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.
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.
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1 comment:
Ah well,.."into each life a little rain must fall"...Yeah, I know, yadda, yadda, yadda! What is the one thing about America, (besides, obviously family & friends), that you miss the most?
Cheryl
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