from Baglio Spano: the definition of late

[Sunday post]


A relative term. Late. Yes, you may show up beyond the hour set for a meeting and you will be late. But otherwise? It’s all in how you regard a day.

Take Saturday. Our daily hike was to be at a natural reserve some 30 – 40 kms to the south of our farm. Would you consider showing up at the entrance just a hair past 6 pm late? Maybe. Unless your day looked like this:

Up before sunrise. Sort through the dozens of photos from the previous day, play with them. The sun comes up, the world is pink. You stop for a farm breakfast, do some laundry in the sink, hang it up on the balcony clothes line to dry. You are like one of the locals – clothes on a line, all colorful, waiting for a tourist camera such as yours.

You edit the post that has been in your head all night. By noon, you’re ready to go.

Leaving the baglio, you pause to talk to the man working in a field of baby vines. He touches them delicately, with pride and tells you way more than you can understand.



tending young vines


So you’re driving now. But where? To Marsala to find an Internet point. There you make friends with the man behind the counter. Why? Because you’re going to spend a while there. May as well be friends. It takes time, after all, to transfer your own photos to a DVD, find out their computer wont take a DVD, borrow the nice clerk’s external drive (see? friendship), load it, transfer it to your flickr account, put it all together and post. And of course, there is email nudging you, reminding you that everyday worries are just an ocean away. You engage in worry for a while and finally unplug the whole damn thing and leave.

It’s 2pm. Not too bad. Time for a cappucci’o (there, got that one right finally).



capucci'o break, 1


Back to the car, point it south. Take note of yet another cloudburst. You wonder if your colorful clothes on the clothesline out on that farm balcony are enjoying a second wash.

You pass fields and groves and you stop every .05 of a kilometer. Because you cannot resist it. The beauty of a grove of olives, framed by flowers and vines.





You get chased out of one such grove by a local who suddenly needs the same single car dirt lane you chose for a photo base.

You come to Campobello di Mazara and note that the rain has passed. It’s after 4, you have, in two hours, traveled 35 kilometers. Nice going. Celebrate progress with a cappuci’o break. I mean, these frothy drinks are small. Compare it to my Madison afternoon grande latte.



capucci'o break, 2



Marsala, proudly displayed



in town of capucci'o break


[Compare the price as well. Madison latte: $3.25 plus tip. Italy cappuci’o: 80 Euro cents. With pastry, grand total 1 Euro 60 cents. Go to Italy for your coffee break, save money.]

You’re almost at your hiking spot. But first, a visit to the Acropolis. Not the one in Athens. The one in Sicily. You admire it for more than a minute. After all, it took more than a minute to build and it has been standing there for a while, though crumbling a bit at the edges.





Onwards. Oh, but wait, it’s hilly here and so beautiful!





And you come across fields overgrown with fennel and artichoke.



artichoke and fennel, close-up





And finally, it is past 6 and you are there, ready to hike.



riserva naturale


Needless to say, the hike is greatly cut back. Why? Well, because you are hungry. Between here and the baglio there is a medium sized town: Mazara del Vallo. You were told there is a good place for dinner there. You point the nose of your car north and give the command to find the food. It’s a Smart car. It can do anything.

The Smart car takes you past hills striped with rows of vines and olives. The sun is setting. It takes your breath away.






in a hill town, enjoying the dusk


...Again and again





And when the Smart car finds the town and a parking space, you note that it is past nine.

You are given a table in spite of the full house and in spite of your attire (for me: jeans skirt and hiking shoes. So, well, causal for a Saturday evening dinner). Why the friendly reception? Because people in Sicily again and again go out of their way to help, to explain, to delight in your choice of travel destinations.

The chef comes out and recites the daily specials. Can he tempt you with any of them? What, you are going to say no? Of course not. You say yes to every one of them (warm seafood antipasti, homemade spaghetti with artichoke and shrimp, a fish sautéed with roasted potatoes, strawberries with lemon sorbet) because you did not have lunch, you’re starved out of your mind and you do not want to be the dumb foreigner who does not appreciate local food.



antipasto



pasta



from the grill



from the fields


At the table next to yours, a young couple has with them their four-month old daughter, Maria Vittoria. They are Sicilians, from Catania. They, too, are curious what Americans are doing in this not exactly touristy town in a remote corner of southwestern Sicily. And the chef is back to smile at the baby, and they all pass around last month’s copy of the magazine, Cucina Italiana, because lo, there is a short story about the very place we are eating in.



chef, guest, baby

And you leave, reluctantly, but still, it is after 11 and you are tired from all that non-hiking.

Do you call this hour late? Not for the people living in Mazara. During the day, it looked shuttered and deserted. Not now. There are hundreds out and about, packing the street. Young, old, all in conversation with one another. I am inching forward. Ed asks me – what does it mean, “zona pedonale?” Pedestrian zone? Damn! It’s a pedestrian zone until midnight. Drive on, Nina, you cannot possibly back out. Besides, it is almost midnight.

And of course, we get lost. Not to panic. You get used to it. So you’re lost on narrow lanes that meander through vineyards. So what. Eventually you will find the right combination of turns and you will not have to retrace yours steps after dead-ending yet again. You will get to the baglio, check on the wet laundry, note with pleasure that it is only 98% wet, so there’s progress made and you retire. Late? It’s relative, isn’t it?