Wandering Corso Umberto

 

Returned to Calitri After Weeks in Sicily
                                                            Photo credit: Giuseppe Di Maio

Wandering Corso Umberto

Following our return to Calitri, considering our earlier pace, days took on a pleasant, offbeat rhythm.  Some of us needed rest; others, myself included, required something closer to full-scale recuperation.  In fact, after a two-week tour de force through Sicily, a breather felt not only deserved but quietly inevitable.

The order of the day, clearly understood though unwritten, was to do nothing which, it turns out, demands a certain discipline.  Retirement already flirts with the soft edges of self-indulgence, where any

Our Rooftop 'Recupra-torium'

(If only there were such a Word)

given day can slide, imperceptibly, into sedentary hedonism.  So no, this wasn’t exactly a hardship.

Sometimes we like to laze, you know, just lie around, practicing the fine Italian art of unhurriedexistence.  Italians call this philosophy of life “dolce far niente,” the sweetness of doing nothing.  It helps, of course, to be in Italy: sipping cool white wine on our terrace beneath a shading umbrella, the air moving to the native rhythmic voice of Chiara; napping until the campanile bells nudge us back to consciousness; stepping out for a due gusti (two flavor) cone of gelato; or reading a book this time with a fortifying red untroubled by itineraries, absent tours, stairways , crowds, or ‘what-next’ decisions to make.  In Calitri then, the tonic, for once, was blissfully simple, do nothing at all.   

Being in Italy, even at a relaxed lazing tempo, is a noble endeavor.  It is Italy after all.  Just being there is special.  Without question, it is a distant, long ride from the States, but Italy, an emotion more than a country, remains a place hard to live apart from.  Like a yummy dessert, Italy is to die for and only reasonable to entertain leaving when I’ve developed the cultural equivalent to a ‘double chin.’  And just as there is an overabundance of possible ‘desserts’ to enjoy, even after twenty years of visits, there remains much of Italy yet to sample.  It’s that draw,

Amalfi Peninsula with Salerno and Vietri 
 to the Far Right

that itch, that soon lures us to put aside the books, tanning lotion, wine, stuff our totes, lock the door, and be off.  It was soon that time again, but not to overdo it, we took a day trip to Vietri sul Mare, a nearby favorite of ours along the Amalfitana coastline where it joins Salerno.

Once again, our Sicilian foursome, Lenny, Joann, Maria Elena and I, clambered into our little Fiat.  How we manage has become a well-practiced maneuver but still on the level of a circus clown act, though not as funny.  Dropping into town rather late in the morning, we found the only parking lot I was familiar with filled.  While I hesitated outside the entry gate for a time hoping someone might leave, the authoritative wave of a policeman motioned us ahead to a street that veered sharply downhill toward the sea while assuring us we’d find a spot.  We did, on the side of the road facing downhill, so steep I cut the wheel into the curb, just in case.  Then in a Houdini-like wiggling move I managed to maneuver out through the inches of space my door was allowed to open into a streetside hedge.  As I said, a clown-show, but we’d arrived safely. 

Vietri sul Mare is famous for its tradition of ceramic craftsmanship going back to the 15th century.  Often called the gateway to the Amalfi Coast, it feels more like a lived-in village than a polished resort choked with tourists.  Compared to other Amalfi towns, it’s not overrun.  It’s smaller, breathable, and feels more authentic than places like Positano and Amalfi farther out along the peninsula.  It maintains a

Vietri sul Mare

strong identity rooted in craftsmanship and everyday life.

The town spills down a hillside toward the sea.  However, the heart and commercial spine of this rather compact and intimate town, Corso Umberto I, is thankfully level.  We arrived at one end of this busy thoroughfare when we dropped into town to the crowded parking lot.  From there the corso extends about a quarter mile to terminate at a small-tree-lined piazza.  Walking it feels like drifting through a living gallery.  A constant visual rhythm is evident – every doorway, staircase, and alley reveals something decorative or unexpected. 

Store fronts overflow with hand-painted ceramics, many in

A Ceramic Table Market

complex majolica patterns inspired by the sea and countryside.  You name it, plates, tiles, vases, colorfully tiled tables, fine art, and geometric patterns fill shop after shop.  It is a wonder they all stay in business, but the filled parking lot we experienced may explain it.  But there is an advantage to so many outlets: if you missed it earlier, regret you hesitated to buy something, or just couldn’t decide, there is no need to go back for it will certainly reappear, especially one item and color, yellow lemons.  Symbolic of the region, thick-skinned Amalfitana lemons in dominant yellow motifs are everywhere.  

Restaurants and small cafes accented the way in an appeal that offered something absent in the shops, a place to sit, set aside parcels, and enjoy a relaxing break.  There was even the thoughtful placement of a bench in a strategic place where the corso abruptly turned.  From benches to church domes, all are decorated with bright ceramic, the buildings in warm Mediterranean tones.

We were brought to a halt by a funeral procession, not the

Typical Shop Display

familiar line of idling cars, but a solemn column of people on foot, gathered to mourn one of its own, advancing slowly toward us.  It is a scene woven into daily small-town life.  We witnessed similar scenes in Calitri, where loss is never private; everyone knows everyone, and grief belongs to the entire community.  

Along Corso Umberto, the rhythm of daily life fell silent.  Conversations faded, shopkeepers paused mid-gestures, hats were doffed; a few people crossed themselves, and here and there, tears were brushed away.  Commerce yielded briefly, without protest, to reverence.

Through this suspended world, the procession continued forward.  A hearse emerged from a nearby church crowned with bright mosaics, followed by mourners who walked with quiet purpose.  Around them, in vivid contrast, life lingered.  The displays of colorful majolica lay untouched, the vibrant mixing of shoppers froze, the idled half-finished cappuccinos cooled on café tables, all seemed to recede into moments that demanded stillness. 

The hearse carrying the deceased, a rare, out of the ordinary breed, was also striking.  Its form, like its passenger, bore the mark of transformation. 

An Unexpected Encounter

Here a Maserati Ghibli, altered by a custom coachbuilder, had been cut, stretched, and re-bodied the original sedan into something elegant and austere.  On its stylish flank, symbolic of mythic strength, a medallion exhibited Neptune’s three-pronged trident spearhead, conveying Vietri’s tie to the sea.  Also emblematic, a photograph of the deceased was hosted on its rear window as a final farewell to all, bereaved and strangers alike.  Surprisingly, it presented the face of a young woman.  This was no ordinary farewell.  In this case, whoever she had been, appearances inferred she had mattered.  It is easy, even with only a smidgen of information to form opinions, be they right or wrong.  

This proclivity, a form of caricature, often humorous, really is not unique.  Instead of neutral social descriptions, people often prefer something more visual.  Italian, a vivid, image-based language, serves this purpose well, affording Italians a visually expressive way, fortified with hand movements, to describe people.  Noses especially, being central and distinctive, afford Italians an easy, verbal shorthand.

     There is a homespun amusement regarding the head-on visibility of a person’s nostrils that has evolved into a nonsensical pseudo-science is referred to as ‘nostrology.’  A nostrological factor of zero

Nostrological Factor of 10

is perfect and represents the case where the nostrils, not visible, are level with the ground.  Negative ‘nostrology’ exists when the nose tips downward producing a negative cant to the nostrils while a positive rating is assigned when you can see into someone’s nose as they approach.  The nose of a pig would rate a plus 10!  Unlike most tests, here is one you’d like to score zero.  As silly as it is, now aware of it, it won’t be long before you note the phenomenon, like children calling out Volkswagen Beetles while riding in the back seat.  Chuckle as we may, we all do it.

I sank onto a worn wooden bench while Maria Elena and Joann were occupied with serious shopping.  As if reserved for me, two local women involved in relaxed conversation shuffled aside to offer me room.  Rapid musical Italian that somehow makes even arguing sound romantic swirled past me.  With nowhere to be, I let my gaze drift across the steady stream of passersby, each face a small story unfolding in expression.  Espresso cups clinked like tiny cymbals at a café across from us and a scooter zipped by with the urgency of a “keep it warm” pizza delivery.  I had no agenda beyond sitting still in the noble pastime of people-watching.  Part of it is observation, part imagination, and, if I’m honest, part completely unfounded character analysis. 

Italian culture is often more direct about appearance, its language style capable of turning everyday observation into something vivid, expressive, comical.  There is more to noses here than nostril gaging.  Describing a nose can subtly imply elegance, strength, warmth, or awkwardness.  Even the great masters, like da Vinci or Michelangelo, were fascinated with facial proportions.  There is often a word or hand motion involved in its playful belief that facial features reveal personality. 

Being a rogue I gave it a try.  An older gentleman with a cane was the first to catch my attention.  He strode past with what Italians categorize as a magnificent Romanesque naso aquilino, curved in a negative "nostrological" cant like an eagle's beak. I conjured the thought that this nose had opinions of its own and expected them to be respected.  Behind him, a young woman laughed with what Italian’s rank as a naso all’insù.  Translated, this means "upturned nose," which being the case, I awarded her a positive “nostrological” rating.  I imagined her outlook on life involved an air of permanent optimism, like she’d never once worried about a late flight or sneered at a bad espresso.  A little later, a cheerful man with a naso a patata, knobby like a potato, ambled by, his round, soft nose giving him the somehow trustworthy look of someone whose nose always knows where to find the best lunch, though is slightly suspicious about pastries. 

As the sun continued to rise toward afternoon and warm the worn bench slats, the parade continued: bold noses, delicate ones, and a few that looked like they’d taken a scenic detour along the way.  Then, just as our foursome reunited, along came a woman featuring a perfectly straight naso francese, espousing the merits of stereotypical attractiveness.  So straight and elegant by the centuries-old French standards it espouses, it made me instinctively sit up straighter, as though in a glance she might grade my posture.  In this brief experiment, I realized that people-watching in an Italian town is a bit like flipping through a beautifully illustrated magazine, except here in Vietri sul Mare, the characters are moving, talking, all the while being judged for not only facial layout, but no doubt for their dress, right down to their choice of gelato in an attempt to derive personality.  I was an amateur, but it nevertheless was a fun sport to play even while you’re benched.  

As we slowly continued along Corso Umberto, with every few steps, we were tempted to pause and explore something of interest.  Ceramics dominated the scene, their glazed colors catching the light, but it was something less visible that drew my attention: the evocative musk scent of real leather.  Beautiful

A Leather Accented Italjet Electric Bike

handmade bomber jackets, supple shoes, and last-a-lifetime pocketbooks filled the windows.  I might have lingered at the threshold, content to admire them from a distance, but it was the sight of a bicycle parked outside that caught my eye and pulled me in.

I’ll not soon forget the Italjet E-bike displayed there, priced at a whopping 6600€.  It had a sleekness that felt both modern and familiar, the kind of design that stirred something half-remembered.  I recall saving up as a kid for a bike.  It had a button I had to press to sound its bell and tassels streaming from my handlebars, something that qualifies as “retro” today.  I’d even put cards on the spokes to mimic a burping muffler.  Unlike this beauty, my bike also didn’t have a clock embedded in the stem below the handlebar, which might explain why I was perpetually late getting home.

The Italjet was another species entirely.  Its leather accents explained why it was on display there.  The handles, seat, and a pocket to slide the battery into, decorated with quality leather, added to its elegance.  A vintage knucklehead headlight and finely spoked wheels added to its retro look.  Italians, after all, have a well-earned reputation for speed, and this particular jewel could glide up to 28 miles per hour, carrying you anywhere from 31 to 43 miles before needing

Samples of Lucia's Artistry

a recharge.  Not bad, I thought, for something that, at a glance, might pass for a memory.

At #69 Corso Umberto we stepped into Zuma Ceramiche, the fine‑art studio of Lucia Carpentieri.  She related how as the daughter of artists, she approached painting at a young age in her

Lucia

father’s studio.  I was struck by the sweep of her early training, marked by the study of great masters of Italian painting from Caravaggio’s drama to the Venetian painter Giovanni Bellini (yes, the namesake of the cocktail).  It then progressed to the refined Renaissance touch of Federico Barocci and the mid-19th century romantic intensity of Francesco Hayez.  There was also attention to the oleographic technique (oleo in Italian meaning oil and graph, printing), a 19th‑century method for producing high‑quality prints that cleverly “faked” the look of oil paintings for those who couldn’t afford the originals.  But ceramics eventually became her expressive language.  In 2015, Lucia opened her first workshop in the historic center of Avellino, not far from Calitri, before later relocating to Vietri sul Mare.  

The result is an astonishing gallery of her own making.  Her pieces entertain enchanting references to optical art weaving geometric precision into illusions of depth and motion.  Lucia’s stylistic use of crisp

Grouping of Cornicelli Amulets 
to Protect from Evil

black and white patterns is remindful of three‑dimensional tessellation (where the repeating pattern looks like it stacks but your brain insists it doesn’t) to forge a balance of maintained order within a hypnotic sense of dynamic movement.  Brava Lucia!  

Continuing to wander without a plan, we eventually reached the end of Corso Umberto, or perhaps, in hindsight, its beginning.  Piazza Vincenzo Solimene, with its tree-lined view stretching toward the sea, feels less like the end of the line and more like an introduction to the town.  From here, we glimpsed a sanctuary of Vietri ceramics that announces itself long before you step inside.

You can’t miss it.  The structure is entirely clad in bright enamels, arranged in a sweeping mosaic motif.  Embedded across its facade are sixteen thousand discarded vases, glazed in copper green and

Solimene Ceramics Factory

terracotta pieces cascading downward in a conical drapery.  It is a bold preview of what lies inside.  Completed in 1954, the Solimene Ceramics Factory is an architectural marvel.  Its striking form is reminiscent of the Guggenheim Museum in New York, particularly in its spiraling interior. 

Today, the factory remains a living workshop where craft becomes art, and tradition continues to evolve across every painted surface and fired form.  The process unfolds vertically, guided by a continuous ramp that winds through each level.  Along this path, the stages of ceramic production reveal themselves in sequence, each workspace contributing to the transformation.

     On the upper levels, pieces are fired before beginning their gradual descent.  Arriving in the main atrium they are painted and decorated.  Here, the sheer abundance is overwhelming.  Stacks of plates, cups, and vases fill the space, inviting you to linger.  Many pieces, leftovers from large batches, are customized for restaurants and bear the names of their intended
destinations.  

You move carefully through it all, sidestepping bowls, pitchers, and vases that feel equally at home as decoration or daily use.  The tiles echo those embedded in walls throughout the town, reinforcing the quiet sense that this place is tied to Vietri.

Careful -- Watch Your Step

And perhaps, that’s the true ending to our walk: not a final destination, but rather a realization.  In Vietri, the line between wandering and arriving disappears.  Every street leads you back to the same idea, that beauty here is not preserved behind glass in a Gucci or Tiffany storefront, but made, handled, and lived with every day.  My Vietri experience was built from small, sensory moments ― the art, the artists, the crafts, people remotely appraised from a bench, another aboard her final ride (possibly the beginning of a new journey) ― rather than big attractions.  I leave it there, at what was an end, though depending on the direction you face, maybe a beginning.

From That Rogue Tourist, 
Paolo

 

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