Sicily Part V: An “Oh-My-God” Pause

  

Sicily at the Tip of Mainland Italy

Sicily Part V:
           An “Oh-My-God” Pause

 There is a yearning in my soul that keeps returning me to Sicily.  Augusta, Ortigia, and Taormina linger as vivid memories, and now, too soon, our days in Cefalù evaporated as well.  Regretfully we departed.  In a remarkably short time, we had grown agreeably accustomed to its art, history, and palate, all perfectly paired with its Mediterranean setting.  Yet, at the cost of leaving its many charms behind, we reluctantly turned west along Sicily’s northern coast wondering what might possibly top what we had already experienced.  With each passing mile, we were about to find out.

Palermo lay ahead, but it was not our destination.  Instead, we would spend the next few days in Carini, just west of the city, staying at Flower Villa Con Piscina, Privata & Wellness.  As we approached, we entered a puzzling huddle of homes hidden behind tall walls that ran unbroken, on both sides of the road, block after block, forming a grid that sharply defined each property.  I imagined that from above, the view might resemble a cluster of walled cells neatly packed beside one another like the cells of a honeycomb. 

Our Carini Hosts

    Anticipation quickly muddled with uncertainty.  Here was something more than the typical disparity between the on-line wide-angle and cropped advertisement photos and reality.  Honestly, we wondered what we’d gotten ourselves into.  But moments like this are simply part of a classic AirBnB adventure.  

Faithfully obedient to our GPS, we crept through narrow walled and rutted lanes threading this maze of private enclosures.  Although not immediately flattering, a sense of cozy imperfection somewhere on the cusp between romantic decay and decrepit abandonment prevailed.  While “shabby-chic” is usually reserved to describe interior décor, here the shabby clearly characterized what lay outside these walls.  We could only hope the chic was hiding within.

Rounding a bend, in the distance at the far end of the lane, we spotted a man vigorously waving toward us.  We had phoned Roberto and Floriana, our hosts for the next few days, only minutes earlier.  As we neared their gated compound, his radiant unguarded smile reassured us this had to be Roberto.  And frankly, even if by some

Sun Baked Pool

mistake it wasn’t Roberto, we immediately wanted to stay, for once the motorized gates swung open and we maneuvered inside, the unpolished distressed look of abandonment outside had vanished.    This honeycomb, it turned out, had honey. 

Inside the self‑contained property stood a white multi-story home, surrounded by an olive tree dotted garden, and most inviting of all, a swimming pool basking in generous sunshine.  The pool stretched out in a sweep of clear, shimmering water that mirrored the sky like polished glass.  At one corner, a four-posted shelter by the water’s edge promised shade and cool relief from the Sicilian sun.  Lounge chairs beckoned, perfectly positioned for reading, napping, or simply listening to the

Patio Escape Built by Roberto

gentle ruffle of water as light breezes, playing a game of pong, bounced inflated rafts off the pool’s sidewalls.  We hadn’t even seen our rooms, and already the pool, like a mythological Siren, called our names. 

Another feature caught my eye.  In another corner of the yard, a patio blended rustic warmth with Mediterranean elegance.  At its heart stood a wood-fired fireplace, its wide hearth ready for crackling logs and glowing embers, accompanied I imagined, by the shuttling scrape of a paletta (pizza peel).  I could almost smell the scent of grapevine and olive tree branches crackling in the night air.  Would that a paletta might serve up its magic in such an inviting retreat, designed for slow meals, and glowing fires.  Picturing

Under Olive Tree 
Branches

unforgettable gatherings beneath the dappled shade from the outstretched branches of nearby trees, I envisioned this cozy focal point hosting evenings of stimulating conversation, filling repasts, and certainly vino in mind.

Following our orientation, we were shown to the informal elegance of our two-bedroom apartment.  Ours was a tastefully converted basement unit at the end of what had once been a ramp for autos to enter.  Through a glass wall entry, once hosted garage doors, we entered a spacious living and dining area that created a restful, homelike atmosphere.  We shared a large bathroom and generous kitchen space.  Still, the appeal of what lay outside dwarfed any thought of remaining inside.  Sleep, we suspected, would be its primary function. 

While Lenny and JoAnn ventured into Palermo one day, Maria Elena and I, having already explored the capital on a previous visit, chose a different itinerary: the pool.  That said, we didn’t spend the entire visit like sunning lizards.  One morning, Roberto announced he was taking the day off and insisted on showing us his Sicily. 

Our Apartment's Interior

It became one of the highlights of our stay. 

We drove westward, with stops along the way.  With each surprise destination, our excitement rose.  We paused first at Segesta.  There, perched high above a sweeping valley stood one of the best-preserved Doric temples in the ancient Greek world.  Its isolation is so dramatic that the obvious question arises immediately: why here?  The answer, as it turns out, is tangled in myth and history.  Seeking an answer, the history of this once city quickly leaked onto my pages.

My guidebook pointed out that while Segesta boasts a magnificent Greek temple, it was not a Greek colony in the traditional sense.  Its origin traces to the beginning of the 5th century (around 430–420 B.C.).  Ancient Greek historian Thucydides claimed the

Roofless Greek Segesta Temple

Elymians, an indigenous people of western Sicily, descended from Troy, fleeing their destroyed homeland after the Trojan War.  

While this Trojan origin story is likely mythological, archaeological evidence suggests they were a distinct local culture deeply influenced by contact with Greek and Phoenician settlers.  Aside from this legendary connection to Troy, the city was not ethnically Greek.  Yet the Elymian people adopted Greek art, architecture, civic customs, and religion as Hellenic influence spread across Sicily and maintained close political and cultural contact with neighboring Greek cities. 

Among the Temple Bones

        Their language remains only partially understood, which along with the temple’s setting, only deepens its mystery.  In contrast to sites like Paestum, not too distant from Calitri where protective barriers limit access, I could freely move among these columns.  I also recall once sitting on a toppled column segment in Olympia, Greece, though not for long.  History had forewarned me: There had once been a woman who, following her husband’s death, took over training her son.  Women, however, were forbidden from watching Olympic Games.  Determined to see her son compete, she disguised herself as a male trainer and entered the stadium.  This was incredibly dangerous: women caught at the Games faced the death penalty, typically being thrown from Mount Typaion, home to early Olympic games and sacred to Zeus.  When her son won, she leapt in excitement, and her disguise fell away, revealing she was a woman.  The judges spared her only because of her family’s long record of Olympic victories.  Afterward, officials required all trainers to enter the stadium naked to prevent future disguises.  Thankfully, my reprimand was simply a whistle blast.  Not waiting to learn the penalty for sitting, I immediately relocated. 

 Segesta’s 6 by 14 columned Doric temple is remarkably intact.  Interestingly, it was never completed, evidenced by columns left unfluted, the significant cella inner chamber where the statue of the deity is housed was never fully built, and it was never roofed.  Unfinished, it still tells a story of how construction proceeded.  Why construction halted remains uncertain—politics, shifting alliances, disease, frequent clashes with nearby colonies? 

Roberto and I were free to wonder and wander unimpeded through history, able to touch the ancient stone surfaces, silently urging them to tell us what had happened here.  The temple, however, chose to remain silent, its incompletion part of its 

Foundation Remains of Segesta

enduring puzzle.  

Gradually, we made our way to the back of the temple.  Navigating a steep-walled, muddy path from the back of the temple, we were able to get a glimpse of a once navigable river that led to the sea, now tame and lost deep in a ravine.  Roberto slithered and slipped his way across the V-shaped path with me close behind.  It wasn’t pretty, but we made it.  Returning to the others for refreshments, I noticed a man diligently at work cleaning mud from his trousers with napkins and bottled water—one out of three—he clearly hadn’t made it.

There was more to Segesta than the temple.  A convenient shuttle bus ride away, up a dusty adjacent slope, brought us to the remains of the fortified settlement of Segesta that included its amphitheater atop Monte Barbaro.  Segesta’s strategic position overlooked key inland and coastal routes, making it politically 

Empty Seats of the Segesta Theater 

and militarily important, reflecting both strategic awareness and regional instability.  Older than the temple, Segesta was founded as an Elymian settlement around the 9th–8th centuries B.C.  It was composed of simple domestic structures, now no more than outlined foundations with storyboards depicting their purpose and what they may have looked like.  

A well-preserved highlight is the Greek theater carved into the hillside late in the third century B.C. and rediscovered in 1822.  Here theatrical presentations took place during religious festivals.  Modern performances began in 1967, and since 2015, performances have occurred annually.  Capable of seating 4000 spectators, it features an amazing panorama of the surrounding countryside and a beguiling blue sea off in the hazy distance.  I sat for some time on one of the stone seats imagining those around me filled with attendees to some religious enactment, pantomime, or classic Greek tragedy of Sophocles or Euripides.  Would that these stones, that heard them all, might reprise their rhyme, rhythm, and music once more.  I closed my eyes to dream what the birth of theater may have been like:

The air carries the buzz of the throbbing crowd through the open bowl of stone—people greeting friends, vendors moving through the aisles offering cushions and fruit, the rustle of cloaks and sandals scraping the stone floor. The noise fades into a tense quiet as the penetrating, reedy tone of an aulos preludes the measured rhythms of the chorus, something close to a chant.  Shortly, the resonant voices of the actors take up, orating poetry with the occasional stamping of feet in ritual dance.

The Roman Fasces, Evidence
of Rome's Presence in Segesta 

Segesta had been a mixing pot where indigenous Sicilian peoples, Greeks, Phoenicians, Carthaginians, and after the First Punic War, Romans, all left their mark.  Beneath the same sky lay evidence of an ancient mosque opposite a 15th century medieval chapel.  Remains of a loom through which a shuttle once moved indicated early industry, while a 12th-13th century castle keep attests to its enduring strategic location.  

We stomped the dust from our feet and moved on to the town of Erice.  We never learned whether it held ancient treasures, for Roberto’s goal here was for us to enjoy the best cannoli in all of Sicily.  He had the advantage, for by this point, we were thirsty and hungry, ready for anything.  Cannolo simply means “little tube,” but in Sicily, it has become something close to a cultural institution.  Food historians trace cannoli to the city of Palermo during the period of Arab rule (9th–11th centuries). 

Roberto claimed they made the best cannoli at Erice Bar in the village of Napola near Trapani on Sicily’s western coast and was out to prove it.  Despite its modest look, it has become one of the most famous cannoli stops in the region, and many Sicilians like Roberto consider it a must-visit for the dessert.  Here, each cannolo shell is piped full of filling when ordered with sheep milk ricotta, sugar, citrus, pistachios, and

Filled & Cut Erice Bar Cannoli

almonds, to keep the fried pastry shells crunchy.  With each about 8 inches long, the pun that one rich cannolo is enough for lunch was clearly proven to be true.  Sheep’s milk ricotta and their “filled-to-order” practice just may be part of their secret of success.  We sat on an outdoor patio enjoying paninis and cooling drinks while the cannoli were prepared.  No question, Roberto was correct, they were spectacular and lived up to being filling, and for the sweet-toothed, worth the stop.  However, they are made, the years have seen them grow to be the globally recognized Italian dessert we know today. 

Trapani Salt Flats

    Cannoli conquered, Roberto declared the next stop would be something far less sweet, but just as Sicilian.  We don’t put salt on cannoli, not yet, but if the people of Trapani had their way, we most certainly would have.  Salt from Trapani has historically been exported throughout the
Mediterranean.  The sea salt is harvested from a network of shallow coastal basins separated by narrow earthen walls.  Roberto drove us throughout this system of lagoons, pointing out how the seawater is channeled from the Mediterranean through these basins and left to evaporate under the Sicilian sun.  They have been producing salt here for over 2000 years.  Long before refrigeration,

Snow-Like Fields of Salt

salt was prized as the primary method of preserving food.

The hordes of salt are so large that tractors ply the rectangular salt pens to corral it into mountainous piles.  From a distance, the piles looked like winter snow until one remembered we were standing in Sicily in the Mediterranean sun.  While they await shipment, these pyramids of salt are covered with terracotta tiles to protect them from rain.  Almost like currency, salt was a valuable commodity in ages past. It shaped trade routes, triggered wars, affected taxes, and even empires.  For Trapani, its link to salt continues, hardly changed.   

Another Pie into the Oven

    Floriana and Roberto were ever slaves to cordiality and kindness.  Without a doubt, our foursome had a wonderful time and a most enjoyable stay in Carini due to the hospitality of our hosts.  They never stopped.  Following our return from Trapani, for example, my fictional soiree surprisingly materialized while we relaxed beneath the olive tree branches.  Gradually, the brilliant afternoon light faded, replaced by a starry canopy and shadows that grew to consume our walled compound.  To the pulsating glint of the pizza oven’s flame, Roberto’s paletta went to work shuttling Floriana’s pies in and out.  By the time the long shadows of evening had approached morning, we were satiated with wood-fired pizza, bruschetta, eggplant, and watermelon.  Spill-over-full of wine and enjoying excellent cigars, we recounted many “Oh My God” moments.  It had become a refrain we’d crafted to express surprised delight at some happening, including those during our stay in Carini.  Like temple singers, both Floriana and Roberto had joined our “Oh My God” chorus.  Would that it could never end, but too soon it had to.

Floriana, Len, and Me Puffing Away
at Evening's End

The following day, we departed for Naples and Calitri, ending an idyllic, hard-to-replicate itinerary that traced the Sicilian coastline.  But not all of it was due to the locations we chose to explore, which in themselves were exquisite, but more so because of the wonderful and extremely gracious people we met wherever we’d hesitated.

Why bother with more?  There is always Sicily, where ancient temples outlast empires and memories linger long after your departure.  After a two-week stint there, we had only tasted the wine.  Don’t wait and confine it to your dreams, after all, graveyards are filled with buried dreams.

    From That Rogue Tourist,
    Paolo

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

 

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