Sicily Part III: An Offer We Couldn’t Refuse

 

Sicily Part III:

   An Offer We Couldn’t Refuse

    It was mid-afternoon of our last day in Taormina when we boarded a bus bound for the medieval village of Savoca.  We eventually boarded a hop-on-hop-off bus lured by the promise of an “adventurous afternoon.”  True to its name, with much hopping and offing, it proved to be a long ride.  We expected frequent stops.  What we hadn’t expected was that we’d stepped aboard a battered relic, an artifact deserving of retirement.  This became apparent shortly after we departed at a sluggish clip due to the unmistakable ‘arthritic’ lurch that accompanied each shift of the bus’s transmission.  The gearbox clattered, protested, and escalated into a warning crescendo of grinding metal-on-metal that suggested mechanical failure was not a remote possibility but an imminent ambition.  If there were betting odds in Las Vegas, they’d have been firmly stacked against our arrival, especially when there were mountains to climb.  Thankfully, I hadn’t

thought to worry about their steep downhill sides where brakes come into play.  The soundtrack of disintegrating gears supplied more than enough anxiety on its own.

The ride had also been promoted as a tour.  We anticipated a guide, with expectations high for one who spoke English.  Optimistically, we grabbed the headphones.  Once underway, it became clear we were absent a guide, and the audio system was as dead as the wheezing transmission portended.  I wondered if the guide, aware of the odds of survival, had called in sick!  The reality of the situation meant we had no soothing voice to muffle the bus’s death knells. 

Novelist Mario Puzo

We were en route to mafia country and to haunts made famous by the Corleone family, most notably its patriarch, Don Vito Corleone, portrayed by Marlon Brando, in Francis Ford Coppola's The Godfather trilogy, adopted from Mario Puzo's 1969 novel by the same name.  Puzo, an Italian-American journalist and novelist, created a cultural force that reshaped American cinema, redefined portrayals of Italian-Americans, and tapped into universal themes of power, loyalty, and family.  At its core lay a careful balance of respect—and the even steeper consequences of disrespect.

Italians admire The Godfather for its cinematic artistry, but many stop short of fully embracing it.  To them, it reinforces mafia stereotypes and falls far short of their broader national identity as Italians.  Coppola, aware of these sensitivities, always maintained that his film was never a portrayal of Italy, but depicted Italian-American family life and immigrant struggle for identity.

And while clearly lacking the lyrical heights of Shakespearian prose, the Godfather Trilogy has gifted the world with indelible lines that even Italy-based Italians recognize:

“Sleep with the fishes” (refers to a violent watery end that mirrors a line in Homer’s Iliad “Lie there! Make your bed with the fishes now.”)

“Leave the gun, take the cannoli” (a moment not written as a joke but lands as dark comedy because of what it reveals about the characters, the culture, and the priorities of the moment)

“I’m gonna make him an offer he can’t refuse” (mafia example of politeness and brutality first proclaimed here as a threat)

“Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer" (a line misattributed to Sun Tsu in The Art of War and Machiavelli in The Prince) 

    Puzo chose “Corleone” as Vito’s cognome (surname) after a real Sicilian town known for
producing several infamous mafia figures.  The fictional character Don Vito is a composite of several real-life mob bosses, especially Frank Costello, with elements of Joe Profaci and Carlo Gambino added to the mix..1  But the town, deemed too modern, fell short of Coppola’s vision.  Savoca, by contrast, fit the bill—and remarkably still does.  It looks much the same today beginning with the iconic bend in the road as Michael Corleone, the Don’s son, arrives to court Apollonia.  This bend is where our lumbering bus thankfully halted, and we hopped off.  

Movie's 1946Alfa Romeo Model 6C 500

Unlike Michael, we did not arrive in an Alfa—not Alpha the Greek letter, but an acronym for Anonima Lombarda Fabbrica Automobili, and a distinctly Italian noun.  It only adds to the movie’s cultural exploration.  The deliberate choice of this vintage vehicle is likely symbolic: something significant in Sicilian culture, something local Sicilians would recognize as belonging to someone important, someone associated with status and worthy of respect.  There is subtle meaning everywhere.

The tragic car‑bomb scene which follows is also a transformative moment.  You don’t realize it when you jump in surprise at Apollonia’s sudden and

Alfa Romeo Car Double Explodes

violent death behind the wheel.  Only later, thinking back on events, does it become apparent that this was also the moment that destroyed Michael’s last chance to maintain his own innocence.  With her death, his Sicilian exile ends, and remakes him into the ruthless Don he becomes. 

But the Alfa was not why we were in Savoca.  That honor belonged to Bar Vitelli and beyond it, farther uphill, to the Chiesa di San Nicolò (Church of Saint Nicholas) also referred to as Santa Lucia where Michael and Apollonia marry.  The church remains deeply woven into Savoca’s village life, its

fame inseparable from that cinematic union.

It was an arduous uphill climb past the bar and beyond toward the church.  We padded along until our legs began to protest the assault.  Even absent step-counting technology, it didn’t take many strides for me to realize I needed to join a fitness rehabilitation program.  Confronted by the reality of the moment, added to by the reveal of the fortress looking church still higher above the village in search of closeness to God, if only by elevation alone, we surrendered to reality and hired an ape (ah-pay).  This three‑wheeled, Vespa‑born contrivance ferried the four of us heavenward, weaving past a steady stream of tenacious Godfather pilgrims tackling the ascent on foot. 

There was a small cover charge to enter the church.  Quickly out of coins, I hesitated, but the serious-looking attendant in white shirt

Cameo Tribute to the Movie

and open black vest, evoking the film’s bodyguards but mercifully absent a shotgun, waved us in anyway.  I took it as an act of mercy befitting of the setting, but in Sicily you never know, for especially here, customs and respect run deep.  Inside, the church felt almost monastic in its simplicity, free of the gilded excess typical of Italian sanctuaries.  What remained was deeply rooted intimacy in authentic harmony with centuries‑old Sicilian village life, precisely what Coppola apparently sought and what still lingers there today.  In one corner, movie memorabilia quietly claims a space: a looping video of Michael and Apollonia’s wedding, the couple receiving blessings, their exit from the church.  Nearby, the actual chairs they used, the kneeling pillows, and the priest’s tattered garments were displayed with a kind of humble pride.  It was as though the village was curating its own cameo in cinematic

Blessing at the Church Door with Michael's 
Shotgun-Toting Guards Beside Them

history.  A thought, more a mischievous question emerged:  Had San Nicola, thanks to the movie, become a fashionable venue for the modern criminal underworld?  Did it have sufficient notoriety to command their respect, perhaps even tempt them to host a daughter’s wedding there?  It would certainly entail a climb, yet with zero parking, it would mean a windfall for our ape driver.

When we emerged, our driver had returned, likely fresh from shuttling another batch of wide‑eyed arrivals.  Unlike the film, where solemn vows

dissolve into a jubilant, communal celebration, we had no marching band escorting a festive procession from San Nicola through Savoca’s narrow streets.  That celebratory scene, where cinema seamlessly blurs with real life, unfolds outside Bar Vitelli, our next destination, and conveniently close to our bus.  This is where Michael and Apollonia dance, where villagers join in, where the movie breathes with the oneness of the people with their village.  

The front of the bar no longer spills openly into the street as it does on screen.  Whatever boundary once separated the road from the doorway in the postwar 1940s portrayal has been replaced by a canopy roof with sidewalls accented with heavy vegetation, forming a modest courtyard.    To the left of the bar’s entrance from the courtyard, an Itala Pilsen sign still hangs, though I doubt it’s the original, which already looked ancient in the film.  You know you’ve arrived for in bold black strokes “Bar Vitelli” placards the stone arch entryway.  A conversation with a sort of capo-like head waiter revealed

that Coppola himself supposedly scrawled it there.  Today, this small act of graffiti, now treated as sacred text, looks far too precise to have been scribbled by hand.  Its tidy air of precision dulled the mood of this cinematic sanctuary I’d imagined. 

It is here that Michael, flanked by two shotgun-toting bodyguards and seated at a table by the entrance, apologizes for his men’s earlier verbal slights and asks the bar’s owner, Fabrizio Vitelli, a question that changes everything: “Come si chiama tua figlia?” (What is the name of your daughter?).  Learning her name, and apparently still in the throes of love-at-first-sight, he then asks Fabrizio for permission to court her.

"Come si chiama tua Figlia?"

Theirs was a shotgun wedding in the truest sense―shotguns were actually involved!!  Meeting Fabrizio at Vitelli’s a few scenes earlier quickly turns into meeting him at the wedding ceremony.  The hurry from courtship to marriage was not because, in the classic sense of a “shotgun wedding,” the bride is pregnant and the family wishes to avoid social scandal.  It accelerated due to external pressures.  The local Don, who was providing protection (thus the armed guards), warned Michael it was getting dangerous to stay longer because the collective vengeance of New York Mafia families was closing in.  The faida or blood feud over the death of one of

The Courtship Begins

theirs, a proportional eye-for-an-eye, was about to be resolved with Michael’s death.  Unfortunately, their subsequent attempt resulted in the death of innocent Apollonia. 

Those scenes immortalized Bar Vitelli, and with the arrival of every busload of Godfather film addicts, likely distinguishes it as the highest-grossing business in town, far eclipsing the take at the church’s door.  In keeping with the spirit of “When in Rome …,” we did our part lingering over drinks in the busy courtyard until, too soon, time to “hop-on” arrived.

Our waiting bus emitted a soft death-rattle wheeze, as if trying to gather the strength for one more trip.  Against reason and absent any practical alternative, we entertained hope that with any luck it might carry us back to Taormina, even at a sluggish, though safe crawl.  Privately, I prayed that our recent pilgrimage and mountaintop intimacy with divinity might compensate for any perceived disrespect caused by my empty pockets and see us safely back to Taormina.  Maybe I watch to many movies, but with the mafia, it’s all about respect.  Fingers crossed, we boarded and buckled in.  The ride back, like turning a page to a new chapter, served as a portal through the wrinkles in time carrying us from the cinematic romance of Savoca’s distant past back into the present, where the spell slowly loosened but never fully broke.

A Typical Roadside Autogrill

    It was evening when, with a renewed sense of respect and deference toward the mighty powers of providence that preside over us (to include our driver), we safely arrived back in Taormina.  For dinner, we happened upon Myle e I Suoi Sapori (Myle and Its Flavors), which frankly lacks any praiseworthy notoriety, let alone Michelin Stars, other than the distinction that Myle in its name is Greek for present day lofty Castelmola.  We had visited Castelmola the previous day, host to legendary Bar Turrisi,.  Anyone who has read Sicily Part II: Retracing Taormina Moments, will understand why it holds the distinction of being voted one of the world’s “seven most peculiar establishments.” 

Far Better Than Fast Food, But 
After All, This is Italy!

    The following morning, we departed Taormina with Antonio, once again on his motorbike, kindly leading the way to the highway and our next destination, Cefalù.  We avoided Messina entirely, turned inland instead and skirted Mount Etna along SS120.  It was just after 1 p.m. when we arrived after briefly hesitating at a rather large AutoGrill, what might be thought of as a rest stop on steroids.  Here, much like its American counterparts, in addition to the often urgent need to synchronize bowels with rest stops and the ability to refuel your vehicle, you can also refuel yourself on a hot meal free of the ubiquitous hamburger.  After all, we are in Italy, where a daily dose of pasta is mandatory. 

Some miles past the AutoGrill, nearing Cefalù, I thought to check for my wallet but couldn’t find it.  It was one of those alarming adrenaline surge moments that, after a stint of bobbing and bouncing about behind the wheel, sent me swerving to the roadside, leaping out of the car, and patting my pockets.  It was not as disquieting as thinking you’ve lost a child in a mall, but on that order.  I could only imagine the consequences from the avalanche of problems its loss would trigger, second

Dominating La Rocca Rising Behind Cefalù

only to the nightmare of a lost passport that I always fear when away.  I must have looked deranged to passing motorists as I twisted and turned while slapping my pockets as though trying to extinguish flames.  When that failed, I emptied every pocket and was finally rewarded to find my wallet pressed neatly against my phone’s screen.  While it was there all the time, my prayer to St Anthony (helper in recovering lost things) or possibly that visit to The Godfather church had done the trick, or at the very least, prevented me from being struck by a passing vehicle.  Oh, the pleasure of finding something feared lost!  Apparently, it was exactly where I’d placed it, though out of place, not where it should have been, much like the physics of dropping something and not understanding how what you dropped got all the way to where you found it.  Crisis averted and lesson noted, the remainder of the jaunt continued uneventful, now with my vigilance peaked.

The need for vigilance resurfaced almost immediately.  ZTL stands for Zona a Traffico Limitato and should never be missed or ignored.  If ever you see these three letters, especially when illuminated like a neon sign and red (not green), pay close attention.  These zones restrict unauthorized vehicles during certain hours.  Unfortunately, one glowing red marked the street in the city center, Via Giacomo Matteotti, where our Cefalù AirB&B, Dolce Vita Appartamento, was located.  Not being residents or hotel guests, we were unauthorized.  Unsanctioned entry is automatically determined by unforgiving cameras with tickets to follow.  On an earlier trip, we’d learned this lesson the expensive way, well after memories had faded, when a fine arrived a year following our return.  Surprised, but not willing to risk an outstanding traffic violation that might catch up with me on some future return, I paid the 100€ plus fine without protest.  

We were fortunate this time. The restricted area abutted a large intersection.  That, and a police officer monitoring traffic gave us permission to enter just far enough to unload.  We hadn’t rehearsed the maneuver, but instinct kicked in, and we unloaded our belongings quickly, like a crew at an Indy 500 pit-stop.  While I drove off to find legal parking along the shore, my Indy team transferred our

worldly goods into the apartment that would be home for the next three days.

And just like that, Cefalù revealed itself—another Sicilian paradise, poised to leave its fingerprints on our hearts.  Looking back, we arrived in Savoca as tourists chasing glimpses of movie locations.  But it delivered more than a double feature.  It offered insight into respect and its consequences.  The Godfather was never solely about the mafia; it was about how small decisions echo, how innocence erodes, and how power demands payment, sometimes immediately, sometimes violently, sometimes years later by mail.  Our rattling bus, my empty pockets at the church door, the missing wallet, the glowing red ZTL sign―just a few consequences of travel―all were gentle reminders that in Sicily, nothing exists in isolation.  Our travels had made us a little more aware, aware of our movements, what was expected, and how closely fiction and real-life sometime travel together on the same roads, at times uphill.  We’d arrived in Cefalù, another instance of Sicilian lifestyle, changed, hopefully just enough to notice.  To this point, we found that stops in Augusta, Ortigia, and Taormina made us “offers we couldn’t refuse.”  Now Sicily simply watched to see whether we’d refuse the ones we’d make ourselves.  With Sicily Part IV ahead, we’d likely find out.

From That Rogue Tourist,
Paolo

            1.      Vito Corleone ,https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vito_Corleone