Travel to Sicily – LuceStellare

Chapter 11 ~ Walk Through the Veil – Erice

This unplanned pilgrimage began as I stood near the sentinels on the balcony at Casa Cuseni under the constellation Centaurus overlooking Mazzarò Bay. Daphne’s spirit is still in the house. She sprinkled some stardust in my heart on the first night. Eighteen days of magic followed with every day better than the one before.

Near the end of this adventure, I visited the mystical town of Erice passing through La Porta del Trapani. The gateway of Trapani was huge and solid like all in Sicily. What I notice on my journeys around this precious island was from the first doorway to the last, locks worked, gates moved easily on their hinges and high walls kept us in or out. There was an underlying need for home security.

Medieval stone shoulder high walls surrounded the entire town. My neighbors at the Marsala B & B encouraged layers of protective clothing for the outing. It will be chilly, they said, so be prepared to walk through the clouds. The narrow winding road up the mountain passed through mists with long views down to the flats of Trapani. The parking lot was busy with buses and cars.

Erice was built when donkeys and handcarts were the only way to move things about. Gray cobblestones covered the lanes making it a bit slippery. Little narrow alleyways made it feel like a maze. The gloominess created a mood, and a sense of being out of normal time.

A map led to the 12th century Norman fortress lookout at Torri del Balio or Balio Towers. It was so tall. All pigeon gray stone with small windows along the watchtower. Visitors were not allowed into the courtyard and had to be satisfied with the panorama into a woodland clinging onto the hillside. We looked out into the vale below. Nearby, a little garden of rhododendrons waited patiently for sunshine.

The Sanctuary of Venus sits on the highest point of Erice. A Castle: Castello di Venere was built around the sacred space in the 11th century. A small entry fee allowed visitors into a wide open grassy area. It’s not clear if this space was always open to the sky. The gods and goddesses were received in their natural habitat. There were roofless small chambers with footstone paths. Placard guides in English helped to understand what happened here. One of the chambers was a bathhouse. A public bath by the look of it.

This sanctuary had been a place for comfort and pleasure dating back 3,000 years. On a clear day, it may be possible to see all the way out to the bay. A flame would have been lit at night to act as a beacon drawing sailors to the sight. An ancient lighthouse for mariners. Trade has been going on between continents as long as men could set sail. Trapani, Palermo and Marsala were common stops for merchants sailing up the Italian peninsula or to northern Africa. I thought the Turkish steps in Agrigento had been a navigation landmark. See the cliff face and know it’s so far from here or there.

On the grounds of the sanctuary, there was an intact well; large and laid with flat iron grey fieldstones. Was there still water at the bottom? Water is always sacred to the goddess. Wildflowers and soft grass covered the surfaces. I believe I dropped something into the well for good luck. Being swept up into the mystical moments around the island, I must have given something back as a token of appreciation. In the moment, my belief in another, a goddess presence, was quite strong.

Tall drafts of clouds billowed up. Again, the overwhelming sense of emotion came when I went to one part of the site. It wasn’t the pleasant sensation as at Selinunte. It’s hard to put into words what I felt. Not the energy of a being, but the sensation of something disturbing, some kind of grief, something here was upsetting. I felt it in the body. It’s hard to know if this came from without or something within was being released. Yoga instructors often speak of old emotional binds letting go when practicing the asanas. The movement opens up different places in the body and allows for stuck energy to move on. The shift came and went fairly quickly so it may have been walking over an energy field or letting go. There was nowhere to hide. I know it made me cry. I was on the other side and touched by the blessed.

In my introductory chapter, I spoke of the experience of practicing meditation formally with a Zen sangha or on my own. My goal in practice has been to experience enlightenment, or more simply awareness in the now. I wonder if these moments of connection with the immediate environment are glimpsing bits of awareness for more than a few seconds. A Vipassana teacher once said, we wake up often in day to day life. We don’t have the skill to stay in the moment and that’s what meditation is all about. A sitter is taught to recognize reality and the ability to be in it. Maybe I got there after all. But, was I realizing the past or the present?

The original notes from this visit are lost. Much of what is written here is from memory. I do recall meeting one American man from Colorado while walking through the town. He was with a tour group and had little time to chat. Once again, the guide hustled the group onto the next place, next sight and they were gone. My wallet was full of euro coins and getting mighty weighty. It was somewhere near the post office where I bought a handful of postcards and stamps to send home. They arrived about a month after I returned from my travels.

There was a most unusual stone chair located on the far side of Erice. It was shaped like a half moon and surrounded by shrubs giving a sense of seclusion. People could sit at one end, and heard clearly the whispered words of someone at the farther end. The distance between was twenty feet. The smallest sound somehow transmitted along the stone and sounds like it’s coming from inside the seat. I would caution anyone who wanted to keep a conversation private to not speak there.

The town was known for famous, delicious almond cookies. I did pass by a shop laid out with beautiful little finger tea cookies in the display window. Did I go in? Nope. Today, I was in a bit of a trance and not inclined to browse. My blood blistered foot was also a hindrance. Everything is extra tiny here. I am a little taller than average and was a little tired of the squeeze.

Lunch was at a café in the main square. A few cats hovered around the doorway in search of handouts. The WIFI was first rate. Italians have a higher standard of living in different ways. At least, for the tourist trade it may seem so. Service was prompt without a lot of fuss. The staff doesn’t schmooze customers as in the U.S. There was a comfortable distance to interactions. Quiet people will be happy here as the focus was on the action and not the person. Nobody asked personal questions or made strained attempts to be instant “friends”. Meals were simple and scrumptious. Sparkling mineral water was the norm as a beverage. The only thing missing were chips. Potato chips hadn’t crossed over to Italy?

I wanted to go home. As much as traveling was fun, I missed home. The struggle with language hadn’t been too discouraging. I was lost at times, but didn’t let it get me down. Because I choose a solo journey, I could conserve energy for the places and experiences. People take a lot of effort. The strain of compromise and comprehension can be too much.

The something else present is what has been lost over the years. The belief in aether. The four elements do not change, but the fifth, the thing that binds them together is aether. It’s an intangible belief. However, it does tap into the other senses inside of us. It can be as simple as intuition, but it explains why we get glimpses of things that have passed.

Afterword

The long journey home took place a few days later. It was daunting to think about that long flight to Boston from Rome. The cab left me at Palermo airport. I saw a little dog with its owner in the waiting area. So, dogs can fly on planes now? A short flight, changing planes and on the way back. The man sitting next to me thought I was an Italian woman and kept talking in the language. Really, I wasn’t giving off American vibes? An air stream blew on my face part of the way back, somewhere along the way, I developed a wicked sickish headache. Except for the blood blister on my foot, I was ailment free through the journey. I slept okay, and had no food problems at all.

The airport van dropped me off at home around 10 p.m. My first thought was where is my cat. In the dark, I could see the grass was pretty tall now. I heard her meow. I called out her name but she wasn’t responding. I had asked the cat sitter to lock her inside when the sun went down. I went back outside and found her. Her meow was hoarse. The cantankerous calico missed me! I gave her a big hug and made such a fuss over her. My headache was worse. The best thing to do was take a warm shower and go to bed. My bed felt great and I slept very well through the night. The next day was for unpacking, soaking my foot and carrying on. I love my home. It’s a quiet, tiny little house in a rural town. Was I different? I would guess so. The urge to travel has been satisfied. As the van driver said at the beginning of the journey, a lot of sorting out who I was happened without intention. I’m content with who I am.

Being in Sicily opened a different part of myself up to a spiritual journey. The attraction was something old, an old knowing of this place, a desire to be there again.

Years ago, I became intrigued by Native American culture and was bold enough to travel to Albuquerque, New Mexico for the Gathering of Nations. It’s a welcome to spring ceremony held when the corn is traditionally planted. It was at the Acoma Pueblo and in the petroglyph park that I realized this was familiar. I’d been here. Lived here before. The echo wasn’t as clear as that experienced in Sicily. I’ve also had a life span in France as a soldier or citizen during World War I. I died on the battlefield somewhere. At some point in a past life, I died by being inside either a cave or rock outcropping that fell on me. I don’t think I died right away as when I encounter a cave or closed in space surrounded by rock, I normally will not go in or have to get out right away.

In Sicily, I missed some things but really have no regrets. The urge to go back is there, but not the push, the need to go. There’s a flight out to Italy every night. Two years after this trip, I did return to Lucca. When I originally planned to travel abroad, this city was the chosen destination in Italy. I went alone, attending a language school for a week. Trips out around the countryside were planned including a few meals around Tuscany. I had several impressions of things that had happened long ago in an old church. I could see clearly where a workman had fallen and died. The energy in Italy opens me to this ability to see beyond the present. When I visited the famous Gli Uffizi Galleria in Florence, I realized how averse my psyche is to anything Roman. I could barely stay in the section that contains Roman artifacts, sculpture and paintings. When the original trip was planned with the group of women, I felt the aversion to a suggested stay in Rome. I went through Fiumicino airport outside the city on the way to Sicily, but I had no choice. Something happened there so long ago.

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 1 ~ Bound for Sicily

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