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.
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.)
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.