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.