Termini Imerese, a chocolate lunch, and a night at Cefalù

12/19 - Cefalù to Termini Imerese - 21.43

Rising early, I was soon on the train to Cefalù, where I got back on the highway leading to Palermo. The day's stop was Termini Imerese, and the walk took me past giant orange groves and a small stretch of pines, where I ate an all-chocolate meal, lunch of champions. As you might imagine, I felt a bit strange after all that chocolaty goodness, so I struck up the courage to purchase two oranges from a fruit truck along the side of the road. Instead of the usual annoyance with such a small purchase, described two posts ago in further detail, I got a decidedly positive response, in that the fruit vendor waved me away when I tried to pay, saying Merry Christmas. Now, before I go on, I have to make it clear that I am not begging for food. I mention this because my mother is really worried that people will think I am out of money, and therefore need to beg for food. Nope, that is not the case; rather, the people in this part of the country especially are extremely generous, and I have simply been the recipient of this generosity numerous times.

It was grey and rainy when Termini first came into sight, and the last two hours of my walk were next to the large, imposing power plant, suspiciously located on the water's edge, sucking any beauty and positive energy straight out of the atmosphere.

The town of Termini Imerese was slightly depressing, seeming more like a British industrial town than anything else. I walked around looking for affordable lodging, came up empty, asked at a bar, received a free coffee (something that would not have happened so easily in a British industrial town, by the way. And no mom, I didn't beg for it) and some options, found them all way more expensive than what I was accustomed to paying, received a wink-wink suggestion to sleep at the train station, and in the end, stepped off the train at Cefalù.

So I got to sleep in Cefalù after all, at a Bed & Breakfast right on the water. I was late for dinner, choosing instead to explore the town, and ended up receiving all the leftovers from a pizzeria/rosticceria after befriending the owners, including all the fatty fried foods for which Sicily is famous. Again, no begging, just kind people and good timing.

Chocolate for lunch, fried balls of rice for dinner, and I think I lost weight that day. Screw the whole get in shape to look good line of motivation; life can be full of guiltless culinary pleasure when you exercise.

Ten Euros, or How I ended up at Rodì Milice - PART III

Part 3

Over 2,000 of us are seated at giant wooden tables covered with linen tablecloths and protected from the elements by giant canvas tents that are, in truth, somewhat unnecessary, given the unseasonably warm Siclian night. There is music, live and merry, with the cymbals of tambourines crashing out the rhythm, while groups of youngsters dance in a circle, joy painted on each face as they move in perfect unison.

The sounds of a feast threaten to drown out their performance, as lively middle-aged men flutter from table to table, slapping other middle-aged men on the back, boxing the ears of screaming toddlers, raising glasses in a constant toast to health and life. The women chatter and laugh heartily, lulling to a whisper every now and then as confidences are shared and gossip spreads. A husband singles out his wife, rudely issues a command, a lively yelling match ensues, the men jokingly taunt their buddy, who, fueled by the support of the audience, grows only louder. You can see they've done this before, both are veterans of the game, and it looks like all will have to settle in for the long haul, when an elder approaches, slowly but with an authoritative gait, and to everyone's glee, slaps his son, the husband, upside the head. A command, a challenge in dialect, issues forth form the old man, who despite his age still manages a stentorian voice, and the audience dissolves in laughter, happy for such a humorous end to the conflict.

Peace is restored, glasses of locally produced, light violet wine are raised, and the merriment continues to grow. The food is everywhere, filling the long tables as dozens of different dishes are brought out. People tear off the chunks of bread to sop up the last, oily remnants of mind-blowing sauces, using hands in the meal-time rite called Fare la Scarpetta, or "do the sole of the boot," a direct translation of which is impossible. Of course, everyone knows you shouldn't do it in public, how impolite to sop up the sauce with bread using your hands!, but yet everyone does it anyway while they think nobody else is looking, especially when the sauces are as good as they are this evening. Helpings of different dishes are scooped onto plates, the food has no limit but no one is eating in a hurry anyways; this feast will last until everyone falls down with exhaustion, dragging each other home with the light of dawn.

The dogs are in on the action too, squealing with delight at their unexpected good fortune, gobbling up any and all morsels that reach the floor. They move in a pack, nobody seems to pay them any mind, and after all they are harmless, knowing full well who to avoid, and who to approach, always cautiously and circuitously.

In the midst of this flurry of bright colors, of torch-lit revelry and savory odors is the table reserved for the mayor, the town doctor, the priest, and the guest of honor, yours truly. In the midst of our revelry, the mayor stands up, hushes the crowd by clinking his wine glass, and begins to speak. He thanks everyone for coming to the first of what will be a three-day festival, and with a grand gesture, motions for me to stand up, at which point the whole assembled crowd erupts in applause, dozens of hands patting me on the back. "To Patrick, the walker who brought ten euros all the way from Lamezia to our lovely town of Rodì Milice!" I look over at Ninno and Angela, who wave at me; they've been invited to the celebration too, of course.

I prepare to speak:

But I should stop here, and get on with the real story. Walking along for all the days between Lamezia and Rodì Milice, I developed quite an elaborate scene in my mind, letting my imagination run wild with how I would be received with my tale. I tried to calm down and retain some sense of reality, knowing that I was leading myself to certain disappointment with whatever happened to me upon reaching Rodì Milice.

So why tell the story then, if you already know that it will end in disappointment? Why mess up the package with the pretty bow? I'll tell you why: because life rarely ever comes in a fancy package, perfectly proportioned and pleasing to the eye. If it's a bit crooked, misshapen, and bulky, it's because it's real. Don't try to change the package, edit for content, and so on, I remind myself; simply tell it like it happened, and try to change your own perception of the story in the telling of it.

The day I was set to arrive at Rodì Milice was the day after the freak storm that turned the highway into a river. As I recounted a few posts ago, the sun was shining, there was a buzz as people assessed the damage and got to work putting their towns back together, and I was in high spirits.

My detour was not terribly long, about an hour, but it was all uphill, so the reward of reaching the top was great. I surveyed the beautiful farmland and pastures on rolling hills all around me, and remembered Ninno's praise of his hometown. This was it, all right.

Walking the last stretch uphill, I finally reached the town government building, called the Comune (pronounced Co MOO Nay, or Neigh, for you farm animal lovers out there), where Ninno's nephew worked, or so I hoped. When I saw it, and just as I was about to enter, I had to hold myself back, overcome by the emotion derived from my own actions. I recognized even then how silly it was, getting choked up about a gesture sprung entirely from my own imagination, but there was no reasoning through it, and so I had to wait a bit until I regained composure.

I stepped into the building cautiously and with frequent little pauses, quietly listening for voices that might lead me directly to my destination; I did not want to announce my mission in a random hallway to some office assistant, after all. When I saw an open door down a hallway to my right, I approached, and knocking, announced my arrival. The three people in the office looked up with surprise, then amusement; surely they had not expected a sweaty foreigner at the door.

Nor were they expecting my story, told as it was with a wavering voice, fraught with emotion. "I was looking for _______, the vice mayor." They looked at me with blank stares, obviously waiting for me to spit it out. "I have come from his Aunt and Uncle in Calabria on foot, and I would like to speak with him." I could not help but be ambiguous; why the hell was I here, again? To hand over ten euros to a government official? It didn't make any sense unless I told the whole story, and there was no way I was going to do that, not in the state I was in.

Even though I was the opposite of expansive, the three officials were immediately responsive. He wasn't here, he's out and about as usual, they joked, but let's try and reach him. The one lady offered me chocolate, one man kept me entertained, while the other tried to reach the vice mayor. No luck, he wasn't answering. I sat still, terrified of giving up so easily after nearly two weeks of buildup, but losing hope of getting to carry out my self-appointed task. They continued to call, even reaching his wife at home, and asked her to help track him down, as there was a matter of great urgency back at the office.

A few minutes later, the phone rang, and there he was, calling back to find out what emergency needed attention. Based on the officer's responses and expression, I could tell we had interrupted something, and when they put me on the phone for me to explain, _______ was very short with me. "And what do you want? ... Yeah, yeah, I know, my Aunt and Uncle, in Calabria, right ... Listen, I'm at lunch with my in-laws right now, so you'll have to wait till I'm done." A bit offended, and therefore defensive, I shot back, "I have to walk to Tindari today and arrive before sunset, so I can't wait long." Before he could respond, the officer grabbed the phone, and bless his heart, said "You've gotta come meet this kid. He's walked all the way from Calabria to meet you and he can't wait all day."

The conversation ended soon after, and the official looked at me affectionately, with a father's expression. "You must be hungry. Go to the bar up the street and get something to eat, and by the time you come back, he'll be here, I'm sure." I did as I was told, feeling very strange about this whole situation but curious to see how it would work itself out. Opening the door to the bar, I could tell the barista expected someone, but that he certainly did not expect someone like me, and I took satisfaction in saying "I was told to come here by the Comune." He sprang to action, offering me all sorts of snacks, but I was used to simple eating at lunch, just some bread and a fruit or two, and stopped him short at a couple items. He insisted on fruit juice, a true luxury for someone used to drinking tap water out of a plastic sack, and I could tell he was carrying out orders from the official, who had called ahead.

He asked what I was doing here, I gave the short answer, he asked more questions, and slowly teased out the long answer, which soon had the staff of three enthralled. They offered more food, a positive sign, and when I turned it down, a coffee, which I accepted. I sipped it slowly, was surprised to feel it actually calm me down rather than make me even more nervous, and when I had finished and tried to pay, the barista waved me way. "Don't worry, it's on the Comune."

I thanked the staff, waved goodbye, and walked back to the Comune, where a very antsy and excitable ________ was pacing back and forth, smiling broadly. All hailed my entrance, the vice mayor stuck his hand out, apologizing for his delay in coming, and I could tell that the office staff had paved the way for me. With a flurry of waving arms and quick talk, he ushered me out of the building, but not before I said goodbye and thanked the staff for their help.

We headed toward his car, he helped me load the bag, and when we were both inside, he announced, "I'm going to drive you to Tindari." I panicked; that was the last thing I had expected to hear. "No, I have to walk." "Don't be ridiculous. It's the least I can do." "No, you don't understand, I can't skip any part of the trail." "Don't offend me. It's a pleasure to help you." "No, please, you're doing me a great disservice. I'll have to walk all the way back and restart from where I left off." "Are you kidding me? It's far to Tindari, you know." "Please, I beg you. Don't drive me to Tindari." "Are you sure? Promise me." "I swear by everything that's holy that I don't want you to take me to Tindari." "Ok, I'll just take you up the road a bit." "NO!!! If you're going to take me anywhere, take me back down to the state road where I turned to head up to Rodì Milice." "Are you sure? You can skip a boring part of the road if I take you further ahead. C'mon, it's no big deal." "_______, please, believe me, I wanted to walk down from Rodì Milice. Taking me to the turnoff is more than enough." "Ok, but it's your choice." "Yes."

Crisis barely averted, he asked me a few questions, we talked about Ninno and Angela, and when we were approaching my turnoff point, I tried in my smoothest way to introduce the story of the ten euros, and slip him the ten euros without him thinking ill of the idea. When I did so, he just laughed it off into the abyss of the ludicrous, and when I insisted, telling him how much it meant for me to pass this money on and support his city, he turned serious, told me that he would not accept it under any circumstances, and that I should take it to the Sanctuary at Tindari if I wanted to give it away. I think I even offended him, and realized at that moment how strange it must seem, and how it could easily be misconstrued as an attempt at charity. Anyways, I could tell he didn't really care about my story, and was just getting me out of his hair so he could return to his regularly scheduled programming.

I thanked him for the unwanted ride, assured him for the 47th time that I did not want a ride to Tindari, waved goodbye as he sped off, and walked the fifty feet backward, to the exact spot where I turned up the hill to Rodì Milice in my abortive effort to create a powerful ending to my story.

This trip up the hill, so emotionally charged, ended with me at the bottom again, feeling empty, and positively dripping with irony. How else could this have ended, Pat? With a big hug, best friends forever, fireworks, and Willy Wonka promising me the whole god-damned factory to reward my returning the ten euro gobstopper?

In the end, I was just an errand in an otherwise normal day for someone who really didn't care. Nothing is worse than apathy when you're expecting emotion.

Still, I could not help but smile as I walked on toward Tindari. A fitting metaphor for my walk, this little adventure: it's not the completion, but rather the journey there that is so fulfilling.

I dipped into the first church I saw, a nice and humble one, and stuffed the ten euro bill into a slot without a second thought. Then, since I was alone, I took my time to remember the way it looked, smelled, sounded, and felt, and seeing an open notebook with various prayers scrawled by pious believers, I wrote a prayer of my own:

Thank you for everything that you have given me. Please forgive me my pride and self-importance, and allow me to be patient, humble, and to love everyone and everything with all my soul.

Ten Euros, or How I ended up at Rodì Milice - PART II

Part 2

A few weeks back, I wrote in passing about a lunch invitation I received between Mortilla and Pizzo. Here's the full story:

I had seen a number of orange tree nurseries throughout the course of the day, and as I passed each one I felt my appetite for oranges increase. When I saw that one of the nurseries ahead had set a tower of crates full of oranges along the side of the road, I turned into the driveway. This process is always somewhat awkward and uncomfortable for me, as my request for two or three oranges is nearly always met with a long sigh, an impatient snort, or at the very least a sullen silence. You see, most people buy four or five kilos of oranges at one time, so my purchase is peanuts in comparison. Call me oversensitive, call me weak-willed, call me what you will, but until you have had the experience of disappointing a fruit vendor as many times as I have over a short span of time, you can not possibly know how it feels.

So, firming up my resolve and preparing my "oblivious to your annoyed look/set on eating oranges at any psychological cost" face, I approached the house, only to discover that the family was eating lunch. Ay ay ay - not only was I wasting the nursery owner's time with a tiny purchase, I was also interrupting the most important hour(s) of a Calabrian's day. Still, it was too late to turn back, say "nevermind, wrong house," and escape, so when the owner came out, frowning but not unfriendly, I told him what I wanted. He nodded silently, I apologized to the two ladies cautiously peeping out from the dining room, and followed sheepishly behind the owner to the roadside crates.

He told me to pick what I wanted, and so I did, selecting delicious-looking navels and two juicy mandarins. Then, without a word, he made way back down to the house, and rather quickly, as it had just started to rain. I followed, and pressed against the house to avoid getting wet, let my backpack fall from my shoulders, so I could pack the oranges and remove my rain gear. While I was doing this, I heard one of the ladies shuffle out toward the front door, and when she was beside her husband, she asked me what I was doing there.

I began to tell my story, all the while covering my backpack and donning my rain jacket. The man listened closely, stone-faced but engaged, but his wife only heard the beginning, and soon reentered the house, only to emerge with a sandwich, which she handed to me. Having finished packing, I was urged to eat, and was motioned to sit down on the front steps. Husband and wife started to reenter the house, when the wife, having reconsidered, told me to come in from the rain.

Panino in hand, I walked gingerly into the house, and with shoulders hunched in weary wayfarer fashion, approached the table. I was immediately put at ease by their kindness and simplicity (much like Valentino had described to me just a few days before), and thanked Angela with each item she lay before me. The three of them, Ninno, Angela, and their daughter, had already eaten lunch, but they sat patiently as I ate mine, composed of cheeses and bread and a bomba calabrese (a spicy tapenade made of minced hot peppers, garlic, oil, anchovies, sundried tomatoes, salt, and a few other ingredients that I now forget), then sampled the same delicious oranges as the ones I had just purchased. Fully satisfied, I leafed through a book on Rodì Milice, Ninno's hometown in Sicily, as Angela prepared coffee. I asked him questions about the town, his impressions of Calabria vs. Sicily, and listened as he wistfully recounted the orange trees there: "you can climb up into a tree in the morning, pick until lunchtime, and still there are oranges left to pick when you get back." He was particularly proud of the book's dedication, written by his Nephew, the vice-mayor of the town, and had me read it aloud.

After Angela brought the coffee, we watched some news, commented on world events, and as I still had a long distance ahead of me, I excused myself from the table.

We all walked outside together, and after flipping up the hood on my rain jacket, I reached into my pocket and pulled out coins to pay for the fruit. "Don't worry," Ninno said, and though I wanted to pay, I knew it was useless to insist. Instead, I hugged each of them in turn, thanked them for taking me in, and was on my way.

Wait, shouted Angela, and scampering up to me, shoved something into my hand. I looked down, saw a folded bill, and started repeating No No No No No No, trying to give the money back, by force if necessary. I told them I didn't need money from them, that I appreciated the gesture but that they should save it for someone truly in need, but again there was no use. A little ashamed and still in shock, I looked at each of them with profound gratitude, and this time I was on my way for real. I had never received such direct charity from someone before, and can say that it is one of the more humbling situations I have experienced.

When I was about 100 yards away from the nursery, I looked down at my clenched fist, slowly opened it, and registered the denomination of the bill. Guess how much it was? Ten Euros.

Calabria had taken two fives and given me a ten in return.

For the next 30 minutes or so, I walked in the gray drizzle, letting this string of events sink in, once more with the music off. I was very moved, in awe of what I had just experienced, but this time there was no crying, no excess of emotion. I simply realized that these ten euros were not mine, that I had to pass on this same bill, representative as it was of an other-worldly phenomenon. So to whom should I give these ten euros? The first thought, the easiest solution, was to pop into a church and stuff it into one of the many guilt-inducing slots. I considered this for a while, but the more I thought about it, the less it inspired me. I pictured priests getting the strands of gold replaced on their vestments, or sending it on to some huge vat of money tucked somewhere deep in the Vatican, and I was not satisfied. Of course, the church could also be a force for good, giving it to needy orphans and so on, but why should I go through a middle man when I could do the same myself? The answer to that particular question came in the form of a bunch of farm sheds under an overpass, directly to my left. I considered spontaneously appearing, the bill in hand, and realized that things could go less than perfectly. What if ten was not enough, and they robbed me blind? What if they were indignant at my assuming their poverty? No, this ten was destined to go somewhere else, a place where it would not go to waste or serve to glorify me, but instead be given in the same spirit in which Ninno and Angela had given, the spirit of hospitality and new friendship.

And then it hit me, a flash of inspiration that made up my mind, so logical and so cinematic at the same time. No matter where it was, no matter how long it took, I was going to Rodì Milice, Ninno's birthplace, and would give the ten euros to his nephew.

Ten Euros, or How I ended up at Rodì Milice - PART I

As it is long, this post is divided into three, scheduled to appear one per day over the next three days.

I lost faith in humanity only once during my journey, on the state road no. 18 linking Salerno to Reggio Calabria. It was a sunny day, the first after a stretch of rainy, cloudy, windy days, and my spirits were high. I was marching down the coast of Calabria, making good progress, uninspired by what I had seen in the last few days, but ever hopeful for one of those magical moments that change the direction of my trip, always for the better.

Earlier that day, I had even felt the exhilaration of near-miss, when a man stopped me for a half-hour chat about walking. He was a Santiago di Compostela veteran, a big-time walker and a teacher to boot, my kind of guy, but he was from Cosenza, in the mountains, and there was no chance I was heading up there. Even so, he offered to show me around should I happen to pass through, and I was just happy to break the monotony, as it had been a week since I had met anyone on the journey besides hotel and restaurant employees.

I was listening to Bach's Italian Concerto, lost in the music as a way of tuning out the constant hum of cars as they sped within inches of where I walked along the shoulder, when I spotted a car that had slowed to a stop on the other side of the road. Thinking nothing of it, I nonetheless removed one ear bud, and so heard the man's request for directions.

When you see a man with a giant red backpack and trekking poles striding along your local highway, do you think he's a local, and therefore able to answer your navigational questions? No, you don't. I knew there was another question to follow, the standard Calabrian question "where are you from," accompanied by a smile and a curious shake of the head. I answered, he was surprised, the "what are you doing here" question followed, and before I could react, he had pulled a U-turn on this busy two-lane highway and was now next to me, facing in the opposite direction from where he had originally been heading.

My heart started to beat just a bit faster, not quite out of fear so much as of animal preparation, but I was on the whole very calm. This man had two children in his harmless Peugeot station wagon, about four and seven years old, and was not threatening, just curious. He asked a few more questions, I politely answered, asked me if I was looking for work, I said no, and without skipping a beat, he asked if I had change for a 20. My bullshit artist alarm started to sound, but the children were my guarantee, so I handed him two fives, even though I had two tens in my pocket, as a way of cutting my losses should he drive off. Instead of a ten, he handed me a credit card, and quickly added "listen, I don't have it now, but I'll be right back with it." I demanded my money back, he said "look, here it is, no problems man." He handed back the two fives, and began the story. His daughter, the four-year-old, had hit her head playing, and he needed to take her to the hospital. First he needed gas, but the nearest gas station wouldn't take debit or credit, and he had no cash. However, he owned a nearby hotel, just a mile down the road, and his wife was there. I could go to the hotel, get the money from his wife, wait for him to return, and would be his guest, free food and lodging, and even work if I wanted.

I knew he was lying, but I looked at his son's angelic face, and his daughter, lying face down on the backseat, so I gave him the benefit of the doubt, just enough to test his story. Where was she hurt? Playing along the side of the road (Lie #1). If the hotel was so close, why not drive back to get the money from his wife, who was there? She's in the kitchen, and can't hear me, and I don't have the time (But you have time to ask me questions about my walk? Lie #2). Do you have a business card? No, just my brother's, who owns an auto body repair shop in town (If he's your brother, why would he write his name on the back of the card? Lie #3). Where is your daughter's wound? Show him the wound, son (there's no wound, the girl doesn't respond to her brother's touch, and yet the father isn't that worried. The son shakes his head with a pitiful glance. Lie #4). And yet my stomach turned when I saw these little children, so well-trained by their father, so ready to con a stranger out of a pitiful amount of money. How pathetic, how base it all was, the sniveling, curly-haired Calabrian father, the beautiful child actors, boldly telling lie after lie when the girl's supposedly injured head was actually 100% intact.

"Listen," I murmured, almost whispered "I have not had a single bad experience throughout this whole walk." I was begging him with all my soul, silently pleading with him to move on, give it up, don't destroy these adorable children for ten euros. He all but snarled at me: "you think I would lie to you for such an insignificant sum? Ten euros is nothing, c'mon, you can spare it." I was so crushed, so disgusted, sensing this con artist willing the ten euros out of my pocket.

And so I gave in, defeated, and handed him the ten euros. "On your honor," I said, in my meekness, and limply shook his hand. He repeated his first statement, looked at me with repugnant and indignant eyes, as if I were the villain in this encounter, and as he sped off, I saw his son plastered to the rear window, both palms on the glass, smiling triumphantly at me.

I turned off Bach and walked a mile or so down the road in silence. When I came across the first gas station, presumably the one that only took cash, I asked, out of twisted curiosity, about the man and his hotel. The three or four people gathered around did not answer at first, asking instead "where are you from," and when I had answered the same questions I had answered just thirty minutes prior, I repeated my own questions. They squirmed, pretended to know the hotel and its owner, and I saw them lie to protect a man they didn't know, rather than admit to a foreigner that a Calabrian could possible be a horrible human being. I saw it, drank the glasses of water offered to me as a consolation, and just before leaving, asked one last question to the attendant. "Do you accept credit/debit?" "Sure," he said, and that was all I needed to hear.

The one feeling that dominated as I trudged into town, bag seemingly weighing double, was fear that I would see this car again. I had memorized the license plate after seeing his son in the back window, already smug at seven, and now the adrenaline pumped every time I heard a car approach from behind. Was he coming back to rob me? What lies would he invent now? Taking a deep breath, I fell back on my Marcus Aurelius training to help put a stoic lens on the situation, but behind the tint was the unavoidable feeling of betrayal, not by this petty thief but by humanity. Would I be able to trust anyone again on this walk? What if another car stopped to ask me for information? Would I lose out on all future positive experiences because of the fear of one more bad one?

I took a seat on the boardwalk right as I entered Paola, Calabria, looked blankly at the late afternoon sun, and returned the sullen, distrustful stares of passersby, so tired of these god-damned gawkers lacking all sense of decency as they stared me up and down, but then refused to return my evening's greetings. Fuck you, you pretentious, backward simpletons. You don't know me, you don't know why I'm here, and you don't deserve to know. If you're not going to be civil, then mind your own business.

So I sat, wallowing in my own resentment and fear and shame, when an old man walked by with his dog for the second time in the ten minutes I had been sitting there, and actually returned my salutation. "Where are you from?" I cringed at the same fateful question, but this time I received a different response to my answer. "You're lying to me," he said, and believed it. Taken by surprise, I forgot my worries, proved my American identity with some English, and soon I was playing with the dog and chatting with this old man, who made me feel safe, no longer vulnerable. I asked about lodging nearby, he suggested a place down the boardwalk, and said they were low priced. With a lack of tact that the naive call honesty, I asked for him to repeat his name, and he immediately caught on: "So you want to carry my name to the hotel, eh? Ok, fine, but you have to promise to comport yourself well." "Of course," I said, hand on heart, and I saw his eyes twinkle with compassion and affection.

"My name is Valentino S______; I'm the man who brings the Algida ice cream (Mi chiamo Valentino S; sono l'uomo che porta l'Algida). Have you eaten anything today?" I had eaten two oranges all day, and told him so, or at least without the "all day" attached (no need to start the violins a playin'), and he said to me "stay here. Don't move. I'll be back in ten minutes." I did as I was told, staring back at the sunset, and reflecting on why it was that I had just met the Good Humor man (Algida is owned by Unilever, which also owns Good Humor) at this precise moment, just when I was feeling such anger and frustration.

He came back with a plastic grocery bag held closely to his thin but by no means feeble frame, and with a smile to make ice melt, proceeded to describe the contents of the bag. Two sandwiches sealed in plastic, one of prosciutto crudo, the other of egg and cheese, an apple, a pear, a bar of chocolate, and a beer, thoughtfully opened in advance. So that's why he had held the bag so closely to his chest, I thought, and for some reason that particular detail struck me with a pang of intense emotion. He wanted me to eat, was so happy at my positive reaction to the sandwich, "one of Algida's large product line," and quietly explained why he had me wait on the boardwalk. "You see, my wife is very ill, and she cannot see guests. I must be home to help take care of her, but I need to take the dog for a walk each day, and that is when I get to go out. Please excuse me for my lack of hospitality."

I pictured this conjugal scene, the tender affection with which this lovely man cared for his dying wife, imagined the attention to detail he showed with the opened beer writ large with the love he bore this eternal partner, and I forgave with all my heart the man who had conned me earlier.

"Valentino, you may not know it, but you have reaffirmed my faith in humanity. Something very ugly happened to me just over an hour ago, and I was sitting here feeling very unhappy. Thank you for your kindness." He did not ask what happened, but looked at me in silence, studying my face. "You know," he finally said, measuring each word, "we Calabrians are a difficult people, but we are beautiful in our simplicity and our frankness. If you open you heart to us, we will repay your kindness many times over."

His expression lightened, I registered what he said and soberly nodded in assent, and we said goodbye, as he had to return to his wife.

And I will never forget how I watched him leave, slowly making his way along the crosswalk, under the overpass, and back to his house. Once he was gone, I turned back to the sun, just at that moment disappearing under the horizon, and the sandwich he had given me stuck fast to the giant lump in my throat. I took a sip from the bottle, cold and moist with condensation, washed down the sandwich, and began to cry. I sat at that bench, oblivious to my surroundings, and sobbed like a child, head in hands. Yes, I was releasing those negative feelings, letting them drain out of my soul, far away from me and my silly walk, but the real reason I cried then, and the reason I cry as I write this nearly two months later, tears blurring the pages of my journal, was out of love and gratitude and tenderness for this old man, this bringer of ice cream, and for his darling, dying wife.

I had a good cry on that bench, felt the brisk sea breeze of dusk start to blow, and when it was time for me to stand back up, I realized that I had learned a valuable lesson about trust and attitude and the power of a well-timed act of kindness.

This is, in itself, a story of conflict, anger, resolution, and acceptance, a self-contained, neatly packaged tale, all of it true, and conveniently sized. But I have learned that life does not work that way, and as with this story, there is always more to tell...

Photos of the First Half of Sicilia

All,

Here are my photos from the first half of Sicilia, from Messina to Cefalù. Enjoy!

Taormina

Messina to Torregrotta to Barcellona to Rodì Milice to Falcone

Tindari and Gioiosa Marea

Capo d'Orlando and San Fratello

To Santo Stefano di Camastra

To Cefalù

Hanging out in Santo Stefano

12/18 - A day of rest at S. Stefano

It had been a late night for the second time in two days, and the incomparably hospitable group of guys insisted that I stay another day, and see a little bit what life here was like. Though at first I was inclined to leave, having toyed with the idea of finishing before Christmas, and anxious to explore more of Sicily, I had one of my periodic perspective calibrations. When would the next time come around that I would get to meet such a great group of friends, and have the insider's perspective on a Sicilian town? While I was in control of my time, the best idea was to invest in these wonderful friendships, learn all I could, and continue to build memories. The rest of Sicily would be waiting for me tomorrow. Of course, this line of reasoning has a limit, at the point when a warm welcome turns tepid, but this day was still within that limit, and I was sure of having made the right decision. Finally, just to close the discussion, I recognized that this "calibration" was a complete turnaround from my decision just a few days prior to stop lollygagging in the Sicilian mountains, but I decided that a guaranteed positive experience like this one could not be missed, and after all, it was just a one day pause.

What made the decision still sweeter was that I got to sleep in, take my time getting ready, and not have to bother packing up. Oh, the delight one receives from such simple luxuries! As Vincenzo was busy, I sidled on over to Gino's shop, Decor, one of the many ceramics stores in town. Intending to simply pay him a visit, I quickly became enamored of the handiwork, quality, and artistry of the ceramics, and spent a sizable chunk of time asking questions and examining different pieces. I was so impressed by his Uncle's skill that I bought two pieces for my mom as a Christmas gift, and two pieces for myself, which in itself as notable, as it is the only time that I have purchased a memento for myself throughout my entire trip. Just take a look at these pieces, both of them one of a kind, hand painted by Gino's Uncle, and then think about the amount of talent and experience it takes to perfect this craft: knowing how the colors will change, mixing in the right amount of water to avoid cracks or bubbles, applying the enamel, firing it twice for the exact right amount of time, and even hand working those beautiful curves in clay. I will never look at ceramics in the same way.

Having satisfied my desire to purchase a piece of S. Stefano, which in a sense was one small way of saying thank you to such a hospitable town, Gino and I moseyed the 50 yards down to the Tabaccheria where Alberto works, managed by his girlfriend Paola. There the three of us shot the bull for a bit, the generous Alberto handed me a bag full of chocolate bars and an international photo card, and when they headed home for lunch, I headed back to the B&B for a little rest, writing in the journal, and listening to music. Actually, it was here that I wrote the bulk of my four-post music analysis.

That evening, I took a tour in an old ceramics factory turned aristocratic house turned museum, and when it was time for dinner we happily found ourselves back at Ritrovo Felice (Italian-English speakers will enjoy my cheesy redundancy), Pepe's fabulous restaurant. I met two more guys, Vincenzo (the other Vincenzo's cousin) and Ciccio, and sampled more delightful dishes, including a giant, succulent pork shank, which made me feel like a Hun chieftain. Since everyone was pretty dead from the night before, I said my goodbyes, promised to return, and went back to the B&B. The road was calling.

The walk to Cefalu, and back to S. Stefano

12/17 - S. Stefano di Camastra to Cefalù and back - 21.90 miles

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There is nothing so comforting as knowing that you have a place to sleep, and after spending a raucous evening with the guys, who insisted that I stay at S. Stefano, or at the very least return the following evening, I was told not to worry about lodging.

Walking to Cefalù was easy enough, with a sprinkle or two of rain but nothing to complain about (after all, a little rain here and there never hurt a soul), and a pleasant but not life-changing path along the state road. My only lingering memories are my lunch spot atop a boulder in the midst of the charred remains of bushes, where I took a short nap, and my first pastry shop cannoli, a culinary treasure that has nothing to do with that cardboard crap they pass off as cannoli back in the US. Globalization, where are you with my fresh cannoli, overstuffed with fresh ricotta and complete with candied orange peel? If you can't deliver on that, what the hell are you good for?

Upon my arrival at S. Stefano, I was picked up by Pepe, one of the guys from dinner the night before, and the most vocal proponent of my return. He had told me "don't worry about lodging," and he delivered, taking me to the B&B owned by his good friend Vincenzo. The B&B, called I Colori dell'Arcobaleno, had a unique floral design and color scheme for each room, with plenty of clever details in the choices of fixtures, art, furniture, and decor to match the scheme. Smiling at the idea of the smelly backpacker occupying the "rose room," I nonetheless appreciated the eye for detail displayed by Vincenzo.

After a refreshing shower (sometimes it's easy to forget that I had just walked over 20 miles, my third longest day of the trip), Vincenzo took me down to the indoor soccer field, where his buddies were playing a closely followed and hotly contested league match. We had a couple beers, cheered and jeered both squads, and together with Albeto and Gino, two other members of the group, made plans for the evening. Before I move on, please picture me knocking back Peronis with the boys, shouting encouragement as the local squads play for keeps on the indoor soccer pitch. You can't get much more local than that.

Or can you? Like most of Italy, but especially here, it's not hard to plan your evening. Pick a restaurant, arrange a meeting time, knowing full well that it's flexible by at least an hour, and the only thing left to consider is whether you're drinking beer or wine, and what you'll eat.

In my case, even this was taken care of in advance. The restaurant we chose, Ritrovo Felicità, was owned by Pepe, and I could sense immediately that he was ready to outmatch the fabulous experience I had shared with him the previous evening. For protocol's sake, he asked me what I had in mind, I knew better than to pick something from the menu, and my reward was a meal fit for a king. Awash in a bottomless carafe of red wine, gnocchi in a truffle sauce, fried cheese wrapped with prosciutto, a loaded pizza, an abundant plate of meat, I had a moment of clarity, and decided that it's only fair to amend my first statement of the post: there's nothing so comforting as knowing that you have a place to sleep except knowing and befriending the owner of a top-notch Sicilian restaurant and have him decide your meal for you.

Right in line with the friendly competition between restaurants, Pepe brought out all the bottles, including an unforgettable chocolate cream liqueur and cream of limoncello made by his mother, and once he closed the restaurant around one, we had his full attention as we picked at the remains of the food, sampled desserts, compared life experiences, and joked around until 4:30 in the morning. When it was time to go, he shooed us all out, and as a welcome gesture to me, announced that the entire meal for all four of us was on the house. What else can I say?

Santo Stefano di Camastra

12/16 - San Fratello to Santo Stefano di Camastra - 17.30 miles
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One day of that wind was enough for me, I had decided, and it was time to get back to the coast, where the air was warmer. My trip to the Nebrodi mountains would have to wait; in any case, I was well aware that this desire to explore the mountains of Sicily was more a fear of finishing that anything else. As I have said before, I hate fear, and so I resolved not to take a long side trip, and instead finish naturally, the way I finished the other regions.

The next logical step in this thought process was to take the bus down from San Fratello, as I had already walked the only road leading up from the coast. Ten miles of redundant walking equalled a half-day, and I could not justify to myself. Still, I felt a tinge of regret as we blew by breathtaking vistas, which though previously viewed were nonetheless new to me, kissed as they were by morning sunlight. My consolation was getting to hear a conversation in the dialect between the bus driver and a passenger, which lasted just long enough for me to hear, enjoy, reflect, mull over the thought of pulling out my audio recorder, weigh the possibility of having them notice, decide to do it anyway, open the bag, unzip the case, pull out the audio recorder, and turn it on. I recorded silence for the rest of the twenty minute trip. Of course.

Once I reached the same road that I had left to climb up to San Fratello, I got off the bus, and made way to Santo Stefano di Camastra. The town began with a grouping of five or six large ceramics stores, each full of colorful ceramics pieces in various shapes and sizes. Though I was curious, I decided to keep going, knowing that I could not buy anything anyhow. Instead, I walked along the perimeter of the town, looking for phone numbers of B&Bs along the way. I found a couple, called them, tried to bargain, and when they did not budge, I decided to keep looking.

After reaching the end of the town, I doubled back along the main corso, and was rewarded with an especially beautiful tradition, that of the Sicilian funeral. A band, consisting mainly of brass and percussion instruments, was playing in the main piazza of the town as a large procession of black-clad mourners followed the hearse. Everyone had gathered to witness the ceremony, and I felt transported back in time, at least until I saw one of the principal mourners, a girl in her late twenties, chatting on the cell phone amidst her weeping relatives. What a delicious contrast between traditional and modern, of somber reflection and oblivious frivolity.

Once the procession had passed, and the band stopped playing, I entered a Tabaccheria, asked the owner about a place to stay, and was told to go to Trattoria Gianini, which apparently also had rooms. When I arrived, I spoke a while with the waiter, who was the nephew of the B&B owner, and nephew to a different Uncle, the trattoria owner. We made a deal that involved both the room and dinner, all in all a better deal than looking for both separately, and soon I was on my way to the room.

As they had just entered the business, the B&B was brand new, and I enjoyed the new smells and bright, fresh paint. I took a hot shower, washed some clothes, and soon it was time to head to dinner.

What a treat. Asking for suggestions, I ended up with a tagliatelle loaded to the brim with delicious, juicy artichoke hearts, and a local fish, orata, cooked with caramelized onions and pine nuts. The preparation was aesthetically pleasing, and for me a delightful touch was the beautiful ceramic work all around me. The plate, carafe, lampshades, and centerpieces were all intricately decorated, creating a marvelous effect that I soon discovered was S. Stefano's claim to fame.

As I sat in a post-meal daze, smiling at everything around me and letting the meal work its way down, I was approached by the waiter, who pointed me out to his Uncle, the chef and owner of the trattoria. Within 45 seconds of conversation, this culinary master had invited me to his table, where he was having a glass of wine with two friends. I sat down, they offered me a glass, I politely declined, they told me that I had to have at least one glass to cheers, and there it began.

Friendships formed, tales were told, and soon Mario the restaraunteur with American culinary experience had pulled out three bottles of different liqueurs. We sampled each one, a cream of coffee, a grappa, and a chocolate liqueur, and pronounced them all delicious. Another friend came, more bottles appeared, and before I could blink there were fourteen bottles on the table, and we had tried each of them at least once.

After a dessert and more toasting, we all got up from the table, laughing and a bit tipsy. I was congratulated on all sides for being able to keep up so brilliantly, and I secretly thought the same way about them keeping up with me. I also realized at that moment, in my 100% clarity, that one of the keys to being accepted as a traveler, especially a male one, is to be able to hold your liquor well, to be able to accept any drink offer without turning into a babbling idiot. Because every drinking bout, from the purely social and friendly to the case race, is a kind of test, and the need to prove yourself is always somewhere underneath the good wishes and pats on the back. And it's not just an American phenomenon, either: I have experienced this phenomenon on three different continents, in a plethora of unique situations. Those of you non-drinkers may disagree, saying that it was not necessary to drink to really see the inside of this situation, but I challenge you to turn down a glass of wine or a grappa offered to new friendship here in Sicilia and see if you are still as well-received as before the drink was offered.

Arms around one another's shoulders in pure merriment, we moved as a unit to an empty bar, where we had a drink (I stepped down to beer while they upped the ante to scotch), talked some more, and stayed out until three. What a crazy night, completely out of nowhere as it was. I have Mario to thank for it, as his generosity and boisterous nature allowed me to make new friends.

A walk uphill to San Fratello

12/15 - Capo d'Orlando to San Fratello - 20.75 miles

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My little two-hour excursion to Piraineto could hardly be called an exploration of inland Sicily, so I decided to give it another go, this time to San Fratello, the gateway to the Nebrodi, a mountain chain and regional park in Central Sicily.

Awaking early, I left the hotel at Capo d'Orlando, flirted with the barista as I ate a delicious chocolate croissant and sipped a cappuccino, and off I went exploring.

Soon enough, I found the road that slanted uphill, and three to four hours later, I was clearly in the foothills. One of the first things I had heard about San Fratello was that it was renowned for its horses, and that the breeding and training of horses here was a fine mixture of art and science. I had imagined gigantic pastures with hundreds of horses galloping about, performing stunts and running faster than the wind; instead, I saw a few squat-looking horses lazily tugging at weeds. Looking back at it, I get the feeling that I missed the boat somehow, that some guidance by a local would have led me into the "real" horse zone, as opposed to the outer "pony" zone. I guess I'll just have to go back.

One thing that did not disappoint was the countryside, an ideal pastoral landscape with trees, farmland, pastures, olive groves, and rustic country homes. Best of all, I was arriving right at sunset, so I had the dramatic backdrop of a painted skyline to complement the land's varied bounty.

I would have stayed outside even longer, drunk with the overwhelming beauty of my surroundings, but a fierce mountain wind had picked up dramatically, infiltrating my lightweight outer wear and literally chilling me to the bone. So, relying on a steep uphill to keep me warm through exertion, I hustled the last mile or two, and finally arrived at the hotel.

Unfortunately, the wind only grew stronger, and from the groaning sounds it made as it blew down the street past my poorly insulated window, I knew it was not "take a walk and explore" weather. As a result, I passed the evening in my hotel room, with a trip upstairs for dinner.

The dinner was interesting, as I got to experience firsthand the other notable characteristic that distinguishes San Fratello from every other town in Italy. Ever since the Norman invasions of Sicily more than 900 years ago, San Fratello has spoken a Franco-Italian dialect that is unique to its population of around 4,500. So, even Sicilians from towns ten miles away understand little to nothing of San Fratello's dialect. Their language reminds the historically-minded thinker that this little hamlet has essentially lived in its own bubble for dozens of generations, and that modern Italian as it is spoken today is only widespread as of 60 or 70 years ago, when Fascism and television stepped in. For the most part, dialects are disappearing in Italy at an alarming rate, preserved mostly by the elderly, the uneducated, and joke telling youngsters. And it's a shame too, since a dialect speaks volumes about traditions, beliefs, and in the case of San Fratello, outside influences.

For those of you who refuse to believe that dinner alone is better than dinner with company, you will hopefully concede that being alone allowed me to concentrate fully on the conversations of the locals as they dined. And what did it sound like? Well, for lack of better terms, a Sicilian speaking street French with a more staccato rhythm than what French or the Sicilian dialect usually sound like.

Actually, it was a tad frustrating, as I understood nearly zero of what was going on around me. What's the use of all that Italian training when you can't understand people in Italy? I could not imagine trying to do a walk in a country where I did not speak or understand the language. How isolating and scary, what a demanding test of character it would be!

With a pair of cannoli to finish off the meal, I retired back to my room, and without hesitation, turned on the television. Often my great enemy, it became my great friend, a source of comfort, if only for tonight.

Gioiosa Marea to Capo D'Orlando, and the Jazz Trattoria

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12/14 Gioiosa Marea to Capo d'Orlando - 17.02 miles

With a third sunny day in a row and some nice new shoes, I was in the mood to do some exploring in the foothills, so that I could see what Sicily was like away from the coast. The town I chose to visit was called Piraineto, another semi-abandoned hill town with stellar views of the sea, as well as the green farmland further South.

I climbed up to the top, fully explored the cobbled roads, climbed up to the medieval tower and out to the outermost church, and walked down the other side, tumbling down my own forged path in the midst of fragrant lemon groves. Still, this little excursion only served to whet my appetite, and so I decided to reserve at least one or two days for some more inland exploration.

First I had to reach the next major destination, Capo d'Orlando, a beach town, somewhat similar to Gioiosa Marea. Here the day's highlight was a jazz bar / trattoria, where I ate a meal of Sicilian proportions and made friends with the music-loving owners. Since there was no act playing that night, I finished the antipasto course, which consisted of six or seven different places of local delicacies, and hopped on the old upright piano.

My playing was pretty atrocious, but everyone seemed to like it, and throughout the course of the meal I got up to play a few more times, realizing with each piece just how out of practice I had become. Piano is such a jealous instrument; sometimes I am very discouraged by the fact that just a few days or weeks off can cost weeks of recovery time, meaning that suitable playing requires constant upkeep.

Still, no matter how discouraging it is, I find myself always crawling back, tail betwixt legs, and starting from what always feels like scratch. Kind of like a ruthless lover, now that I think about it.

Time to back away from a beloved tangent... We passed around different desserts, filled the carafe from the barrell, talked US politics and history until closing time and beyond, and when it was time to go, they gave me a heavily discounted bill, and wished me a happy continuation of my journey. Looking back, this evening is memorable for me in that something other than my walk, in this case piano and a knowledge of jazz, was what endeared me to these people, and allowed me to see the "inside." Even though I love the attention that my walker's status affords me, it was good to remember that I am not just a one-trick pony. In the end, I think it's safe to say that people are attached to passion, especially when they see someone go to great lengths for that passion. Add the element of passions in common (music, Italy, and so on), mix in an extroverted and warm character such as that found in most Italians, top it off with the possibility of seamlesss, or at least fluid, communication, and you begin to explain how I continue to find myself in such a delicious situation.

Tindari take two, and down the other side

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12/13 - Falcone to Gioiosa Marea - 18.61 miles

Climbing up to Tindari was even better the second time around, as it was the beginning of my day, and the sun was shining. I made it all the way up to the Sanctuary this time, took a stroll around inside, and admired the electronically animated nativity scene.

Back outside, I was soon approached by a boy, nine years old and full of energy. He raced up on his bike, started asking questions, ran around with my trekking poles, and before I knew it, I had made a new friend. We chatted for a while, giving me an opportunity to practice talking with kids. You see, I am firmly in the Alyosha Karamazov camp, where it is possible to treat children with respect and speak to them openly without going down to a lower level or making them come up to an artificially high one.

I answered his questions openly and honestly, patiently explaining things he did not understand, and asked questions about Tindari without belittling him or his knowledge. Then, shaking his hand, I took my leave, but as I was on foot and he on a bike, he soon caught up, and out of nowhere, presented me with a bag of chips. Touched by this spontaneous, unsolicited act of generosity on his part, I insisted on sharing the chips with him, and so we began to hang out some more.

Still, I am not a complete fool, and I know what you're thinking. The child molester alarm is sounding in your corrupted mind, and I freely say so, because it was sounding in mine loud and clear. Man with backpack enters town of 150 or so, befriends nine-year old boy, shares bag of chips. At this point, it was time for me to go, but I was faced with a dilemma. I could not explain why I needed to leave, as there is a large difference between speaking openly to children and talking to them about sexual predators, maybe for the first time. Unable to explain, I also did not want to leave him bewildered at why his new friend did not want to spend more time with him. His solution was to take me home for lunch, and nor was that a good idea, as I did not want his parents thinking that I had tricked their son into giving me a free lunch. The last available option was to say I already had my lunch, but this then led to a tour of the "best picnic spot in town."

Great. He leads me up onto a grassy knoll amid an olive tree grove, and soon I am petrified at what this kid is getting me into. Still, I am more petrified that he might figure out why I am petrified: after all, the mere nonchalance of his toting around a perfect stranger suggests that he has no fear, or no reason to be afraid. I decide to play along, since after all my conscience is clear and my motives are genuinely innocent. And be careful, you who judge me naive or inexperienced with children; remember that the US is a very different place from small-town Sicily.

Soon I have shared my entire food collection with this child, whose hunger is more ravenous even than mine, and he starts rifling through my backpack, more and more excited by all the strange new toys. He's running around with my GPS, wearing my gloves and using my trekking poles, listening to music on the portable speaker and drinking from my water bag. He asks for a shiny new dollar bill, I happily oblige, and he declares that I shall never leave.

While I am having fun sharing all my toys, I am still afraid at the idea of trying to explain just what I was doing up on the hill, but I don't show it, choosing the honest out of needing to continue lest I arrive after dark. I get the "5 more minutes 5 more minutes" plea, and before I have to lay the law down, we hear his Mom calling. Oh no, I think, wondering what the electric chair will feel like, and he runs off, still wearing my gloves.

I quickly pack up, heart racing, and prepare to explain myself, still aware that my intentions have always been pure. Then, to my surprise, he comes back, no sign of worry on his face. "Don't you have to go to lunch?" "No, she just wanted to know where I was." I accompany him back down to the road, he tries to keep me around, we exchange secret handshakes and I ride his bike at his behest, but then it's really time to go, and we howl ciao as distance separates us, and our screams are no longer audible.

Well, you've already judged me, and I can't blame you, but I learned an important lesson about Italy. The terrible crimes that are commonplace in the US are unheard of here, and so a sense of trust and calm dominates where we have paranoia and "don't talk to strangers" as a mantra, reamed into our childrens' brains before they can walk. When a Sicilian mother, traditionally a she-bear when it comes to protecting her young, entrusts her son to a stranger for a lunchtime picnic, then there's no reason I should worry either. So, in conclusion, the Alyosha Karamazov approach works; I maintained an honest and sincere rapport with a child, and fostered and true and spontaneous friendship. Now that is what I call a positive and memorable experience.

That's all I have to tell about the day. I descended from Tindari, made it to Gioiosa Marea a bit after sundown, and slept peacefully in a well-run B&B owned by a very friendly couple.

Barcellona to Rodi Milice to Tindari, and back down again to Falcone

Link to the photos from Messina to Torregrotta to Barcellona to Tindari

12/12 Barcellona to Tindari, and back down the hill to Falcone - 18.37 miles

The next morning was sunny, and I could not have been more thankful, as it could just as easily have been another day without any progress. As it was, I was perfectly fine with repeating the two miles, and after stopping in to thank the family once more for their hospitality, I crossed my last stopping point.

The rains had done some very serious damage, destroying houses, flooding all lawns and farms, completely paralyzing the drainage systems, and covering the roads with debris. I walked through a war zone, happy to have stopped when I did, and felt sorry for the people whose lives had been so rudely shaken by a very angry rainstorm.

Moving on, I took a three or four mile detour to a city called Rodì Milice, where I had business to take care of relating to a previous encounter, all of which I will relay in detail at a later date. After being dropped off back on the road I had left to climb to the town, I continued onward toward the hilltop sanctuary of Tindari, which sat on a bluff overlooking the coast in both directions.

This was no small hill, and I was a good 80 to 90 minutes climbing up to the tip, reaching the village of Locanda right as dusk fell, and just as it began to rain. I asked around for lodging up top, and found that there was only one option. When a call to this B&B resulted in failure due to water damage, I was without options, and for the first time on my trip, felt that it was possible I would have to walk back down the hill in the rainy night.

Silly me, how could I have such little fate in the firm and guiding hand of Providence, who has never left me without a roof over my head. A man and his son, who had come up to Locanda to buy some homemade cheese, heard me describe my travails, and offered to drive me back down to Falcone. Further, the man introduced me to the owner of a restaurant in the town where I ended up staying, ensuring good treatment and a fair price.

The restaurant owner, in turn, allowed me to "carry his name" to the hotel owner a bit out of town, and in that way I secured a low price on my room, which would otherwise have been much higher, as the hotel owners closer to town were all taking advantage of the water damage to artificially inflate their prices. In comparison to B&B Monika at Torregrotta, this was hospitality with money in mind, and so I was happy to walk a mile out of the way to be able to stick it to them.

When I came back for dinner, I saw that the restaurant was completely full with the Italian army, who had been called in to deal with the national emergency that I had just walked through. Still, despite the abnormally busy restaurant staff, my dinner was delicious, bountiful and reasonable priced, and I went to bed thanking my lucky stars for continued good fortune.

You know, I once heard that Homer's epics contain certain phrases or epithets that fill out the verse in a given number of syllables, like "Aegis-Bearing Zeus" (5) and "Zeus, King of Gods and Men" (6). Looking back at my various entries, it is fair to say that "thanking my lucky stars for my continued good fortune" has played a similar role. Not that I am comparing myself to Homer, of course; it's just that after six months of talking about the same general subject, it is hard to stay fresh, and I guess in some small way, I know how Homer must have felt, especially when describing the various combat verses. Good thing I am almost finished, ha.

Messina to Torregrotta, and the unforgettable walk to Barcellona

12/10 - Messina to Torregrotta - 20.56 miles

Now that I had shoes, and was therefore covered in case of rain, I decided to push my luck and look for Goretex shoes as well. It was clear that these shoes I had purchased would not hold up for six hours in rainy conditions, and while I was annoyed with myself for having bought the salesman's pitch, I did not regret the purpose. At least, I thought, I had a nice pair of shoes for when the walk was over. After a 0 for 4 start to the day, making it more than 18 failures (have you ever gone 0 for 18 when looking for something? It is a wretched feeling), I left Messina, and started climbing the hill that would take me to the North coast of the island.

Guess what? It started to rain, and as I crossed the Colli S. Rizzo, my new shoes were put to the test. It poured, I listened to Beethoven's Sonata Op. 109 and the accompanying lecture by Schiff, and when I reached the top of the hill, my shoes felt dry. So what did I do? I took them off, of course. They were causing me pain (as new leather shoes tend to do), so I put on my old shoes, the ones with the holes. Within feet I was swimming, but at least my feet didn't hurt, and it was in this way that I reached Torregrotta, where a trip to the bar for a caffeinated piece of information yielded the name and number of a Bed & Breakfast, B&B Monika.

I found the accommodations warm and welcoming, and was soon on friendly terms with Monika, the German expat, her son Patrick, an acid jazz-rock fusion composer, and the rest of their family. Monika gave me the insider connection on a delicious restaurant nearby, where I was treated like family, and even mothered me a bit herself, with a bag of fruit to tide me over for the next day's lunch. There's a huge difference between hospitality from the heart, and hospitality for money's sake, and in this case, I was happy to find excellent treatment by truly friendly people, an excellent start to my walk across the North coast.

12/11 - Torregrotta to Barcellona - 9.60 miles

After a delicious, thoughtfully prepared breakfast at the family table, I was out the door, and was instantly hit with the Scirocco, that famous North African wind that blows the Sahara heat over Southern Italy.

If only it had lasted. A cold wind from Northern Europe soon prevailed, and brought with it sheets of rain. My leather shoes, barely dry from the first round, were soon put to the test, and held up quite nicely. However, when I saw the Decathlon, a major sports outlet in Italy, I decided to try my luck with one more store. After an initial failure, the manager of the shore department handed me a pair of Merrells, and said that they were the most waterproof I would find in the "low ankle line" style. They were not Goretex, but this was the same brand as my last two pairs, and they fit well enough, so I bit the bullet, vowing to return with receipt in hand if they should fail me.

Right as I signed the receipt, the rain began to fall like rocks hitting the metal roof of the store, daring me to try out my new shoes. There was no sense in staying, however, and now was as good a time as any to try out new shoes, so I left the store, and after eighty yards in a deluge, I found myself under a wooden structure, where I ate my lunch in the hopes that the rain would cease, or at least weaken.

It only grew more ferocious, and as I walked out of the shipping center parking lot, I saw rivulets forming all around. Before five minutes had passed, a semi truck crossed a giant puddle, and my right foot was completely soaked in water. New shoe or old shoe, it would have taken a rubber boot to keep the water out. But that was just the beginning.

I have never, ever, ever seen a worse rainstorm, or witnessed this much flooding in my entire life. The road I walked on, literally the main artery linking Messina with Palermo, was absolutely underwater, with fast moving streams making any form of avoidance futile. For at least two miles I skipped from side walk to side walk, hugging railings, taking large leaps, tip-toeing through three-inch deep puddles. The sky was falling, a cold, steely, gray, with claps of thunder to make your skin crawl. My brand new shoes were 100% soaked, weighing me down as I trudged on, head bowed and resolve firm. I was going to get through this day, I thought, and there's a hot shower waiting at the other end of it.

But then the unimaginable happened: this main highway, a normally busy road, had reached a depth of six inches. Both sidewalks were partially submerged, but anyways were impeded by parked cars, and there was no turning back. So, stubborn sonofabitch that I am, I took off my shoes and socks, rolled up my pant legs, and waded into the brown, gelid water, which reached my shins. And I started to walk.

After walking through this river for twenty yards or so, I saw that I was a town spectacle, as everyone peeked out from doorways and window sills to watch the crazy person walk down the middle of the submerged street. I stopped to ask where we were, what it was like ahead, and whether the rain was ever supposed to stop. When I heard that it was worse ahead, and that the road I planned to take was completely closed because of the flash flood, I felt the will to continue drain out of my body. I was cold.

The guy who I had asked invited me in out of the rain, I meekly assented, and removing all my wet outer layers in the hallway, shuffled into the kitchen, feeling very sheepish and very cold. The whole Sicilian family was assembled: Dad and Grandpa on the couch, Mom at the stove, Grandma in the corner by the heater, covered in a quilt, and the two boys at the table.

I politely refused and then gratefully accepted the sandwich, wine, fruit, and chocolate that they laid out before me, and told my story to the family, who grew warmer and warmer toward this crazy stranger in their midst. A few hours went by, it grew dark out, my story had been told and rehashed, life stories were recounted, I received a history lesson as Grandpa told us how it used to be, and still the rain continued to pour outside. By 7:00, when it was at last okay to drive outside, the elder son Salvatore offered to drive me to a B&B two miles or so back, and I gratefully accepted once more. At the end of the evening, when all was said and done, I had walked nearly ten miles through the worst rainstorm in 50 years, and had ended my walk in the hardest hit town of the entire island of Sicily.