics and gunpowder. It worked for quite a while. Had they had the foresight to build greenhouses and water pumps, even sieges might have failed.

The return to Castellammare del Golfo had us looking for a bar, which happened to pop up across from our parking spot. The British-accented Italian bartender made up two negroni cocktails, a beer, and a lemonade for €18. He included a ham sandwich cut into four, a bowl of chips, and a cup of olives, without charge. I could get to like these prices…except for the ham.

Sicily

Posted on by
2

Our automotive tribulations had not ended. We left for Naples airport in the wee hours for a 6:55 flight. We should have been amply early, but when we neared the airport, a snobby voice announced, “You have arrived at your destination.” Our location was a dark underpass with nothing in sight. The GPS then led us…blah blah blah…after a quick scan through security, we ran to the gate to find that our plane had just pushed away, resulting in a 12-hour wait for the next direct flight to Palermo.

The Naples airport is like any other with 85˚ air, screaming children, hard seats, and limited wifi (4 hours max). I used a cheap pen and tiny notebook to complete the last two blog entries. Nothing is going to spoil this trip. [Just wait to you see the roads in Sicily!]

Stephanie and Rick were good sports about the missed connection and returned from Castellammare del Golfo to the Palermo airport to retrieve us at night. After checking into our beach hotel, we found an outdoor restaurant on the sand, with a warm breeze, a cold wine, and a buxom waitress with weak English and strong opinions as to what we should eat. I obeyed.

The bruschetta was outstanding as was the local wine. Though we had sat down famished, the heaping plate of busiata, a Sicilian pasta wrapped in curls tighter than the young Shirley Temple’s hair was far more than I could eat, sending back to the kitchen a mound of food that could still feed two hungry adults. Perhaps it did. Hope so.

There are no pictures of this feast as Rod and I were busy pretending that all the inconvenience of the day was an adventure we will treasure for years, rather than an ordeal deserving a cyanide capsule.

Rod had decided before deplaning that Rick would do most of the driving—and all of the driving to be done from the seat behind the steering wheel. No protesta. We left in the morning for Selinunte, a site of Greek ruins that appealed to me for what I hoped would be a flattering personal comparison.

King(?) of the rubble
Shock and Awe
The other 3 Rs
HIgh above the temple
Early seat at the amphitheater

These few photos are reasonable examples of typical Greek ruins without the statuary immodesty that intimidates. Left are the stones not carted away by marauding architects from the successive dim ages, each tearring down the last, both theologically and structurally. The most effective Siva is the quake, toppling pillars like Steve Smolen does bowling pins. (But without the masculine pretense.)

Rod, Rick, Stephie, and host
Raw tuna compot w watermelon sherbet
Pesto pasta w shrimp
Seared tune w red onions and sweet and sour sauce

After a rest, we ate at a fine restaurant a short walk from the hotel. One must have a destination for dinner to prevent being stopped by, usually handsome, restaurant barkers luring the undecided into mediocrity. Stephanie with her gregarious Italian, always manages to ferret out quality. Sometimes in doing so, she makes a life-long friend. In this case, it was a dinner-long friend, who made all conversation bilingual.

Trip to Capris

Posted on by
2

Put the stress on the second syllable at your peril.

The geologic beauty of Capris rivals the Hawaiian islands, but the social excesses began when the Roman emperor, Augustus, bought the whole thing as a summer retreat, and that selfish tradition persists to this day. High-end shops gob the streets like coarse sugar on sweet marmalade. Watching the rich display their contempt for restraint is repulsive; I’d rather see a soccer team comparing their genitals…much rather.

Capris is like a priceless antique diminished at the hands of hack with urethane. Sprinkle enough of these people in NYC and LA and Trump would have himself an election.

We quickly took a bus to Anacapris, the island’s other city, a tribute to the linguistic creativity of the Greeks. At the start of this short ride, Rod’s sanity had lost a debate about whether we should take a chairlift ride to a blistering, sun drenched height atop the island’s  2000′ peak. His resolve was not to last.

Along the narrow, hairpin road that our bus driver sped his rickety tub, the right side of the road gave way to a 1200′ drop, guarded unconvincingly by a tastefully low barrier. The passengers let loose a collective gasp as the brave boast of a chair lift melted like soft gelato in the August heat.

image

View from the bus

This photo was taken on the return trip from the far side of a narrow road.
When going up the road, the rail was not visible, the cliff is shear, the drop, astounding.

We settled for a pizza and beer under the shade of a canopy. As Marc Antony once spat, “Ambition should be made of sterner stuff.”

It was in Anacapris that I filmed evidence of the driving styles of Italians for which I have included a short video:

It appears that the bikes at the end of the video stopped, but in fact they barely slowed. I nervously stopped filming—as if the cop would care about me. He was just getting out of the sun. If people stopped at intersections, of which there are countless, the country of Italy would cease to function.

Italy has given less regard to automotive traffic than the US. There are a few highways, but city buildings and neighborhoods have resisted demolition done just to relieve congestion. It often seems incredible that two busy areas of a city are connected by anfractuous routes, barely wide enough for an economy vehicle, but such is the country’s subservience to la dolce vita.

A short stretch of water separates Capris from Sorrento, so we made our way back in time for a cold beer in an unpretentious town. Sorrento is blithely indifferent to threats from sea rise (except for the docks). The cities of London, Paris, and Hamburg will envy New Orleans after Katrina before Sorrento has persistent puddles.

Rod, fresh off the boat
The city from the port
The harbor from the sea
Our patron

At the top of the many steps from the pier to the city’s flat streets stands a statue of St. Anthony, patron of long, enduring friendships.