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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