LuceStellare

Chapter Four ~ L’Infiorata Flowers in Bloom

Sunday was the day of the grand event. The weather reports warned of possible showers. I thought it never rained in Sicily from April to October. Every day has been bright and warm. I went out early to the street where I thought the floral display would be, but only found chalk outlines on the pavement. I wandered along not sure where the main event was happening. All the streets looked the same, and no signage told visitors where to go. There was a program guide but I couldn’t translate the words. By sheer accident, I came to the entrance of the Palazzo Nicolaci di Villadorata (Golden House) at Noto. This was the villa of Baron Giacomo Nicolaci, a nobleman who lived in the 1700s. I had a storybook idea of what a palace was supposed to look like and was surprised to find it in the middle of town abutted by other buildings. Palaces were supposed to be up on a hill surrounded by a green lawn with spires on the top. This one did not even have a sidewalk but was built flush to the street. It did have a grand carriage entrance and stable. The double doors had a gorgeous honeysuckle vine grown around the frame; that was in full bloom and buzzed with bees.

I bought a general admission ticket and went in for a look around. The Baron had this palace built in 1737. He was an educated man and traveled around Europe on the grand tour. His family invested in the tuna industry and prospered enough to buy land in Val di Noto. Niccolaci was a scholar, philosopher, astronomer, and alchemist. He spoke nine languages including Greek and Latin. He never married and suffered from a deformity causing a curve of the spine hence the nickname “Hunchback Jack”. He died at 49 years old.

Palazzo Nicolai di Villadorata, Noto Sicily

The house had 48 rooms in all. In Italy, the first floor is the cantina, a place for storage and servants. The living quarters are all on what Americans would call the second floor. The stone staircase was wide and welcoming. The rooms were arranged with period furniture and included a music room, theater/dancing hall, ladies saloon, dining room, billiards room, and an office for the Baron. The music room had two pianos, a harp and an ancient upright with keyboard colors in reverse, 44 solid black keys and 22 white keys where the flat is now. I thought it might be a small harpsichord as it had strings inside. The instruments looked old and may have been original to the late baroque period of 1737 – 65.

The walls and ceiling were painted in bright sun colors, floral motifs, stripes, and landscapes. The furniture in the small parlor off the theater caught my attention.. A day chair had a backrest in the shape of a fan. The contrasting colors were in shades of light siena with tasseling at the base, a sea sand blended brocade upholstery and forest green tufted scrollwork along the top edges. The single chairs had a left but no right arm rest. The design is striking and unusual. The most enchanting room of all was the theater/dancing hall. The ceiling and walls were painted with scenes from Greek mythology. This room was for celebrations, fun and freedom; bright and inviting.

Stone buildings have a special look and feel inside and out. The walls, floors, ceilings, and staircases seem to be perfectly straight. The most abundant resource for building was stone cut from abandoned ruins. In this case, from the ruined original city of Noto wrecked in 1693 by an earthquake. The city planners moved it all a short distance away and rebuilt it in the Spanish Baroque style. At the time in Sicilia’s history, it would have been under the dominion of Spain, especially for Noto, the region of Catalonia. A great deal of thought and effort went into this building.

By complete accident, I found the floral display! I went out on the balcony of Baron Nicolaci’s office and there it was below. The entire Via (Avenue) Nicolaci was the site of the L’infiorata. I counted seventeen floral vignettes laid out on the pavement. I could not get outside fast enough to find my way to the end of the line to wait my turn to walk by. Now I understood why rain would have been so unwelcome. The day was a mix of sun and clouds. The planning for each year’s festival never abates and to lose the day to rain would have been a terrible let down to everyone in attendance. The line moved very slowly to take in the brilliance of the artistry.

The displays started with a coat of arms for Noto. A large grey bird of prey with wings out floating on a background of yellow. He had a crown on his head and a shield on his breast. The shield bore a white cross on a red background. The next image was St George killing the dragon. This myth had come down from England to Sicily. I had been in Ragusa and Modica a few days before where this image was seen repeatedly. This story was most important; told again and again in stone, marble and oil paintings. It was prominent in many churches and monuments around the cities. St. George slaying the dragon was a mythological representation of the new religion killing the old. The dragon was a serpent and devil in another form. The native beliefs may have been taken as evil and had to be literally and violently destroyed. The floral displays included a portrait of Salvador Dali, a Knight on horseback, the flamenco dancer Trina di Lorenzo, a donkey from Catalunya, bouquets of flowers, dancers, and more. Every scene was glorious and lovingly laid out.

The avenue led up to the Chiesa di Montevergine where I stopped in to enjoy a performance of Vivaldi’s violin concerto the Four Seasons. The acoustics in the knave were perfect. The performers came from Catania and dressed in period costumes. It was here I met Americans in the crowd. I heard English spoken and asked where they were from. It turned out, the man went to Holy Cross College in Worcester, MA and knew the area where I was from.

I wandered out of the church and into the city enjoying the festival atmosphere. A group of bicyclists appeared. All male, each perfectly decked out in race garments. The helmet, socks, shoes and attire were so vibrant. The bikes looked like fancy racing models. They were part of a local bike club out of Catania in Noto to enjoy the day. It struck me how they presented themselves. They looked exactly like slick, cool cyclists in a magazine. Aha! Even the men love to be fashionably dressed.

Today was comparable to founder’s day back home. Important buildings and sites opened to the public. Hundreds of people wandered in and out. Larger Sicilian cities have a mother church and smaller churches around town in neighborhoods. Noto had as many as 50 Catholic churches, convents or buildings. The main symbol in several of the churches was the all seeing eye. It was in a prominent position somewhere in each sacristy. My guess was this symbol is what united the churches and sent a repeated message to the faithful. It can be taken two ways; either that you were never out of the sight of God or; you are always under the eye. I was raised in the Catholic church and while. I may have admired the artistry and beauty, I was not among the faithful.

It was on a visit to the Acoma Pueblo near Albuquerque, New Mexico in 2004 that I had an awakening. The Spanish Catholics built the San Esteban del Rey Mission on top of the native people’s most sacred kiva. The tour guide said the builders made the local women carry sacks of soil from the canyon floor to the top of the mesa. It took years to build the structure. The natives said a few of them ended up buried in the church walls as well. Once I understood what had happened, not a shred of connection to the original faith given at birth could remain.

In Noto, each public building had a display of clothing, gloves, hats and other regalia worn by a noble person of the day, like a tableau from Baroque times. Clearly, this period in history stood out for them. The city gates were draped with the flags of Catalunya and Italy.

A grand pageant wound through the streets later in the afternoon. Men, women and children dressed in period costumes represented the Palace of Nicolaci and all the people of prominence in Noto. The parade ended at the Palazzo Municipio (Town Hall) where a presentation of baroque dance and music took place. There was a drum corps, ballet troupe, Sicilians danced the tarantella, a flag juggler, Jesuits, and noblemen of every rank. The baron himself oversaw the entire performance. He arrived in a horse drawn carriage. I had no idea this was part of the day’s festivities. It compared to nothing I’d ever seen anywhere. The people of Noto are proud of their heritage and invite everyone to celebrate the return of spring in this great festival of May. This was after all, La Primavera Barocca or the Baroque Spring Festival.

Chapter Three ~ A Drive to Noto

After one night and day in Taormina, it was time to drive south passing the coastal cities of Catania and Siracusa on the way to Citta di Noto, Giardino di Pietra, the city of Noto, Garden of Stone. It was late afternoon when the driver picked me up and I was taken to a rented townhouse which became my home base for a few days. The autostrada, the Italian version of the interstate, reminded me of Route 128 in greater Boston with connectors, off ramps, and tunnels. The two lanes that traveled north and south were narrow and it felt like driving on a big curve all the time. Drivers buzzed along and exits came up fast. I am not sure what I expected, but it all felt quite modern and efficient.

There was an abundance of flora growing alongside the highway. I saw tall, broad shrubs that resembled scented geraniums blooming in dazzling shades of white, red, and pink. Cacti that looked like a cross between prickly pear, aloe, and yucca grew along the embankments. The driver said it was edible and harvested in late August. Yellow broom plants were in bloom everywhere. Once past the city limits of Catania, the scenery gave way to rolling hills under cultivation. How sparsely populated it seemed. Brilliant red poppies grew along field borders. Groves of citrus, olive, and nut trees were everywhere. Sicilia è un po’ di paradiso! Sicily is a little bit of paradise. I came for the annual May Festival, L’Infiorata di Noto, or Noto in bloom. An elaborate citywide celebration of fine architecture in the Baroque Style, a grand floral display, a pageant, and classical artistic performances.

The festival was not until Sunday, as it was Thursday, I had a few days to explore the Province of Siracusa. Instead of reserving a hotel room, a small house was rented. A house tells a story about the owners and a way of life. My goal was to attempt to live like a local and blend in rather than be another tourist. Uncertainty arose when I had tried to secure directions from the host prior to leaving the U.S. When I asked Giovanni, the contact for the rental, he was vague, not providing any route of navigation at all. He did offer to meet me somewhere in town and be an escort if necessary. I asked again wondering if my Italian was off. Niente! Nothing! After a few missed turns, the drivers GPS got us to the house at Number 10 Milano.

I arrived and was welcomed into the house by Giovanni’s mother. She lived on the other side of a one story house divided down the middle to create side by side residences. Each home had a separate entrance with an interior door that connected the two residences inside. As it turned out, Giovanni had a job and apartment in Catania. He spoke English, but relied on his mother to help with lodgers. Eleanora spoke directly to me but I struggled to follow the conversation. She was a middle aged woman, fit and slender in a flattering pantsuit. Her hair was a light brown cut short and brushed off her face. We were probably close in age.

Before I had a chance to see around the house, she took me for a walk around Noto during the evening promenade. Italians love to stroll near sunset to take in the air, socialize, and pass the evening. She warned me to avoid a certain alley and not to take a shortcut. This was a hospitable thing to do for a stranger traveling alone. It made me feel someone was watching out for my best interest and expecting to see me routinely. The city is laid out with a main boulevard leading straight to the old gate, a huge arch large enough for an elephant to walk through that at one time may have had a wooden gate.

We paused at the edge of the city at the lookout point known as the belvedere or beautiful view. There was sparse vegetation and olive trees growing along the hillside. These trees seemed to be out of order from what I had been seeing, growing almost wild. On the drive, I noticed Sicilian farmers planted everything in straight lines. It was funny considering the general disdain for standing in line, to see this little copse conform to a different standard. The plantings curved along the hillsides in perfect lines. These olive trees were doing their own thing. Did the beautiful view refer to this area of wildness? It hadn’t been cultivated in quite some time. Maybe I was seeing things through eyes accustomed to green woodlands abundant with brooks and ponds.

In a shallow ravine, at the base of the viewing area was a World War II lookout post. The round low turret felt ominous and reminded me, we were once on opposite sides of the war. Men would have been in there watching out for soldiers attempting to bring combat to the city. On the main street or corso, later I would find a few statues and monuments dedicated to those who were lost in the war. It was unsettling to realize that although it was peaceful now, seventy years ago, Italy was at war with the Allies.

At Casa Cuseni, a bookcase in the hall had a stack of old paperbacks. I took one of them for a read guessing the author may have been a resident. “Captain Corelli’s Mandolin” written by Louis de Bermieres is a story of life on a small Greek island during the war years; what it was like to be occupied by the Italian and later German army. It felt authentic in its awfulness of what local people endured.

The one thing that did not happen was I thought I said to her, let’s have a bite to eat during the promenade. We did not. We walked by many trattoria (local eateries) but never went in. I guess my Italian was all wrong and she spoke no English at all. When we got back to the house, I had a choice to make, whether to go out again or make do with what the host provided in the fridge. I was tired and hot so I stayed in the house enjoying fruit, tea, and breakfast rolls with jam. The rest of the evening passed with becoming accustomed to my new home.

The entrance was through a small metal gate the color of sand, and up a short flight of stone steps. There was a small table and chairs on the left side of a wide verandah with potted flowering geraniums. The glass paneled front door opened directly into the living room. The house was quiet. An embroidered drape hung on the back of the front door acting as a screen, letting the cool evening air in; providing beauty with privacy. The house was spacious, and cool. The island was blessed with an evening breeze and low humidity. The day could get toasty, but the nights were refreshing.

A short hall led past the bedroom, and bath to the kitchen at the back of the house. The skylight in the kitchen helped make the space feel bigger than it was and provided natural light. I would hear birds cooing on the roof in the morning making it feel I was not in downtown Noto. There was a full size fridge, sink, gas oven and small dining table flush against the back wall with two chairs. Oddly there was no back door. The only windows were in the front room. They let in plenty of daylight. A tall, wide bookcase in the living room took up an entire wall filled with books, trophies and college texts. A small glass topped desk became the home base for my laptop. Internet service was provided and helped me get in touch with friends back home. I loved the wingback leather desk chair as I discovered it was the only comfortable seat in the house. The loveseat in the living room was super stiff and I never could relax into it. The high ceilings and flat stone floors made for a comfortable space. The house was maybe 900 square feet and larger than my own back in Massachusetts.

I figured out how to light the gas stove, run the bath, and flush the toilet. The only thing lacking as far as conveniences was a washing machine. I assumed I could walk to the neighborhood laundromat but was startled to hear that in a city that size, there would be no such business. I would have to go to a bigger city. There are about 24,000 people living in Noto. Isn’t that large? I found a drying rack behind the refrigerator and soap for hand washing under the kitchen sink. A do-it-yourself laundry. The sun was strong and on a good day, the wash could dry in a few hours.

I went food shopping the second day in Noto at a small neighborhood market and farm stand. CGS Supermercati on Via A. Toscanini. The market was like those in the US but five times smaller. I had fun strolling the aisles buying from the weekly flyer. A few American brands made it onto the shelf with Lipton tea, Kraft Philadelphia cream cheese, McCain frozen French fries and Huggies diapers. In Sicily I discovered, it’s the norm to bring your own bags and bag it yourself. Everything was fun until the check out. The cashier was brusque and shoved everything down the conveyor. Her facial expression was bored, and impatient. A lot of bad vibes were coming out. The impression was, hurry up, pack up and get out. I guess she didn’t pick up on my starry eyed tourist feeling? I don’t think I looked like a local.

The receipt from the visit reflected a typical one for me from the US. I like sparkling mineral water, mascarpone cheese, yogurt, tuna in olive oil, and gelate la dolce vita, sweet desserts! I was not there to be a typical tourist and wanted a little bit of normal home life. I like routines and was attempting to recreate my American lifestyle while living here. Language skill had not been necessary in the market. This domestic adventure grounded me and helped me have an interaction without the pressure of acceptance in a strange place. I was just another customer, it fulfilled my goal of blending in.

About two city blocks away from the townhouse, at the end of the main road near the public park in Noto, vendors sold all kinds of local specialties in an open air market on Wednesday’s. There were bags of almonds from the orchards outside town, piles of sun dried tomatoes and mulberries! Local vineyards sold my favorite Nero d’Avola wine. The coastal town of Avola was close by. There were pistachio cookies from Pachino. The chocolates were from nearby Modica. There was pesto, pasta, herbs and so much more. The market had just a few booths, but nothing from home compared to the variety and freshness I found here. Even the prices were friendly. I made a video of the walk through and can share it on this link. I had budgeted €30 a day for food, but it was easy to eat well on €20 a day and that included a cannoli. Italy is well known for the cuisine and so far, that was proving to be as beautiful as the cities I was beginning to explore.

Everyday, I set out on an adventure to different towns. The hired driver met me outside the house gate and off we’d go to Modica, Ragusa or Siracusa. While I was glad to let someone else take me about, I realized travel book writers recommendations about Sicilian drivers weren’t meeting expectations so far. They had warned to be careful of hazardous drivers and frequent accidents. Because of the shortness of time on the island and a larger fear of becoming stranded somewhere, I sought out a driver. I wasn’t ready to tackle a new language, culture, and try to read road maps as well. Fear, a recognition of my own limits and healthy fear kept me from daring to hire a car and get around on my own.

In general, Sicilians seemed like drivers everywhere. They knew where they were going and tourists did not. We hesitate, block the intersection, drive slowly and get confused. The main roads were no more narrow or winding than in Massachusetts. A traffic circle tended to appear often but most had helpful signage.

The cities had one or two main roads in and out, however the streets and avenues in town went in many different directions. In some instances, a narrow lane, almost a walkway, was considered a road. Some streets made a 90 degree turn or became an alley or a dead end. The GPS did a fairly good job of locating destinations. Three wheeled vehicles known as ape were common to see and smart given the roads.

Parking at curbside could be a problem and the smaller the car the better. There was metered parking in Modica. Typically, a car park is near the entrance to each city or town. It costs a few dollars to leave it and walk into town. The frantic, mad dashing driver in dented cars written about were not to be seen. Nobody rushed us, nobody laid on the horn or ignored the rules of the road. The sight of the familiar red octagon STOP sign so common at home surprised me. The driver said they are common in Italy. Also, there was not a single traffic light in Noto, not even a flashing yellow beacon anywhere in the city.

Noto was beautiful. The city was built into a long hillside with great views into the Valley of Noto. The stones had a lovely shade of cream, sea sand and a little copper blended in for tone. Every building and church in the old city was ornate and powerful in its feeling of strength and solidness. Glancing up the street where I “lived” for a few days, I saw women wash their front steps and toss the water out into the street. Cats ambled along the walkways. The residents hustled home for lunch at 1 o’clock in the afternoon and did not emerge until around four p.m. My goal of fitting in and living as a resident was happening. If I had stayed with that group from the US, I would have missed out. It would have been a stop or two a day, like a traditional tourist. Thank the goddess I listened to myself and walked my own path.

Chapter Two – Casa Cuseni

An Unplanned Pilgrimage

The first night in Sicily was passed at Casa Cuseni. In wanting to know something about travel in Italy, I happened upon Daphne Phelps memoir “A House in Sicily.” The Casa was built in 1910 by her uncle Robert Hawthorn Kitson of England. Kitson was a talented watercolorist who travelled around the Mediterranean collecting and preserving fine art objects. After a second bout of rheumatic fever, his doctors urged him to move away from English winters. He settled in Taormina long before it became a popular tourist destination. He chose it partially because of the view to Mt. Aetna.

In 1947, Phelps inherited the estate. At the time, she was a single, professional woman in the prime of her life working in England as a psychiatric social worker specializing in care for children. Her book provides insight into the turmoil immediately after World War II. Traveling in Europe for business was difficult to arrange. Yet, she had the responsibility for a house and went to Taormina with the intention of selling the estate. Once she arrived, the legalities of taking on the house proved complex. Phelps spoke little Italian and lacked cash. The two story house came with a cook, manservant and cleaning staff. After a buyer backed out; Phelps decided to keep the casa.

The house, gardens and furniture were designed by artist and illustrator Sir Frank Brangwyn. Because of her late Uncle’s vast connections in the artistic community, and a large dash of charisma, Phelps turned the Casa into a guesthouse for notable writers, painters, poets, and designers for rest, relaxation and inspiration. Artists could stay for weeks, months or an entire season. A few of the artists in residence included Greta Garbo, Coco Chanel, and Tennessee Williams.

At least in the pages of the book, Phelps seemed to be a most capable and resourceful British woman. The words, perhaps it cannot be, did not fit into her vocabulary. She made the best of it and established relationships with her staff, the locals and even the regional Mafia don. Phelps displayed an independence of character rarely seen by Sicilian men and women. She managed her business and social affairs. She kept and drove a car, took extensive trips exploring the different regions getting close to the vast, complex history of the island. She lived a rich, full life without a man at her side. If she was involved with someone, those stories were kept private. Her voice came easily off each page.

Phelp’s words sounded similar to my thoughts about this trip. She wrote about Sicily being the great unknown land. Historically, Taormina has been a destination for relaxation and vacation dating back to when it was part of Magna Grecia and, for centuries a more relaxed place to live a non traditional lifestyle. People of different inclinations are welcome. Sicily offered Phelp’s an exciting life filled with folklore, history, archaeology and botany. The climate is gorgeous and the butter yellow house with the sky blue doors alive and welcoming.

My spirit is cautious, her vitality fascinated me. Besides, she was talking about a lifetime commitment; and retelling how she bonded with the place and its people. My trip to Sicily was only for three weeks. The members of the short-lived tour group did not want to stay there, nor had the connection a reader makes to characters in a story. It was part of my dream to go to the island and visit Taormina. I had to stay at this house. Not to merely pass by, but to be in it.

My driver went around the narrow streets circling the hillside until we came to the Casa on avenue Via Leonardo da Vinci. Roads in Sicilian towns do not have curbs. Most are narrow with stone walls on both sides making a stop at the side of the road risky. When we arrived at the gates, the driver rang the bell for entry. An awareness of the preference Sicilians seemed to have for sturdy gates and locks started here. The keyholes oiled and smooth. The gates hang straight on their posts and swung easily. The proprietor hands over the keys without hesitation. Every place I visited in Sicily had this same understanding of what the Italians refer to as sistemarsi; or how one lives at home.

Drawing by Domenico Minchilli

The walk to the front door of the Casa meandered through a large tiered garden filled with citrus trees of mandarin oranges, grapefruit and lemons. Water trickled out of a lion’s mouth into a wide basin of smooth white stone. It was a long way up to the south-facing front terrace on stiff, sturdy stone steps. A big sky blue door led inside. How delightful it was to walk up the shallow steps into the grand Casa. The hallways are cool and dim. The windows were floor to ceiling, looking out towards the bay. Phelps and all her guests once walked this way; it was exciting and humbling to be where their feet had passed.

The first floor had a small office right off the entryway. Two pen and ink drawings by Picasso hung on the wall. That was the power of Phelp’s spirit. At the very back of the house was a large kitchen with tall ceilings. The floor was a few steps below ground level giving a sense of coolness to the space. Next to this was the large formal dining room with painted walls wrapping around the room telling the story of a relationship between two young men. It’s faded a bit but was originally done by the architect, Brangwyn. Considering when the house was built, it must have been a refuge for English people of the day.

Adjacent to the dining room was a parlor facing a wall of French style doors that opened out onto the terrace. Upstairs were five guest rooms, some with ensuite baths and others shared a bath in the hallway. On the third floor was the large dining area with a small modern kitchen off to the side. It was so very comfortable to walk on the stairs, they were wider than average and somehow not so tiring as the old stone steps in the garden. My room on the second floor was fitted with English furniture with floor to ceiling curtains in front of a double door leading out to the balcony.

Dear reader, I will not ever recover from my first up close view of Mt Aetna. It was enormous. Once before, I’d had the sensation of being able to step into another non corporeal presence. Years ago, I’d been stargazing at Jupiter in the summer sky. The view was so clear and powerful, I felt its energy. I made a connection to something greater, something alive. The feeling was of lightness and as impossible as it was; the ability to step easily off this planet and onto another. Aetna did the same.

At first, I thought a person was standing there on the balcony.. Human-sized statues of young women in flowing garb were poised at the edge of the balcony. Each one looking directly at the smoking summit. There was a solidness coming from them. They are so old and the carving so exquisite that they felt alive. The placement was perfect. An artist carved these figures hundreds of years ago but, where did they come from? Are they guardians of the Casa? They must have names. I wanted to stand there and watch with them forever.

There had been an eruption the day before with lava flow visible in the night. The Mediterranean with its calm azure waters keep Aetna’s feet cool as she gently rumbles. My balcony view looked out to the Gulf of Naxos with twinkling lights all around the bay. The city bustled below me but the house created a sensation of stillness. I am from Massachusetts where houses are made of wood. Stone was quiet; and did not squeak or feel warped under foot. The rooms in the house were all wider than average with 15’ ceilings. The wood floor laid out in a herringbone pattern. The stone walls gave a feeling of privacy. Henry Faulkner stayed in this room while a guest at the Casa. On the walls were several of his watercolors. The double bed was comfortable. A small fireplace was built into a corner of the room. There was no closet, only a curtain drawn across the corner. Behind it, a bench held extra pillows and blankets. A few coat hooks held up a bathrobe.

The shared bath in the hall was clean with abundant hot water. The bathroom window looked into a small, serene courtyard with a large sun-bleached peddler’s cart waiting to roll out into the street. It now sits quietly in this shady place. In parts of Sicily, there are still the mercato ambulante (peddler) who roam through town. He ambles through the maze of avenues pulling just such a cart. “Fresh strawberry! Fresh mulberry!”, he calls. I love quiet places and could have stayed at the B & B the entire visit, never stepping out into town but content nevertheless for being there. Perhaps when I die, I can transfer my energy into the statuary and remain on watch as the years roll by.

After an hour or so settling in at the Casa, I walked around the main corso in Taormina. I was brave to go out and walk about in a strange city. I had to go out a little, if only for a bite to eat. The English speaking son of the house manager, Franco, said to go across the street, walk down the stone steps and take a left into town. Everything is up or down a hill there. There was a warren of side alleys into different parts of town. The stones were clean and smooth underfoot. I found a relaxed black cat resting on the warm stone steps leading into the heart of the town. He did not look up when I passed by, but sat content, quite at home in this spot. I thought of Mimi cat back home, what is she doing now?

My footsteps lead to my first taste of arancini, little oranges which is what they look like. It’s a rice ball made with meat and cheese in the center surrounded by a light coating of breadcrumbs pan-fried in olive oil. A Sicilian fast food. Kids were break dancing in the square. The sun was strong here, I knew I needed a sunhat to be safe. The little woman in the hat shop set my choice aside; I had not quite enough cash, until tomorrow, a domani, a domani.

I slept with the doors to the balcony open that night. I kept getting up to look at the lava flow crimson against a black mountainside. The air was a bit cool but I loved the curtains, the double doors and hearing night sounds. The mourning doves made a different coo here. At home, they sound soft as if humming with love found. In Sicily, they sound strained, as if the answer from longed for mate never comes. Funny, there were no screens on any windows or doors. In that first halo of arrival, it seemed even the bugs were kind to tourists. My stay was brief but I had the experience of being in the presence of beauty and the living artistic energy embedded in the cream stucco walls.

Fans of Phelps memoir will be delighted to know that Concetta’s daughter Mimma and her husband now own and manage the Casa. Concetta was the loyal cook and housekeeper of 50 years. What a thrill it was to meet her. I only regret not meeting Don Ciccio’s descendants. Phelps spoke so often and with such fondness of the Don that I did have to ask her was their relationship more than platonic? Mimma thought not but said Phelps was a free spirit in matters of love and it was a possibility.

The name Daphne in Greek mythology is synonymous with a Naiad or fresh water nymph. The sprites are found in wells, streams, springs and fountains. Gentle beings in gentle places providing soothing, cool waters. I heard the small fountains flow all night Gentle splashes, gentle everything. I used to think of myself in this way. I was kind and quiet, that side of me had been pushed into a corner so often, that she was lost.

After a night’s rest and a plentiful Italian breakfast of brioche, prosciutto, yoghurt and granola, I passed the morning visiting Isola Bella, a small preserved nature park in the bay of Mazzaró. Visitors to the island reach it by walking along the shore and crossing a shallow isthmus. The beach didn’t have sand but bits of quartz and smooth stone. It was popular with sunbathers and women offering foot massages. A small fee allowed visitors to enter the park and walk among its cool paths, rock formations, natural rooms made of stone, and small shallow caves. The park boasts beautiful fauna. I recognized bird of paradise, but had never seen it in a natural state. How exotic the plumes of black and orange flowers among the tall spiky leaves. I looked toward shore and saw tour boats offering excursions into the bay. I could hear one of them returning back to port playing the overture to Rossini’s “The Barber of Seville”. A little kitschy but, that’s okay.

Anyone visiting Taormina must see the Teatro Antico Greco. The ancient Greek Theater has attracted artists since the 2nd century AD. The open-air amphitheater was in frequent use during the tourist season staging plays, ballets, operas, and musical performances nightly. It was an absolute wow to walk around the site. The tiered seating was made of cut block stones giving each person a good view to the stage. Wildflowers grew around some of the seating and gave it a pastoral look. The footing was flinty and dusty, I was glad for my sturdy shoes. The theatre was and was not a ruin. The stone backdrop to the stage crumbled down in places. It looked solid and not about to tumble over yet large chunks were missing. However, it was clean and swept along the paths. Every view was majestic. Ever-present, Mt Aetna watched over. Perhaps that was why the locals cope with the proximity of a live, active volcano in their backyard. She’s kept preoccupied by the artists and soothed by many a lovely song. She would not want to interrupt the show below.

The best pizza pie I ever ate was in Castlemola, a small town above Taormina. The Caffe bar Turrisi at the top of a long, steep windy road just off the car park, served an exquisite pizza with a spicy Sicilian picante sauce. The blend of a little heat, a lot of flavors with fresh just made crust and mild mozzarella cheese was beautiful. It was very easy to eat the entire pizza. By the hour, I was enjoying Sicily more and more. It was remarkably old and modern all at once. The service everywhere was good. Whether you could speak Italian was not a concern. Curiously, besides my neighbors at the Casa, I met no other English-speaking tourists. Everyone was from Germany, Holland, France or other parts of Italy. Not one American crossed my path in Taormina. I had the sensation I had been here before and it had not been one day but a 100 already. My only regret was not having come ten years ago to have met Daphne. She died in 2005 at the age of 94. I felt her presence in the Casa. I had the expectation of meeting her in the hallway and not being surprised. I don’t believe in ghosts, but in the spirit of all things. Daphne’s spirit is in the brick walkways. Her fingerprints are still on the whimsical little statues littered around the garden. They planted the seeds of the lemon trees in the garden.

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