The Good, The Bag & The Bloody

"To have seen Italy without having seen Sicily
is not to have seen Italy at all,
for Sicily is the clue to everything."

Goethe 1787

(In the area of roadside attractions, it's sometimes better not to have a photo. Believe me, words will suffice. Read on.)

So, there we were, driving down the A3, in the highlands of Calabria (the arch of the boot) as we happily envisioned sunny Sicily ahead. It was cold and rainy, with an occasional splatter of sleet. Glancing to the right toward an olive grove I spotted a flock of sheep bouncing merrily along under the branches. In the next moment I was doing a Little Match Girl-like full nose press against my side window. There, among all those poor, unfortunate lemming-like creatures was a ewe with half a lamb hanging from her nether regions. Nature; not always pretty, but in the interest of full disclosure I felt I had to share it with you.

Normalcy soon resumed and in a few hours we boarded the ferry from mainland Italy to Messina, Sicily.

The sun was shining, the trip was quick and the ice cream was rum flavored.

My Spanish-bought vinyl "Prada" with the cracked straps and I are parting ways. For all you fashionistas, and especially the Ladies of Spain, Susan has a brand new bag.

I haggled for it in Florence a few weeks back and, finally, I have a navy blue leather bag I love.

Then it was down the east coast, past Mt. Etna (volcano #2),

through Siracusa and over the little bridge to the island town of Ortigia. I'll walk you through the town later but first let me take you to our apartment on via Vincenza Mirabella---omigod!

The building - rightfully referred to in Italian as a palazzo - was built in the 1600's. That's the same 1600's when Jamestown was being settled and the Pilgrims were putting down their roots in Plymouth. But how old is that really? We share a common wall with a church built in 1199. Be still my palpitating heart! The wide marble staircases,

funky balconies and a labyrinth of big, big foyers

with all those extra doors keep me wide eyed. We love this place; it sighs deeply with its secrets and stories every time we enter.

Now for the "challenging" parts. No elevator. Fifty steps up. Three separate keys. One for the street door, one for the third-floor foyer, and one for the apartment door itself. Breathe in; breathe out. Repeat. Are you still with me?

Georgio, our landlord, (we still haven't met him) bought out IKEA to furnish this place.

For good measure we have African art, a smattering of Van Gogh and a wide screen tv. And somehow it works.

About the church bells. Unlike the joyful bells of Spoleto, Ortigia's sound like my elementary school fire alarm - a frantic, repetitious clanging meant to open your eyes, straighten your lashes and get you to mass.


Then there's the sexually unfulfilled cat who begs for dates up on the roof nightly. She apparently has no shame, nor much success either. But we can live with that. And we can live with the man on the bicycle who, on some mornings, rides by under our balconies singing the most beautiful Italian love songs. Someone should put him in a movie.

And I will survive without a microwave. I think. In the meantime lunch hour is upon us and the scent of lasagna floats out the door of the ristorante three doors away and up, up, up to us. Hungry? It's just 50 steps down and across the 9 foot wide street now being liberally doused with the rain Portugal has sent us.

Life is good,

Susan








P.S. Caution. They are everywhere.