Sicily Part IV: Winter Dreams of Cefalù

 Sicily Part IV:
          Winter Dreams of Cefalù            

A Rising Sun in the Storm's Aftermath,
Ironically Christened 'Fern'

The sun bruised and darkened at the edges, was just starting its shallow winter crawl across the frigid sky.  The light stole through our lofty pines turning a cold wintery night to a cold wintery day.  There was yet no hint on the horizon of a snow-laden juggernaut, still a nameless storm, gathering strength as it pressed eastward, intent on mayhem and pitiless cold.

Half awake, I lay in my preferred position: on my side, clutching a pillow―one hand tucked below, the other draped above―with legs splayed across the mattress.  I knew I should get up, but at least for a while, soothing sheets and a warm comforter conspired to keep me hostage. 

Too soon, the day insisted on its due and I was released to the certainty of the burgeoning day when the ring on the hand under my pillow brushed the cool reality of the headboard’s metal lattice.  The resonant clang cut through the air and was enough to stun me toward awareness.  I’d been saved from drifting off, where I’d almost surly been subjected to one of those familiar anxiety dreams: searching for my misplaced car or racing through hallways for a classroom where an exam I was ill-prepared to take had already begun.  Instead, I turned on the mattress heating pad and like a sloth exercising good judgment, chose stillness, content to lie there to an awakening mind.  Lazing there, in the obliqueness of two states, one real, the other still fogged and virtual, I harkened back to Sicily, that perpetually sunny, perpetually warm corner of Italy.  Clutching my pillow more firmly, I rolled over, this time to something less than a dream, but more a history still fresh enough to feel immediate.  Ah, yes. It was coming back to me, not in days but moments.  The day couldn’t have started better; I was in Sicily once more……

From Our Terrace - 'Blood Moon'
Lunar Eclipse Over La Rocca
Courtesy of Goddess Diana?

      We had arrived in Cefalù (see Sicily Part III: An Offer We Couldn’t Refuse).  After unloading beneath a cautionary ZTL sign, Maria Elena and I drove off to find a lot willing to host our car for the duration of our stay.  On return, we found that our possessions, along with Joann and Lenny, were gone.  They’d located our nearby accommodation and hauled our belongings there.  We were grateful the younger duo handled the logistics and well recall the tally, forty-two steps all told to the entrance to our third-floor B&B, Dolce Vita Appartamento along Via Giacomo Matteotti in old town Cefalù.

Cefalù echoes a blend of Greek, Roman, Byzantine, and Norman influences in living testament to Sicily’s layered past.  Its name is believed to derive from the ancient Greek “Kephaloidion” meaning “headland,” in a nod to La Rocca, the rocky promontory rising above the town offering one of the finest panoramas in all of Sicily.  This may account for it being home to a temple dedicated to Diana, Roman goddess, among other things, of the moon.  In welcome, had Diana arranged the spectacular total lunar eclipse that greeted us the night following our arrival?  Some prefer to scale La Rocca.  For Maria Elena and me the occasional forty-two-step ascent to our private loft felt more than sufficient. 

Famished upon arrival and further encouraged by strenuous climbs up and down stairs, we enjoyed lunch street-side at Il Pergola beneath a shaded, open-roof canopy of greenery.  I vaguely recall my caprese salad but well
remember the frothing Moretti beer featuring the man in the green fedora. 

A Signarture Glass of
Moretti Beer

Soon replenished, we used our renewed energy to stroll along Via Vittorio Emanuele, near the shore, and Corso Ruggero that parallels it.  Between the two, medieval Cefalù reveals itself as street after street offers something quietly inviting.  Along Via Emanuele, we visited the Lavatoio Medievale (Medieval Wash House) which felt like an aperture into Cefalu’s living past.  It is not a grand palace or imposing church, but rather a once practical communal space that preserves daily medieval life in stone and water.  Despite its name, it is more alley than house, enclosed beneath apartments like ours, reached by a wide lava-stone staircase descending from Via Emanuele with a vaulted ceiling and a floor smoothed by centuries of use.

Medieval Wash House Scrub Stations

     True to its name, it dates to medieval times, well the advent of scrub boards or modern plumbing.  Attesting to its age, by 1514 the washhouse was already old and in need of renovation.  Over the centuries since, it has experienced further demolition, rebuilding, and restoration, the most recent in 1991.  For generations, local women gathered here, kneeling and scrubbing clothing against stone supports while water flowed from the Cefalino River.  There is no shutting it off.  Even now, water pours through twenty-two cast-iron mouths, many shaped like lion heads, feeding a series of stone basins resting side by side.  Here women had neither texted, shared selfies, tweeted, or posted on X or Instagram.  Instead, I imagined their voices, then a veritable social cacophony of daily news, complaints, confidences, and gossip of a more salacious variety.  Competing with the tinkle and splatter of ancient hydraulics, try as I might, I failed to connect.

Lionhead Waterspouts Feed the Laundry

              Although the opportunity presented itself, we
passed on washing anything.  For one thing, though there was plenty of water, there was no soap available, let alone kneepads.  To find our machine-washed dainties, you’d need to wander several blocks away and climb those forty-two steps above crowded Via Matteotti.  There they swayed like small flags of domestic surrender, suspended from our apartment’s convenient balcony clothesline.  The clothesline came generously supplied with clothespins, sparing us the indignity of fetching anything from the street below.

As for the apartment, it was a large spacious light-filled affair enjoying a marvelous view of the street below and across to neighboring apartments.  One featured a housewife’s laundry fluttering rhythmically in the breeze on an upper terrace as if

Like a Dollhouse Miniature, a Peek into
Everyday Life from Our Balcony

performing a daily aria.  Judging from the number of accesses to the terrace, it appeared to be a shared gathering place of familial relationships where generations of the same family lived stacked neatly above one another, sharing sunlight, conversation, and drying space.

 Inside, we shared two bedrooms, a bath and a half, a combined living-dining room, and a generous galley kitchen equipped with everything one might need.  Ironically, aside from Lenny preparing our morning coffee, the kitchen saw almost no action.  We were so negligent, we never took a single photo of it or the apartment for that matter.  With so many tempting restaurants vying for our attention, we were happy to oblige them and were never tempted to prepare our own meals.

Our evening dinners, however, became entangled in the trappings of modern technology.  Let me explain.  The first episode unfolded at the beach.  It was early by Italian standards judging from the empty tables in the outside courtyard.  This is not necessarily bad early-on, but when neighboring establishments begin to fill and yours remains a ghost town, it does make one wonder.  Our foursome was first to arrive.  Exactly where isn’t important because the

Not a Single QR Code Visable from Here

phenomenon is growing everywhere.  When we asked for menus, our server returned with small squares of QR‑code artwork.  QR, short for Quick Response, refers to those digital hieroglyphs that open on your cellphone when scanned and promise speed, hygiene, and effortless updates.  The advantages, I’ve noticed, lean heavily toward the establishment.  The old Fifth Avenue slogan “Don’t leave home without it” now applies not only to credit cards but to cell phones, without which you cannot thumb your way to decipher the code or navigate its labyrinth of screens and sub‑screens.  Am I just too hard to please?  When it comes to this, absolutely.  I might add, I also prefer holding a library book in my hands, no-telling where they’ve been, but at least they don’t require charging.  

Here We Are Following
"Knocking on Heaver's Door"

     When I asked for a traditional menu, I was told there were none, which was enough to see me stand to leave.  My protest sparked the arrival of the chef, who arrived speaking English, radiating the urgency of a man determined not to lose his only customers.  “Just tell me what you’d like,” he said, “and I’ll prepare it.”  Having apparently outwitted the super‑quantum computer behind the QR menu, me, the “pain in the unspeakable,” soon relaxed into swordfish while Maria enjoyed spaghetti and clams.  Together we shared a generous platter of fried calamari and a bottle of Nero d’Avola, Sicily’s signature red grape and a reliable peacemaker.  To top it off, the chef, still not overwhelmed with business, returned with a guitar to entertain us with his Bruce Springsteen rendition of Knocking on Heaven’s Door (click to see the chef sing here), which to his credit, did attract more patrons.  Then again, perhaps they simply wanted to see what kind of diners inspire a chef to break into song.  

On another evening, at a different restaurant, an additional fresh bit of technological mischief surfaced.  Here I’m referring to those handheld devices used tableside to pay your bill.  No question, they are convenient and spare you the suspense of watching your credit card disappear into the back room, never

Like Roulette, "Faites Vos Jeux"

to be seen again until the server returns either with a receipt or enjoying a new identity.  From that perspective, they are a comfort.  What should have appeared on the screen was the familiar prompt: “Choose Currency.”  When it flashes, it masquerades as a polite gesture, “Dear traveler, we’re just trying to help you,” but to me it’s really a financial sleight of hand.  The practice is called Dynamic Currency Conversion (DCC), and choosing anything other than the local currency is almost always a losing bet.

If you opt for USD, the device’s payment network, not your bank, performs the conversion on the spot.  That network typically applies an exchange rate that can be 5–10% worse than what your bank would have given you, often with a few stealthy fees tucked in for good measure.  Restaurants get a small kickback for each DCC transaction, which explains why the option is sometimes preselected before the device even reaches your hands.  

You Need to Hold on to More
Then Your Hat

   Italy adopted these handheld terminals early, partly for efficiency, partly for fraud reduction, so these gadgets lurk everywhere.  The device is required to offer the choice, but the financially savvy local and frequent traveler knows to choose EUR every time.  Except, on this particular night, the choice never appeared.  I didn’t realize that the American flag, not the Euro, had been selected until after the charge went through and I’d compared my bill with Lenny’s.  When I asked to speak to the boss, he shrugged as though unaware of the practice.  “Nothing we can do,” he repeated, a phrase he delivered with the serene detachment of a man reciting a weather report.  Short on self-restraint, I concisely shared my feelings with him anyway.  He kept to his script: “It is too late; there is nothing we can do.”  And so, Buyer Beware took on a fresh, distinctly Italian connotation.

When we weren’t wrapped up with the intrigue of meal technology, we explored the city on foot, though we did allow ourselves one motorized indulgence.  For 15€ each, we climbed into an ape, by now a familiar three-wheeled companion, for an hour-long spin through town.  The day had settled into that late-afternoon ease, perfect for an open-air ride as our driver narrated

Cefalù Piazza del Duomo

the sights over the cheerful whine of the engine.

At one point he gestured toward a stone wall and announced it was Neolithic (10,000 - 3,000 BC).  I scratched my head at that.  The stones were joined with cement, and cement wasn’t even a glimmer in anyone’s imagination back then.  Only later did I learn that the only Neolithic remains in Cefalù sit atop La Rocca at the Temple of Diana, nowhere near the modern streets below.  So, either our driver was confused, or he assumed we wouldn’t know that hydraulic mortar (opus caementicium) was not in regular use by the Romans until about 150 BCE. 

That historical detour faded behind us as the ape deposited us in the heart of town, at the Piazza del Duomo, the square
framed on one side by the Cathedral and the Town Hall on the other.  There, in the Cathedral Plaza, we opted for something different for lunch.  Finding Chinese food in Italy felt like stumbling into a culinary parallel universe.  And though the menu was absent ragù-tossed pasta, there were Lo Mein noodles in a savory sauce, a hot and sour soup stand-in for Italian wedding soup, while eggplant parmigiana mutated to eggplant in garlic sauce.  We enjoyed it more than we had any right to. 

Maria on a Slow Stroll Through
a Narrow Alleywy

    When our forks were inactive, we probed deeper into Cefalù―ceramic shops, art dealers, the occasional bakery, and slow strolls through narrow alleyways.  In the Magazzini dell'olio (Olive Oil Warehouse) with its stone troughs and terracotta amphorae embedded in the floor, we caught a glimpse of traditional olive‑oil production, a quiet counterpoint to the bustle outside. 

On our final evening, we sat by Porta Pescarat Harbor where the old town meets the sea and wavelets sluice against the seawalls, watching one of Sicily’s most beautiful sunsets.  Afterwards, we walked to a much-anticipated dinner, a reservation we’d made that included selecting our wine in advance.  The restaurant, a haven for meat lovers, lived up to its online praise in food and atmosphere, though the service that night missed the mark.  

Before entrees arrived, we all shared lamb skewers.  Then came my rack of ribs with potatoes and fried vegetables, which I eagerly dispatched.  Maria Elena and Lenny devoured marbled

An Evening by the Sea

steaks, with fries and veggies, while Joann was delighted with her pork belly entree.  The problem was the wine.  We had prearranged a 2021 bottle of Nero D'avola along with its price when we stopped by earlier in the day.

At table, we were served a more expensive 2019 vintage.  When we questioned the switch, we were assured the price would be the same as we’d arranged earlier.  Yet when the bill arrived, the wine was listed at 70€, not the agreed‑upon price.  We explained this to the manager.  The manager said he’d deduct the loss from the wine manager’s pay, who he claimed made a mistake.  The sommelier wouldn’t talk to us, insisting he had to get back to work.  I wonder if, with fingers crossed, he’d hoped

we wouldn’t notice, but after our recent run‑in with the portable payment device, we were especially vigilant.  After too much back and forth, he eventually changed the price.  But somehow the total still didn’t match what simple subtraction would suggest.  Had other charges been nudged upward to compensate?  We never learned.  In response, we paid the original bill, less 15€, and departed with the distinct sense that the evening had taken an unnecessary detour.  The whole affair was uncomfortable.  I suspect many visitors don’t check their bills, and I presume it was his optimistic hope.  As an episode of unpleasantness, it remains a memory we will not forget. 

We put an end to the bad taste of the incident with a digestivo.  We’d tried each evening to end the day with a different digestive meant to settle everything down, hopefully including temperament.  Despite the name, a digestive doesn’t actually aid in digestion, but whether it involved Amaretto, Frangelico, an Amaro, anise-laced Sambuca, or a bracing Grappa brandy, we played our parts hoping for the best—that these warming elixirs would smooth the edges of the day.  And so, fortified by spirits, if not the digestivi, we let the day loosen its grip and surrendered once more to Cefalù’s rhythms—salt air, echoing footfalls on stone, and the quiet persistence of water flowing where it always has.  Soon enough, we would descend our forty-two steps for one last time, reclaim the car, and be off.  Not home

to Calitri, nor to the States, but to our next B&B hosts farther westward along the coast.

Months later, as snow threatens and the light skims low across the sky, Sicily returns unbidden.  It arrives not as a postcard, but as lived events: wine miscalculated, laundry fluttering, lion-mouthed fountains murmuring secrets, and the surprise of unexpected China.  In that moment on the edge of wakening, I realize Cefalù was never left behind at all—it simply waits, patiently, for the cold to remind me why we went. 

From That Rogue Tourist,
Paolo

               1.      Video Link:  https://youtube.com/shorts/9r15N83K5SY?feature=share