Remembering Siciky

 The Sicily visit is one that will always be remembered and treasured.

I want to remember the spontaneity of the answer “yes” without hesitation or today, without regret.

I want to remember the quirky country house in Catania…long, dark road, through not one, but two locked gates, the secrets unlocked by Dolores, the doors, swung open, the car flowing through. Alone, we may have given up. This can’t be right. But it was. The light and late dinner. Just how many of us were they expecting? An array of local lite bites and that first sip of Nero D’Avola. Can anything in the U.S. taste that well? I seriously doubt it.

I’m sure I will remember the tour of Mt Etna. The passionate young guide. The excursion through a microclimate. The mist, the sun, the rain. The cave. Clean air. The height of it all. Grateful that we hadn’t chosen to not use a tour guide. He knew the volcano, inside and out and he, like his neighbors, didn’t fear it whatsoever. So, sit back and relax. We practically did.

With amusement and laughter, we’ll all look back at the little apartment somewhere between Catania and Agrigento, right smack on the coastline…oh what a sunset…and count cats. I think there were thirteen. Were they from the same litter? They loved us. Dolores didn’t like them. But the pizza was good. The next day, we were back in the car. Scott handled every mile expertly. We just kept looking at the magnificence. Eyes on coastline and mountains all the way, even beyond those precious days. Mouths open. 

Agrigento. A place never forgotten. I’m always going to remember the temples in the valley. How user-friendly it turned out to be. How much we appreciated the taxi to the entrance. How did they do it, thousands of years ago. Apparently there’s always been technology. It was different technology. But, it did exist. I remember someone pointing that out. Still, I was awestruck and the weather was perfect. Couldn’t do it in the Summer. No way.

From Agrigento to beloved Sciacca, the birthplace of Joe’s paternal grandfather. The Guardino name. In that town, in all its little splendor, the highest number of people named Guardino are found. Joe’s grandfather worked on an olive farm. I remember him. But he did make his livelihood as a successful seafood dealer in White Plains, New York. I remember his shop. I knew it before I knew Joe. Can’t help but wonder why he wasn’t a fisherman in Sciacca. So many are. And, so many men. Saw very few women congregating. Looks like a town ruled by masculinity. I will never forget the 2 days and nights. The sunsets, the gorgeous dinner we all had at the Porta San Paolo. Dolores and Scott, you were so right. Together, we relived your memory of this beautiful restaurant and the harbor with the lights. I will always giggle as I do now, when I think back to the groups of local gentlemen who gathered at the Piazza Angelo Scandaliato with its panorama, the living room of Sciacca. They laughed and laughed and showered the square with a love of life that is rarely seen in men of their assorted ages. How I wondered how they would take to a woman breaking into their pack, randomly. I was invited. We shared a proud sunset view of the far-off island of Pantelleria. Apparently not seen every night or, did they get this excited every night? Thank you for sharing. And for the hugs, kisses and the little dance. Who knew I would meet another Abruzzese in the Sicilian man tribe? We both had the blue eyes to prove it. He was happy happy happy.

I will recall that our travel companions left us in Sciacca and went on to explore more future homes. They really are going to fulfill a dream. She wants a beach house in Sicily. He’s going to make it happen. When, we’re not sure. For now, one house in Assisi is filling their dreamscape quite nicely. One dream at a time. And I will remember our gracious host, Angelina, who picked up the phone and made the arrangements for Joe to meet Caligaro Guardino, his very own cousin. Who could forget that kindness? She walked us directly to his workplace. He’s a laborer, working atop a building within minutes of the B&B. It was a magic moment. Brief. But a promise was made. We will return to Sciacca one day and have a real seafood dinner with the family. Si? Certo. Our persuasive next driver, Enzo, has us almost convinced that we are to return for an extended stay. Rent can be inexpensive. Shhhh, don’t tell anyone but Enzo, the how and why. And the weather. Bellissssssimo! No, 

I already remember that about Sciacca. Assisi isn’t sunny and warm. We’re living in an 800 year old building and it’s cold in here. 

What I will remember about Palermo is the chaos. The storm after the calm. Lots of graffiti. Cars, motorcycles, scooters, bikes, people everywhere. Food, everywhere and everything food. Good thing we walk a lot. Good thing we almost never eat in between meals when traveling. But there are an abundance of good things everywhere in that city. And, it’s cheap. I will remember that we drank Aperol spritzes that cost 3 € the next time I see $12 on a menu for the same thing. Ugh.

How can I forget Elene, the sweet young tour guide, a friend of an Assisi friend, who showed us some of the most gorgeous and interesting sights in her city, introduced us to granita’s and the endless Mercato del Capo where she ordered an array of typical lunch foods, all prepared by an elderly owner who never smiles she says. Too busy making other people happy. Right? That market. OMG!! You’re going to have to be there to understand what I am talking about. Damn!

And, the Palazzo Corvino. Not going to forget the hospitality despite the fact that we only met an older gentleman who appeared out of seemingly nowhere to act as a substitute host for Gabriele who wasn’t well but still was capable of communicating throughout our lovely stay. And Rosanna who gave us breakfast and stood, waiting for us to ask for anything we desired. Not one word of English from her or that sweet greeter-man. Thank you and you and you, for all of the Italian lessons and for years of visiting this county. Filled with beautiful people who challenge my every word and oftentimes, even forgive me as they fabricate what I am trying to say. I sometimes can understand you but not always can I say what I am thinking. I remember many blunders in my part. 

Not least of all, I will remember the flights back and forth. Sicily isn’t far and flights are astonishingly inexpensive with Ryanair but there are rules. The airports are small. When we arrived in Perugia, at the Aeroporto San Francesco d’Assisi, we were amazed at the number of fellow travelers who were to board a plane that wasn’t anywhere to be seen yet. One arrived. They got off, we got on. Quiet. Orderly. Polite.  No pushing. No shoving. No attitude. No overhead bin problems. Up the stairs. Half went into the back door, half, the front. It’s indicated on your ticket. Same scenario at the Falcone Borsellino Airport from where we departed on Saturday morning. I do recall an announcement that warned us to avoid walking around the wing when making our way into the terminal. 

Giuseppe Respa, our much-loved taxi driver friend, your kindness and warm smile will always be a part of our fondest of memories and to those of you who welcomed us “home” when we returned to Assisi yesterday, a huge grazie tante. We love Assisi, but this morning, sitting here in the chill of our former Benedictine convent, it’s hard to forget our fantastic journey to the warmth of Sicily. 

Despite the sapphire blue sky that appeared over the Piazza here last night.

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FROM THERE TO SICILY

If Italy is a work of art, then Sicily is a masterpiece.

We’ve traveled from Catania up to Sciacca via the coastal route, thanks to our fellow vagabonds who invited us to join them soon after we arrived in Assisi. Their plan was to go house shopping and to have some fun for a few days. Together, we toured Mt Etna, visited the ancient ruins in the Valley of the Temples in Agrigento and made our way to the beautiful birthplace of Joe’s paternal grandfather. Scott’s expert driving, coupled with Dolores’ skilled navigation and trip planning were cause for celebration in themselves. The perfect weather and blue skies didn’t hurt.

At last, we have an answer to the question “do you have family in Sicily?”…..We most definitely do. Aside from the fact that the Guardino name in Sciacca is akin to Smith in the States, we know that we have true, Sicilian-blue family members because our gracious B&B hostess called one of them up and led us to his workplace where Joe received hugs and kisses from Caligaro with whom he shares great grandparents. His bis Nono and Joe’s became oceans apart when Joe’s grandfather immigrated to the US as a teenager.

Our travel buddies left us after the first of our two nights in Sciacca and drove on for more house hunting and fun adventures and we hooked up with Enzo, our newest Sicilian BFF. Why take a bus when for a lot more money you can get a guided trip through the countryside where your breath can easily just stop. Thanks to Enzo, we arrived safely in Palermo.

WOW! POW! Palermo! Mamma Mia!

This is the most frenetic place I’ve ever been and that’s saying a lot coming from a native New Yorker. It’s alive and so much grittier than any place we’ve seen so far on this foray through Sicily. Fantastic. Food is everywhere. Love of food is in the air. Luckily, we get a lot of exercise every day. 

We’re now staying in a B&B in the heart of the city, the Palazzo Corvino. It’s owned by friends of a friend in Assisi who has put us in touch with a guide, someone for which I will be eternally grateful. We’re heading out this morning. 

Surely, more will follow 

SAINTLY

  Carlo (now “saint”) Acutis is one of the Catholic Church’s two newest saints. The other one, barely noticed or spoken about despite the fact that they were both canonized in Rome on the same day. But Carlo’s rise to sainthood was far more interesting and unique. His entire story here:      https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carlo_Acutis

Two years ago, we first “met” Carlo, knowing very little of his story. A few, I have to say “cheesy” posters appeared around town and we became curious so we followed up. In the tiny, minor Assisi church of Santa Maria Maggiore, located in the square called the Vescovado, we discovered a beautiful glass casket, suspended from a wall, in which the “body” of a teenage boy, dressed in a red polo shirt and sports pants, lied. Later on we would learn that the boy’s mother, honoring one of his final requests, had his body exhumed, fluffed and buffed with a great coat of wax, and delivered to Assisi. She directed, and paid for, the placement of the suspended casket as well as the documents that started the process leading to a fairly rapid canonization. The first part of the process began in this town in 2020 at a huge celebration of the Mass.

People flocked here from all over the world to attend the celebration at a time when everyone thought it was safe to re-emerge after the Pandemic. The cemetery in Assisi (a favorite spot for us) attests to the fact that they had perhaps jumped the gun. In fact, we have heard more than one reference to “that damned saint”. Ooof.

So, Carlos was canonized a few short months ago. The patron saint of “computers”? Read all about it in the Wikipedia link. I have no explanation. Alas, I do not want to be sacrilegious and heck, I do follow some of the greatest saints of all time or I wouldn’t be here welcoming the day with the clanging of bells starting at seven every morning. Francis. You remember him. He used to be the big “draw”and every day, hundreds of the faithful would arrive on tour busses looking for him. There wasn’t a day that went by without at least one lost soul asking me for directions (It’s either I look Italian or don’t look like an axe murderer) to his birthplace or his tomb. It was easy and linear. Up or down. Straight ahead. Now, it’s more complicated because Santa Maria Maggiore is kind of on a side street. Left, right and down. Follow the crowds. Long lines await entry and viewing.

Sadly, it’s in the Vescovado that one of my true treasures is also located, the museum that houses the entire story about the rescue of hundreds of Jews by the brave people of Assisi during the war. It’s almost completely overshadowed and yet it is a treasure, one worth visiting. No lines. No souvenirs. Humble and proud. Saints? Too many to mention. Not one tee-shirt to validate anything.

To The The Home of a Friend, the Way is Never Long

 

On of the many pleasures of being in Umbria at this particular time of year comes with the opportunity to celebrate the birthday of our beautiful friend Giselle. And that means party time. Never ordinary, always fun and happy. Usually surrounded by other happy people and lots of wine and typical Umbrian foods, in complete and utter excess.

Good friends share the good and bad times. Our friend has completed a cycle of both and is now healthy and happy. That, in itself would be a cause of celebration but November first brought more. Giselle’s sixtieth birthday! And, with that, an invitation to share in the celebration. We were invited to the big baccanale at a winery owned by their friends in Bevagna and the other, the following evening, again in Bevagna, this one smaller and more intimate, one that was a “thank you” for friends who were considered as “special”.  

A very long story, short, we decided to attend last night’s festivities in lieu of both which prompted a “proposal” from Giselle. “Can you please come to dog sit while we go to the party on Saturday night. Mark will pick you up and we’ll leave food, wine, Netflix and our Stuffa (heat) all fired up” . It didn’t take more than a second for us to visualize all of that plus a hot shower with real-life water pressure to say that indeed we would absolutely and eagerly trek the half mile down through town, armed with our overnight gear, to meet up with Mark.

Montefalco is the heart of the Umbrian wine story and this is Autumn so the colors of the vines are spectacular. They live in rural Fabbri, a small town that can only be reached by car. Dark and still at night, rather spectacular as the fog lifts in the morning and the mountains of nearby Trevi and Montefalco reveal their incredible beauty. 

We had a lovely evening after sending the “kids” off to party hardy with their local friends (many of whom we know after many a party here) and their 14 friends who lovingly flew in from the UK to celebrate with their childhood friends. Giselle is Cornish. We even actually managed to not lose one of their precious pups. 

The next day, yesterday, while Mark nursed one of the biggest hangovers he’s had in a long time, Joe and I took a lovely walk, greeting hunters and hunting dogs along the way.

A late lunch found us in a small trattoria in the middle of Bevagna, the ancient (what isn’t?) town where in a few short hours we would return for the “Apericena of Thanks” at the taverna “Le Barbetelle”. Here, there were only 23 of us, enjoying this menu:

Charcuterie of local meats, cheeses, olives, torta al tests

Hummus with corn tostadas 

Mixed seasonal bruschetta 

Vegetable frittata 

Wild mushroom lasagna 

Pork sausages braised with onions, peppers and potatoes 

Water, WINE and coffee 

No, that’s not considered a “dinner”!

Dinners in Italy don’t start before 8:00

By 8:00, our absolute-love-of-a-taxi-driver, Giuseppe Raspa, was outside the Bevagna walls, ready for our return ride of approximately thirty minutes, back to our apartment.

With a big care-package from our caring friends.

 Old friends,  new friends, an incredible weekend. Counting our blessings at the same time remembering the good friend who left her life on the same day that we were celebrating a life. Our beautiful friend, Pat Mello, gave up her long and hard battle. We knew when we left that we would be receiving the sad news while over here so we were prepared. The last thing word I heard from her was “Bellissimo”

Rest in peace, Pat. If there’s one word that can describe you, it’s that very one. 

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National Gallery

 Our days have been filled with wonderful moments. Naturally, we have our favorite places, people and experiences from our past that we revisit and enjoy.  We  are determined to hold those in place and at the same time, add to the list while we are still able. Time is a thief. There’s still time. We don’t take that for granted. 

The city of Perugia is not far from Assisi. It’s a few stops on the train and then a fun ride up the hill from the station on the mini metro, the tiny train that feels very much like a ride in Disney World. The center of the city is alive and pedestrian friendly. The main street, Via Corso Vannucci, is home to the Palazzo dei Priori, the seat of the City Council since the Middle Ages. And the Palazzo houses one of the richest collections of art in the country, the Galleria Nationale dell’Umbria.

In fact, the Palazzo is the only municipal building in the country to host a collection of art.

For us, this was a first. On previous occasions, we had not found the Galleria open so before we set out, we checked the schedule lest we be disappointed. Yes, it indeed was open. No, the elevator was not. We’re beginning to think that every elevator and many escalators in Umbria are “non aperto” at the moment (this country has labor shortages too). The nice young women who sold us our tickets apologized for the inconvenience but did point out the way to the staircase…..es. Staircases. “The entrance to the gallery is on the third floor”. Now, if you know anything about Italy then you do probably know that buildings start on the zero floor, making the second floor the first. This adds a floor. Up,up,up. And finally, the entrance which, for such a formal place, was staffed by two very informal people who for some reason, assumed we were senior citizens and led us to a “special” entrance and handed over two canes which opened to become little chairs. We accepted the assessment and appreciated the chairs as we set out on our journey through forty rooms of 800 years of Italian art curated in 3500 meters of collection space. 

So, another new and magnificent memory was born and after what seemed like a very long time, we descended, needless to say, looking very much forward to the restrooms.

Which were on the third damned floor. So, no.

Halloween

 We’re into our second week in Assisi, settled into our apartment which, coincidentally, was once part of a beautiful shop. It’s here that I first met my lovely friend Jo Comodi 13 years ago when she leased the space for her silk scarf shop. She came by yesterday morning for coffee and was rightfully shocked by the change. The apartment is part of what was once a large home owned by a childless but wealthy woman. It’s characteristic of Assisi and perfectly located. Of course it has its quirks. This is, after all, Italy. Beautiful but seriously booby-trapped. We’re often challenged physically but we’ve so much more cautious about tripping hazards than we were during previous visits. 

Our days have been spent catching up with old friends and enjoying our alter-lifestyle. We still discover new things every day. Our roots are deep and our understanding of the ways of everyday Italian life make the challenges of living in a different language a little less so. 

All the things we love about Italy are still here but we’re sad to notice that so many things have changed over time. Everything is expensive. Even the wine has gone up in price. Olive oil prices have escalated due to a bad growing season and a parasite which rendered countless trees barren. Clothing prices and restaurant prices are similar to those in the states. Incomes, on the other hand, have not escalated and it’s hard to imagine how families are keeping up. 

The positives still outnumber the negatives. The total lack of water pressure in the shower is replaced by the pure pressure of a welcome back hug by a friend. The hills and steep inclines in this ancient hill town are lessened by the stretches of olive-tree-lined pathways that lead to houses that have been held by the same family for centuries. The cacophony of groups of eager tourists looking for the glass tomb of the newest saint Carlo, is mitigated by the clear and certain clanging each hour of the day of church bells, here, there and everywhere.

And now, every thing is good, better, best because it’s time for aperitvo with friends in the Piazza. Some things simply refuse to change. They just require more change nowadays.

Happy Halloween! (Same as in Italian)

  

Home AGAIN!

It never gets old,  but we do.

I never take it for granted.  It’s a privilege 

And the thrill of it all will never end. Not for us.

 We arrived back “home” this morning. We’re back in our beloved Assisi and I am ready for the stories to begin.

Oh, I am sure there will be many. Italy in general never fails and Assisi is lush with tales of magic and surreal happenings.

For now I will just state that we are happily ensconced in a lovely apartment, one that holds a great story. We’re steps away from the Piazza Commune, the very center of this lovely town, with a small grocery store, a lovely little local restaurant, and an ancient tiny church so close in proximity that we could easily visit all three in our pajamas.

I haven’t slept in a very long time. We’re here for a good long while. And the thought of pajamas is uniquely enticing.

Maybe tomorrow I will start with the story about a priest and a Bourbon Club meeting above the clouds 

The App

 God God, how I hate the Winter.  It's hard to believe that we're officially almost one month into Spring. Here, in the northeast, Winter drags way into the end of April, at the very least. When Spring finally does feel as it should, we get catapulted into the bowels of hot, nasty Summer. Every year, come Labor Day, I promise that the following months will be different from their counterparts of the year before. And every Winter, I start whining about how next year, I won't have anything to whine about. And so it goes.

I found this nifty app on my iPhone. It's called Journal. Never knew it was there and can't say how and why I finally discovered it. But, it is part of my life, a huge part. Unfortunately, like everything else in the tech world, it takes the place of something that once was more time consuming and perhaps, messy. Instead of writing here, I find that I write there and do so very quickly and precisely when the daily prompt invites me to do so. Intuitively, it (the app) knows where I've been, even proving so by popping up a map or a photo that I may have snapped while I was at the mapped place. It's magical and almost scary in that it captures my every move and reminds me that I must comment in some way on what I've been up to. It even tugs me to write down how I am "feeling" or how I "felt" at one place or another. 
"Lynn, how was your visit to Wendy's" or "Did you enjoy your ride along Route 137?". It's hard to resist. So, I tend to write it all down and very quickly, without an edit, I have a new opinion piece of a memoir part, saved for time in memoriam. Photos, maps, even and emoji or two. Done. 

This past Winter, I fulfilled an obligation to myself. Booked an incredible two week vacation, smack-dab in the center of the cold month of January. Fabulous visit to Portugal, again. I flipped out over Lisbon when there in June last year and knew that Joe would also fall in love with the country and well, yes, he did. My Journal app has all of the photos and daily accounts to prove that it was the perfect choice and a great way to start the dreary season. Portugal is now, our happy place. We're even thinking about spending a few months there next Winter. Of course, we won't abandon our beloved Italy. Umbria awaits us in November. So far, so good. Can't wait.

But Portugal is a totally different goddess. Lisbon is Lisbon. The coast of Portugal is the coast of Portugal. The people are the nicest, warmest and friendliest people we have ever encountered. My little Journal app is app-app-happy. I wrote dozens of nice things, every single day. 

And soon, we'll be embarking on another adventure as we travel to Cornwall in the U.K. and then to Dublin. By the time we return, Spring may actually be in full swing and plans for getting away again will be on the drawing board. 

Until then, my app will be filled with little stories and thoughts about the time spent in between adventures, the hours whining about the weather and the endless Winter. It's a good thing that the app cannot speak.

Or can it?

You and Me and Tennessee

 Last weekend found us again in favorite of all cities, New York. After a glorious Christmas holiday in midtown Manhattan, we immediately re-booked a stay at the Hotel Elysee after hearing from the staff that it would be closing for a two year renovation at the end of March. Closing? Renovation? Changing? We were grasped by the horrible thought that this charming old world treasure on East 54th Street would be transformed from its cozy, romantic and cocooning self, into a modern and possibly soul-less version of its former self. We cannot imagine the absence of the marble flooring, the chandeliers and gold-brocaded wallpaper surrounded by mahogany in the elevator. 

The Elysee, located between Madison and Park Avenues, was opened as a Euro-style hotel in 1926 by a Max Haering and it catered to the "carriage trade" until in 1936, it became bankrupt and was purchased by Mayer Quain, a visionary who made his money as a concessionaire. His love of night-life and his business acumen unleashed a series of changes which included the addition of a small lounge service which began at 10:30 AM and concluded at 4:00 AM. The lounge was "simply" decorated with zebra-striped wallpaper and monkey decals which reminded patrons that if they were to over-indulge, they might look like monkeys. There were four stools at the small bar. This was the earliest version of the now famous New York icon known as "The Monkey Bar" with one of its entrances being the hotel's lobby. I don't know what the prices were in 1936 but nowadays, dinner for two is an easy $400.00.

The Elysee is now in the very capable hands of Henry Kallan as part of his Library Hotel Collection (big emphasis on library), each one unique and stunning.

After the Second World War, the Quain children eclectically designed every room in their father's hotel so that no two were alike.  French-country furnishings, exquisite drapery and beddings are, to this day, part of what makes each room beautiful and unique. Some, as did ours this visit, have patios with flower boxes and outdoor plantings. Fifty Fourth Street, on a weekend, is quiet and the patios are simply luxurious as they welcome the visitor to sit with a cup of coffee in the morning or an evening aperitivo. Not your average modern day find.

This old world glamor gal has a rich history. Countless showbiz luminaries and New York glitterati have found their way through its thresholds, a few making this their home. The original Quain plan included suites and apartments. More than one guest, like Ava Gardner, referred to the Elysee as "home away from home". Tallulah Bankhead, an eighteen year resident, ran noisy parties which went on for days at a time. Jimi Hendrix made music that resulted in him having to vacate. Joe DiMaggio. Frank Sinatra and Marlon Brando are amongst the names that show up in the hotel's archives, to name more. So celebrated was it that Columnist Jimmy Breslin regarded it as a "genuine New York landmark, a great hotel".  He remarked that the walls had seen it all...... Life Magazine referred to the Elysee as a "swank version of a theatrical boarding house". It became "THE place' for Manhattan's show biz crowd.

Perhaps the most famous of the "residents" was Tennessee Williams who resided in the Sunset Suite (the rooms and suites were not numbered) for the last fifteen years of his life. It was here that he penned his final play and it was here that he was found dead in February of 1983. The cause of his death remains unclear. But what is clear is the story of the transient guest who complained to the staff that a strange noise was keeping him awake. That noise? Williams typing. The guest was moved to another room. Williams was not asked to stop typing. No, no, no.

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It came as a small coincidence during this particular visit, that I received and email from the Cape Playhouse in Dennis which advertised an upcoming tribute to its founder, Raymond Moore. A somewhat eerie coincidence as I read the attached New York Times obituary of the 42 year old Moore who died on March 9, 1940. Wait for it...... at the Hotel Elysee in New York City. That playhouse is one mile from my current home!!  Another New York Moment for this New York woman, indeed. 

So, as we bid a fond farewell to the current Elysee, we look forward to the new (and hopefully not too-improved) version and to our already-booked to another of the Library Hotel collections, The Library, for the 2025 Christmas in our favorite city at her best time of the year.