Serenity Found

I’m in Napoli now, but most of this entry will be about the island of Stromboli... two places that couldn’t be more different. But first, the final days in Sicily…

Taormina

Paul and I rounded out our final day there relaxing by the crystal clear, jelly-fished filled water and the lovely Isola Bella. I had a somewhat traumatic ‘on-the-beach’ massage, which involved a Taiwanese woman lifting my arms into all kinds of strange positions -- I’m sure to the amusement of all the other beach-goers. Somehow I managed to leave the massage feeling less relaxed than I started. Another 10 Euros down the drain! (I’ve stopped counting by this point…). That night, we met up with our Danish hostel buddies, Margit and Anas, to watch a ‘Mondiale’ match (Germany v. Costa Rica) at one of Sicily’s ‘Irish’ pubs. (My guidebook notes that Italians think Irish culture is glamorous. Paul nearly choked on his Guinness when he heard that.)

Catania

After my stressful massage the day before, what better way to relax than driving a rental car through the narrow streets of Sicily’s most notorious city for bad drivers?? Actually, I made Paul drive, and a spanking job he did at that. After a few wrong turns and several near collisions (none of which were really our fault), we got our trusty little Fiat Punto safely to the rental agency. The rental agent noted the scratch on the door, but really couldn’t fine us for it since there was no proof it wasn’t there when we rented the car. Finally, the gods of Sicilian chaos decided to shine their unseemly light on us!

We weren’t expecting much from Catania since we were there mainly so Paul could catch the ferry to Naples, but both of us later agreed it ended up being one of our favourite places in Sicily. Unlike the tourist-immersed and picture-perfect Taormina, Catania felt like a living, breathing Sicilian city. The outdoor market in the center of town is a sight like no other –- huge sides of beef next to endless rows of fresh vegetables and so much fresh seafood that my dad and his brothers would drool at the sight. And this happens everyday! Later in the evening we headed out for a final dinner before the ferry and found that the street my hotel was on (one of the city’s main arteries) had been overtaken by hundreds of pedestrians out for their evening stroll (‘passeggiata’). I asked our waiter if there was some kind of special event that night, and he said no, people walk there every night in the summer and the cars just figure out somewhere else to go. That’s one of the many reasons I love Italy so much – there’s a sense of the communal here that I think a lot of America, with its safely partitioned suburbs, lacks.

I bid Paul farewell Saturday night, and was quite sad to see him go. He was always ready with a witty British observation of Sicilian life and, even more important, he was very patient with my various neuroses. (It didn’t take him long to figure out that the easiest way to keep both of us happy was to make sure I got food every two hours so my hypoglycemic Mr. Hyde didn’t surface.) He’s moving to Sydney, Australia this fall – looks like a good excuse for another trip to the southern hemisphere!

Stromboli

I spent most of Sunday getting back to this island –- a journey which involved a bus, a train, another train, another bus, and then a hydrofoil. There were more than a few moments during the 9 hours of the journey when I wondered if it was worth it. It didn’t take long after arriving on Stromboli to remember why I wanted to come back. I don’t know why or how this island has managed to escape the attention of American tourists –- it certainly hasn’t escaped the attention of the Germans or the French –- but it really is one of the most magical places I’ve ever been. I was staying at a hostel of sorts called ‘Casa del Sole’ with a view of the sea from its terrace, and a vine-strewn communal courtyard surrounded with bougainvillea. The communal kitchen brought all of the guests together –- most of whom were Italian during my stay. (I haven’t spoken English in almost a week!) We never locked our doors, and occasionally the owner of the place, Graziella, who lives next door, would come over and invite us to her house for a café and some stories about Stromboli from her childhood.

My routine (if you can call it that) during my 5 days on Stromboli started with the 20 minute walk into the town center in the morning, where I’d have a cappuccino and a croissant on a sunny patio looking out on the cobalt sea. The rest of the day was usually spent on one of the black beaches or wandering around the car-free tiny streets, like the leashless dogs who roam the town and who, unlike me, always seem like they have some place important to be. Every little spot on Stromboli offers some unexpected delight… a new view of the smoking volcano lurking overhead, a garden with statues carved from the island’s various shades of lava, a small vineyard, an overgrown cemetery with only 8 graves (Graziella said that cholera victims were buried there), black beaches contrasting starkly with the island’s ubiquitous white houses. But I think what I loved the most about Stromboli were the sounds of the island. It seems so hard to find quiet places anymore, but quiet is the dominant sound on Stromboli. Quiet, punctuated occasionally by the sad calls of the mourning doves, the fish vendor who roams the town every morning on his little go-cart shouting “Pesce!” at the top of his lungs, the neighbors who call out to each other from their yards, and almost always, the sound of the wind blowing off the sea. (It's no surprise these are called the Aeolian islands.)  The only real disruption to the quiet is the roar of an occasional vespa or the rumbling explosions of the volcano overhead, which I thought was thunder the first time I heard it. The locals call the volcano “Iddu” or “Him” –- and thanks to His rumbling, you never get to forget for too long that He’s up there.

That’s especially true once you’ve done the hike to the summit, which I did last Monday. It was a guided hike, and we were told to bring lots of warm clothing, as the summit (3000+ ft) would be very cold after sunset. My group was mostly French and Germans, and due to the age of some, we had to move at a very slow pace. By the time we reached the first lookout into the Sciara del Fuoco (“River of Fire”), the sun was just about to set. It was cold –- unseasonably so that night –- and as a result, the summit was enveloped in clouds formed from the heat of the craters. Our guides said we might not be able to go all the way to the top, but even where we were, the sights and sounds were pretty amazing. What sounded like distant thunder in town had become vicious, angry explosions on the top of the mountain. Those sounds, coupled with the eerie, constantly morphing clouds, and the sun slipping down on the sea, made the painfully slow hike worthwhile. Then our guides decided we could push to the summit, and once there, I realized how much we would have missed if we hadn’t climbed those final 100 meters. From that vantage point, we could actually look down on the 6 craters of boiling lava -- and then suddenly, one of them would explode. Literally 500 feet of fiery red molten lava shooting into the air right before our eyes! It really was one of the most amazing things I’ve ever seen –- I got some great pictures, but they can’t replicate what it was like to be there. After about an hour at the summit, we began our dark descent down the steep slope of black sand and watched a full moon rise over the Mediterranean. I think this trip, with all its ups and downs, would have been worthwhile if only for that hike.

OK, I’m done with my “Visit Stromboli!” commercial now… and it’s time to go get some authentic Neopolitan pizza. I still can’t figure out why a strawberry, chocolate, and vanilla pizza is supposed to be so good… but they must know what they’re doing since they invented it! =)