On a clear, cool late afternoon in May 2015, an airport shuttle van idled in the driveway waiting for me to board. Spring had been cold and dry in Massachusetts. The leaves were still in tight buds on the trees; wood violets just coming into bloom. The door’s thumped closed and home slipped away in the rear view mirror. I saw Mimi cat sitting inside the house on the window sill and felt a tug to turnaround. We had never spent a night apart since the move into our home five years ago. There were originally three house cats but Gigi and Poncho have passed over the rainbow bridge. How much they were still missed. Mimi’s daily sojourn around the yard would be a memory for a while. After two years of saving and prepping, a precious dream was about to become a reality. Bills were paid for a few weeks. The pet sitter would be by later. I had my walking shoes on. Three weeks would pass before I returned home. I was bound for Sicily.
What a thing to do! I’ve always been a late bloomer. A home owner at age 50, I got cold feet the night before I moved in wondering how to pay a mortgage, oil bills and more. But, the chance to back out had passed. Now, at 55, I was traveling abroad. The desire to visit the island came from deep inside, an actual physical sensation like a slow pushy tingle behind the solar plexus. I had to go. A lover of routine and certainty, I couldn’t be more out of my comfort zone.
A day later, I arrived. Late afternoon, as the sun was beginning to melt into the Mediterranean sea, I was standing on the balcony outside my room in Casa Cuseni overlooking the stunning Mazzaró Bay in the resort town of Taormina. Above it all, the great smoking goddess Aetna, gently vented a stream of vivid, crimson lava in the night.
Traveler’s familiar with Italy warned me off the island. “Go north,” they said, “Sicily is a poor cousin to the north. The south has an acquired taste. It’s not the best of Italy. You’ll be lost there. It’s not like Italy.” Was it a dream that made me look past these comments? I’d had to delay the trip one full year to save enough cash and vacation time. What kind of travel would this be? Solo or with a group? Tours are pricey and confining. I didn’t want to be another face in the crowd. My nature is reflective so anything taken on has a higher purpose. Besides, something pulled me here. The mention of Sicily always caused me to pause. My heritage is Eastern European so it wasn’t a cultural calling.
It’s a cliché, but there is something familiar about the place. There is a memory inside that is just out of reach. Cypress, Syracuse, names of things with an S or Cy sound are important. Sanctuary, solace, sojourn, sigh, words with an s are so pleasing to say and hear.
My experience with international travel only includes a trip to Montreal, Canada as a teenager in 1977. Most of it is a long lost memory except for providing driving directions to my father as we were navigating on the highway. At the time, my French language skills were enough to read road signs.
Years ago, I had thought I might enjoy living abroad and wondered if I could take a position at a foreign embassy. I had no idea how to put these thoughts into action. My innate shyness and love of horses took me on a different life path. During my twenties, I had the opportunity to live and work on a small private estate in New Jersey. My sole occupation was the care and well-being of five riding horses for a wealthy woman. I loved the quiet, country life. One of the horses was mine to ride. His name was Ivanhoe. We enjoyed long trail rides around the 500 acre farm, riding in the fields, down to the koi pond and traveling to dressage competitions in Pennington N.J.
In time, I acquired a Philly accent common in southern Jersey. I was fit and satisfying the desire for physical work. After awhile, it did become routine and I got restless. The truth is, I had a comfortable situation living on the farm but the wage was minimal. The labor was endless six days a week. I realized it was also a dangerous occupation. I was just an average rider and had found a way to be with horses without the expense of owning one. A bout of homesickness and boredom, urged me to make a change.
A week before I left, an inner voice told me to turn south, not north. I liked the warmer climate. However, having few resources, I didn’t listen to it. It’s impossible to know what may have happened next, but the return to my home state of Massachusetts was not the best choice in every way. The family connection served a purpose in providing shelter but any feeling of togetherness was elusive. It was a struggle to adapt and I really didn’t have any direction besides acquiring a job; any job.
The understanding that a college degree might change my income level became a goal. I had two jobs for several years and was caught in the rut of all work, all the time just to get by. A door opened when I landed a position at a prestigious college. It took eight years, but I completed a bachelor’s degree in international studies graduating with high honors. The work brought me into close proximity with people from different parts of the world. I admit to a certain fascination with foreigners.
The goal to travel and perhaps, live abroad was stymied by the events of September 11, 2001. The terrorists successfully planted the fear of being outside the U.S.. I felt myself slightly recoil from all the internationals I worked with daily. What was a curiosity became a distrust. However, I continue to work in academia in support of higher education. Only in the last several years has income provided even the thought of venturing abroad.
I am at the lower end of middle class earnings and securing a home became an attainable goal in 2009. Five years later, managing the ins and outs of a house allowed me to have extra funds. Not much, but enough to meet normal expenses with a little surplus each month. A frugal nature and determination provide the grit necessary to take the risk of travel. I’ve been fortunate over the years to visit Albuquerque, New Mexico, Naples and Miami Beach, Florida and thought of a trip to Costa Rica. But, the distance and strangeness of being so far away scared me out of going.
The spark for travel to Sicily came from music. A singer from Sicily gave inspiration to see these old places. Images of ruins, a brilliant azure blue sea and Mount Aetna flashed on a screen as he sang a Neapolitan love song. I could understand some of the words but was caught by the desire to learn the language. Eventually, I learned to read and write at a basic level. But, I lacked a conversation partner. I became immersed in the culture enjoying a revived love of opera. I tried out Italian wines and loved Nero d’Avola best. The impulse to go there pushed and pushed at me. I read about life in modern Sicily and Italy. The majority were memoirs by women who married a native, moved there, inherited property or were looking for their ancestors. Some of the books included a bit of island history and referred to Greek ruins.
I had tried to put together a tour with casual acquaintances met on social media. There was a common interest with music. It’s very cool to plan and search with a keyboard all the adventures that can happen, it’s another reality to put it in action. The trip was somewhat worked out to maybe meet up at the airport in D.C. and fly over together. We’d stop in Abruzzo for a few days and then onto Sicily. I’d managed to track down a local tour guide who led customized trips in Abruzzo. I was looking at a weekend for us there. The deposit to secure a week in May was sorted out with the group, dates selected, a $600 deposit check from my personal funds was in an envelope ready for mailing, but I never dropped it in the mailbox. When I asked the group, are we all going? they went silent. Cash was required! Cash from others to secure a tour. The sensation of coldness and a clear head prevented the letter from going in the mail. The deposit was non refundable. It took me so long to save.
In trying to accommodate strangers, I was making compromises and worrying about hotel reservations for five. How were we going to get about? Who was driving? A few days in Rome too? The nagging doubts about spending three weeks together wasn’t a welcoming feeling. Every person was older by ten years or more. Where was all the money coming from to stay in Rome? What was their level of fitness? Food preferences? We had one conference call but all declined follow up calls. This felt wrong. If I didn’t know them in person, how could I trust them? An internet friend watching over the dialogue mentioned the hazards of such an adventure. I was becoming a de facto tour operator.
The trip was partially inspired by Daphne Phelps memoir, “A House in Sicily.” The house is still there and the first destination on my itinerary. Only one member of the group took a look at the place. Too costly they said, But, she was my inspiration. A single woman of modest means, middle aged and a bit cynical. How could I not see the casa? No, the group asked for something else. I planned a stop in Noto to attend the May floral festival. No, they were not interested. Let’s stop at this puppet theater, I said, I want to see Ortygia for a day. Where? It was not working out. The last straw had something to do with one of the members offering a lead on a contact in Marsala. I recall saying, okay, get back to us when you sort that one out. No reply. On and on it went, tangling with people online, making arrangements with a driver service, and a stop in a small town to visit distant relations.
Before any money changed hands, I disbanded the group and wished all well. The sensation of cold feet arrived once again. Ever the introvert, there’s an innate discomfort in the company of many. I remember talking on the phone to one group member afterwards and hearing about a different contact in Abruzzo. A house rental? Why wasn’t this put on the table to consider? Suddenly, one member had language skills? This could be a once-in-a-lifetime trip. There were too many unknowns. Too many times I was accommodating others, putting aside what I truly wanted to do. After all, tour operators are paid for their service. This bunch wanted a lot of handholding, but who was holding mine? A virtual friend in Germany who was in the group, but never intended to travel with us, chimed in with high praise for taking this turn away. She reminded me how difficult it can be to travel with family, or friends. We weren’t friends, not even truly acquainted. Travelers have to sort out what is best for them and what is too daunting.
I recall moping around for a week or two with the notion to not go at all. It wasn’t a need but a desire. The shed in my yard needed repairs. The crawl space under the bathroom needed insulating. What was I doing putting cash into travel? Two voices spoke to me every day, the pragmatist and the idealist. How dull day to day life was becoming. How much I wanted to go. Fears, so many hesitations over the unknown nagged at me.
I found courage in an online travel forum I belonged to and a Michelin Green Guide to Sicily. The decision was made to go. I wanted time during the day to explore without constraints, to live like a native and get away from Americans for a while. Instead of hotels or hostels, I found apartments at about 30 to 40 euros a day. I reserved a room at Phelps house, Casa Cuseni in Taormina, a cottage in Noto for four days during the May festival, a seaside apartment in Agrigento province and a B & B in Marsala. I would visit Ortygia, Ragusa, Modica, Naro, Campobello di Licata, Selinunte, Segesta and the fabulous mythical city of Erice. A driver was reserved for transport from site to site. I’d have to go to the grocery shop, watch local tv and sleep alone. Yeah! This was me! On the way to the airport, the van driver in the US said that, in Sicily, I would find myself. America is too big, too many cultures and a distracting place. The island would change that. You can be yourself.
Jitters with joy tingled inside as I heard people speaking Italian at the check-in counter for the flight from Boston to Catania with a transfer in Rome. But, something went wrong with the seat assignments. The first tickets sold were mine. So, how did I end up in a middle center seat right next to the loo! I pulled on an eye mask, going into a sort of twilight sleep on the overnight flight, emerging from my cloister at breakfast. A warm cup of tea, orange juice, yoghurt, and a brioche were served about an hour outside of Rome. The lucky folks with window seats opened the shades on a bright Italian sky. Eccoci qui! Here we are! Fairy dust drifted down as that last hour passed in a twinkle of time. The captain said the best words ever heard, buckle up and stow things away, we’re about to land. My ears popped. The landing gear clunked down. The wheels touched the tarmac. We made it!
At the customs counter, a stiff little man seated inside a glass capsule stamped the page in my passport. Excitement tried to rise but got mixed up with angst. I was shuffled around exiting Terminal 3. My transfer ticket was for ‘Terminal 1’. What? Ma dove vado? Where to go? No help. Terminal 1 was about a city block away. My two handbags were small but full; a bore to carry. Oh, everyone had said to travel light.
The forty-minute layover gave precious time to find the connecting flight. Signs were posted in German, Italian and English. I just had to calm down and follow the arrows down a stairwell to the gate for Sicily. My watch was set to Boston time just like I was. A little dizzy, a lot hungry and needing comfort, the lunch counter came into view. Two small chubby German women stood in front of the glass case blocking everybody. I leaned in and said, lo prendo…..si paga prima alla cassa madame. Go to the cashier and pay first, lady. I bought a bottle of sparkling mineral water with a toasted panino al salmone. Lovely, lovely, it was scrumptiously lovely melting with cheese, ham, salami and peppery arugula. The bread was fresh and warm. Sesame seeds burst off the crispy crust onto my tongue. The water fizzed, bathing my throat with tickly bubbles. My first Italian meal at the Autogrill in Fiumicino Airport Rome. It was so cool to pay in euros.
When I made a reservation at the B&B in Taormina, the proprietor asked if I would need a ride from Catania. The trip was about a half-hour drive north on the autostrada. I could have figured out how to take a bus but I indulged in something unusual for me, letting someone else get me there. Despite an attempt or two via email, the request from the innkeeper on the name of the service, it was not acknowledged. So, how to find the driver if one was there at all? This was so exciting but my eyes felt dirty from the long flight. My body was rumpled and stiff. I couldn’t go home at the end of this day.
We landed at Catania airport at around 4:30. The place felt run down and tired. A large pile of bags sat at the bottom of the stairwell patiently waiting for their owners. Bicycles and baby carriages were abandoned. For a second, I thought my bags might be in there. I looked up and saw the traditional luggage carousels, found my bags and my ride! Oh! A man stood outside holding a sign with my name. The driver walked quickly out to the car park and we were on the way to Taormina.
A few contacts were expecting to see me in a few days. I would meet Giuseppe and Eleanora in Naro and Giovanni in Campobella di Licata. What I didn’t know was that an innate love of landscape, mythology and spirituality would come out of dormancy. What seemed like a quiet, personal adventure would bring me into contact with the energy of others long gone. I didn’t know that I would finally let something else in and make a connection to earth, air, fire and water. The elements are bountiful in Sicily, they reach and soothe tired hearts who’ve forgotten their purpose. The pages here are a reflection of what was seen, but more, what was felt. The outer journey awakened an inner journey. I didn’t know it at the time, but I was on an unplanned pilgrimage.
#Sicily #Unplanned Pilgrimage
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