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.

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.

The 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.

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.