from Baglio Fontanasalsa: averting danger (or: how to write a very very long post without really trying)

We are in Sicily to hike. That is why we came here. Moving between three farmsteads with rooms to let, positioned in key regions where the terrain is rugged, beautiful and underappreciated, we are to give ourselves a truly rural adventure.

I would not have thought, when planning this week of hiking, eating, more eating and more hiking, that I would ever write the following, but I say this with dead earnestness: today I came closest to experiencing the most dangerous situation of my life. There were several tricky twists to this day, but most certainly, it was at the end of it that I faced a movie-worthy moment of near terror. Read on and tell me if you don’t agree.

Such a benign beginning! We return to the Palermo airport to pick up one of those fantastically smart cars. They are called that – Smart cars. I think they’re supposed to virtually travel on air rather than gas, which is a good thing, because gas is topping $7 per gallon here.





We head toward Zingaro Nature Reserve. I gave my traveling companion, Ed, a book on hikes from these regions, but if you tell Ed that someone recommends a set of trails, he’ll head with enthusiasm toward that area, but then completely ignore any suggestion on how to proceed. This is a man who likes to invent his own wheel, a man who has hiked and sailed solo far too many times to work with anything but his own maps, setting his own course.

Of course, a stop at a sleeping village for lunch food is molto importante. Siesta means siesta here, but a local grocer defies the norm and sells us fantastic tomatoes and strawberries.



sleeping





We add these to bread, cheese, olives, several bottles of water and we’re set. Okay, we’re set after I make us take a cappuch break (I'm catching on to the lingo, truly!).





We reach the Reserve by two, Ed finds a ranger, gets himself a map and we’re off.

And it is breathtakingly beautiful. The plan appears to be to stay with a lower coastal trail in one direction, then climb up to the top of the ridge and head back. Estimated hike time: five hours.



the beginning



watching



along the coast, an abandoned farmstead



rock flowers



fennel everywhere


Ed and I balance each other. He is happy to carry the day pack, I am happy to carry my camera. He is steady and forceful on climb up, I am wiry and spry on the downhill stretch.

There seem to be more uphill than downhill stretches.

Having done the coastal run, we start heading up. Initially energetic, I start to pant now.
Ed, we are heading straight, up! I am sweating in my tank top, I have nothing more to remove. Ed, the sun has disappeared, we are heading into the clouds! Ed, it is near five, shouldn’t we stop for lunch?

Ed is reluctant to stop. I notice half way up the hill that his initial amusement with me is disappearing. He has turned serious. And now the balance of anxiety has shifted.

Nina, we should not stop until we reach the top. Nina, we may have to turn around. Nina, we cannot work these rocky paths after dark. I may have underestimated the length of the trail. If we can’t see where we’re going, we’ll have to sleep in a ditch until it is light again.

Sleep in a ditch? I have a beautiful farm stay set for tonight! I want a bottle of Sicilian wine with pasta and a grilled something or other, followed by desert. I want a shower and more water than we’re carrying!

At five, we reach the top and pause for ten minutes to eat. It is stunning up here. A few ancient stone huts where cattle are herded, flowers filling meadows and rock crevices, old olive and almond trees and the sea below – magnificent.






lunch spot



lunch


But the note of concern remains. So now I play the role of the spirited one.
Ed, we’ll be back in the car by 8, I know it. We’re virtually flying up here.
Nina, it is a long long hike down. Nina, that bull looks ready to charge you. Please back away with your camera!







We move on. I sing. It’s what I do when a physical challenge presents itself. I am cold and sweaty, I am covered with Sicilian dust, but I am absolutely thrilled by the scenery, the fragrant smells of chamomile and rosemary.





And I get to say those favorite words that Ed and I like to toss between each other: I was right. We make it to the car by 8.

In the lot, Ed studies the map. We need to find the farmstead. A lonely trekker comes up to us. Have you seen a woman out there on the upper ridge trail? She is walking by herself, she has red hair. No, sorry, no one up there at all. A few cows, one small group coming down, that’s it. He is plainly worried. How do you look for a lost hiker? The ranger is there as well. I know there will be a search that evening.

We drive to our farm. It is getting dark. Road markings here are either very good or very not good. There is no inbetween. We get completely utterly lost.

It is close to 10 and we are driving randomly, up one road, down the next. Houses with tightly closed shutters, no sign of life within, without. How could this happen? I printed directions, bought maps. But it’s no use. Somehow I took a wrong turn early on and everything after was a series of corrections that failed to correct the basic problem of being lost.

I am laughing now. My daughters call it That Nervous Laugh. It verges on hysteria, I suppose. Oh, I know we can find a place to sleep. But hopes of food are fading. And there is, of course, that image of the lovely farmstead, the photos of which I pulled off the Net.

I am driving slowly now, looking for any sing of a farm with rooms to let. I pass a slow moving police car but I do not know how to stop it. Hey, why is there a slow moving police car here in the middle of nowhere? Where the hell are we anyway? Oh, in Sicily, that’s right.

Finally, I see a dirt driveway. It seems to lead to some place deep in a grove of olive trees. I follow it, because in the distance I see car lights. Maybe there will be a farm around the bend? At least we can ask for directions. It’s the first sign of life in these dark deserted roads. Okay, no farmhouse, but a car. I pull up along side. A man rolls down his window. I do as well. I ask in my best Italian – do you know where the Baglio Fontanasalsa is? He stares absolutely incredulously at me, stunned into silence. He gets out of the car, glaring now, then changes his mind, gets back inside, still in utter silence. I am confused. Ed says, quietly: turn around and leave.

It’s a tight spot. The man rolls down the window again, but I am no longer playing this game. I try to move the car in the narrow spot. He turns on the engine and pulls away before me. Eventually I move down the dirt tracks as well. I pull out onto the main road and turn toward the village. In the rear view mirror, I see that another car is now pulling into that same dark path. Seconds, that’s all that separated me from coming upon something that clearly was not intended for public viewing. And I am alive to write a post about it. Amazing.

The day has the stamp of good fortune. The bull did not charge me, the trail did not exhaust me, the Mafia did not shoot me, and eventually a kind soul, out for a breath of night air, directed me to the most beautiful farmstead I have ever seen.

It’s managed by the wife of the man who makes wines and olive oil for a living and is very successful at it. We arrive just as the kitchen is about to close down for the night and several other guests are eating their last crumbs of cake. The wife insists that the cook stay an extra hour and we are served heaven. Pizza breads, pasta, grilled meats and eggplant, cake, accompanied by their wine.



beginning



first course



second course



sweet course


We don’t just eat, we wolf down the food and drain several bottles of wine and water (mostly water, I hope). An older man, sitting with someone whom I am guessing is a distant relative comes over. He hands us a plate of spice cookies and chocolates with a wine-infused ganache. It’s for you, he says. I like watching you eat here. Let me pour you some more wine, on the house. It is my house, my wine.

And he refills our glasses.

That is my last recollection from the day. It appears that sometime after I made my way to bed.



olive grower, wine maker

from Palermo: chaos with a splash of color

UPDATE FIRST: Remember yesterday’s post? Lost passport, desperate calls, strategizing, hoping for a way to keep most of the week intact, to not lose days and reservations, to make it all somehow repair itself in the one business hour that we have in Milan before we need to head for the airport.

And it does. Pure magic. I show up at the Consulate in Milan 45 minutes early and join the line waiting for the office to open. An official comes out and asks if there are any Americans in line. I step out. Suddenly there is a long line and there is me. Officials come out, I tell them that in three hours my plane will leave. They rush me through forms, photos, payments and I am out of there with new passport in hand in 61 minutes. [It helped that I had all my other papers with me, not lost or stolen.] Yay staff at American Consulate in Milano. And so truly and terribly sorry for all those who come with visa applications, who are still probably waiting in line.


And finally, Palermo.





In my youth, I had traveled through eastern Sicily, but I never made it to Palermo. Seedy, dirty, colorful, exploding with people, everywhere people: standing in groups in narrow doorways, leaning out windows, together in balconies, watching the world go by and talking. Gesturing, talking, laughing, flirting, kids playing, men, everywhere men in groups. Why is it that our men do not know what to say to each other and here and in France, men cannot stop? Unleashed, they tell endless stories from days that cannot have had so many stories within them?













We walk through the medieval quarter, through endless dark streets, buildings close together, balconies and shutters almost touching. Is Wednesday laundry day?





A cookie stop and then a Palermo aperitif stop (Campari and soda and a Sicilian orange). Ed looks dubiously at me as I stir this bright red drink in a tiny local bar, with the formidable mother-in-law sitting at the side, shouting out observations to the daughter-in-law behind the counter (of the “get them their check!” type).










oasis of calm


Late in the evening we are back at the Inn. A simple good meal of antipasti and perfectly cooked spaghetti, with shrimp and zucchini. I look at the wine list: can you recommend a Sicilian wine? They are all Sicilian, Signora. Of course. And proud of it.



antipasti


spaghetti with shrimp and zucchini

from Isola dei Pescatori (nr. Stresa), Italy: …what now?

First, why am I on a tiny island in the middle of a large lake (Lago Maggiore) surrounded by hills and mountains?





Because it seemed like an interesting place to pause for a night. Wednesday we fly down to Palermo. Here’s the lucky thing: I do not have to worry about the infamous pickpockets of Palermo. They wont steal my passport. I don’t have my passport. As best as I can figure out, it’s hidden in a little black case, snuggly nestled on the baggage rack of the train that runs between Switzerland and Italy.

I discovered its absence yesterday (Tuesday), during our final hour of train travel. Unfortunately, it was not the same train as the one that is now home to my little navy book that allows me to cross borders.


Finally, we arrive in Stresa – the place from which we take a ferry to the tiny island, where a tiny and empty at this time of the year hotel is holding a room for us. A room with a view.





Paco, owner of the hotel, is at the desk. Paco is the single most helpful individual on the planet.

No problems getting here?
Actually, a monster of a problem.
I tell him of my sudden realization that I am without passport.

And thus I enter into the labyrinthine bureaucracy of passport replacement. With very little time before a plane is to fly us down to Palermo (Wednesday, noon).

For passpost replacement, you need to take eight steps (the consulate recording tells me).
First, do not come to the consulate without an official police report (so inviting).

Paco, I need a police report.
Ah. You go to the carabinieri on the mainland, you will be there three, four hours. You will miss the last ferry to the island. I call for you to ask if they will see you. When you go, do not tell them where you are staying, okay? Do not use my name there at all (why? I wonder…). Allora, they say they will see you in half an hour.

Paco, maybe we should go back to Milan tonight. I need to make a personal appearance at the Consulate first thing tomorrow.
No. Milano hotels are all bad, all expensive. Let me find a room for you at a hotel here, on the mainland, close to the train. You can take the first train out tomorrow.
Can we find someone to take us to the mainland tomorrow before dawn? We’d like to stay here, at your hotel.
Bene! Giancarlo will come in his boat. He will take you tomorrow before the sun comes up. He will help you.

At the carabinieri, things are calm. Children play in the courtyard, my officer fills out a form, precisely, with care. My college days Italian suffices. We make it through every irrelevant question. We shake hands, he stamps a piece of paper, I leave.



across the street from the carabinieri


At a grand hotel by the lake Ed buys me an expensive drink. And another. And expensive internet so that I can finally email my completed questions for the law school exam. And do a blog post. Running, I just make it for the last ferry that makes a last run to the island.

A moment of calm. The island has no cars, no commerce at this time of the year. But it has the views, and the sound of water, and alley cats, moving around, eyeing us suspiciously. Did you forget to return to the mainland? No, we’re not day trippers. We’re here for the night.




Someone in the kitchen of our little hotel with the wonderful view cooks up a wonderful meal. They open a bubbly prosecco – on the house, for all your worries. We eat gnocchi with saffron, radicchio and tomatoes, grilled fish from the lake, cakes too – you must have all three, for all your worries. And we packed you a bag of food for your journey tomorrow. It’s not much – cakes, yogurts, juice, maybe you can have it with an espresso on the train.













At 6 in the morning, Giancarlo pulls up his boat, we climb in, cross to the mainland. He gives us a ride to the railway station.
Paco wants you to email him when all is resolved, so he knows you’re okay.

A small island with the most wonderful view, and food, and people who take away the worry with cakes and prosecco and kind hearts.

from a night on the train, chuggin’ along for 18 hours to Italy

Leaving Groningen. Mission accomplished. A series of good meetings.

[Thank you letter to my hosts will include this: I apologize that I was wearing a sweatshirt and pants. I had a professional outfit all packed and ready but it was too damn cold to wear it.]

Many nice memories of a town and a canal.



doing laundry on a boat


I forgive Groningen the Internet issues, the weather even. You could get a good cup of coffee just about anywhere and with it, a tasty little applenoot cake. I love that name! I want to be called an applenoot from hereon.



Before boarding the all-nighter, we shop for dinner: bread and cheese, tomatoes, lots of chocolate and a bottle of Italian wine. To celebrate the southern skies. You know, the ones with sunshine and real spring.


it's what's for dinner

Night train to Italy, with a pre-dawn change in Switzerland. Seats that sort of lean back. Ed and I, we are the oldest twosome in the car. Young kids with dreadlocks and long wisps of hair falling into the aisle as they sleep. Me, I am writing a blog.

The final six hours are through the Alps. The Swiss, they are so jaded. Another mountain. Yawn. Nose in newspaper, wake me up if something really interesting happens.



he reads, she dreams

I can never get tired of train travel in Europe. Go to sleep by the North Sea, pass by vineyard and mountains, wake up in the Italian boot that kicks around the waters of the Mediterranean. A food trolley rolls through your car early; the man sells coffee and croissants, you buy some, reach in for more chocolate and the left over grapes and do nothing if that is your will, but look outside and wonder what a day is like for the person walking along the path, up, up to his house at the edge of a village, with the colors of spring Alpine flowers and grasses filling your head and his. Winter’s all forgotten, done with.

UPDATE: tune in tomorrow to find out what happens to complicated travel plans when Nina leaves behind her passport on train.

from Groningen, the Netherlands: love thy neighbor’s food

Sunday. Three trains later we are in Groningen (home of a beautiful old university -- one with which we have an exchange progam, hence my visit here).

How about that weather! Tonight’s low is the average low for midwinter: 1 degree C!
Thanks, young taxi driver, for the message of gloom.

I am reminded of any small Dutch city. There’s a canal. There are barges. There are ornamented buildings. There are bicycles. There is no decent place to get something to eat after 9:30 at night.





But I was promised Internet at the hotel and that has not happened either. No matter, I am busy working all night Sunday and meeting with people all morning Monday. Later this evening I have an overnight train to catch for Italy. Sitting up and working this night as well. I can put aside blogging for a day, can’t I?

It appears that I cannot. And so I sit at a public library, work through their Internet technical difficulties and post.

As for food last night – I am going to mark the day off as irregular on account of the Queen’s birthday. Who feels like paying attention to cooking on such a special day. Still, I find Dutch menus hard, mostly because I do not understand what is meant by quintessentially Dutch food. Last night, I was stumped yet again and so I opted for the “Flemish special”: when in doubt, get fish and chips. Of course, because this is not Belgium, the chips (aka fries) weren’t extraordinary. But good enough.

Back to work headaches. They will disappear once I leave these northern dark skies and cross the border into Italy. Certo.

from Buren, Germany: spargel and potatoes, with butter

Why, of all places, Buren? Ed, my traveling companion, does business with a factory owner here. You know, Ed, the relaxed guy with the duffle bag? Who avoids meat and avoids fancy cars and living spaces (try: sheep shed just south of Madison)?

We speed by train to Koln, then to Dortmund, and there waits Oskar, ready to take care of us. Oskar, politely dressed in tweeds to meet Ed, dressed in an old t-shirt and jeans (don’t forget the duffle bag). Ed, his big time American buyer who routinely requests shipments of parts needed for vintage BMW motorcycles in the US. Oskar, who drives the most gadget filled car I have ever seen, opening the door for Ed, who proudly drives a 93 Geo (I think; I can’t really tell as the rust has eaten away any markings), with pink stripes, because it came that way; purchase price: $600.

If Ed is an original who-knows-what, the elderly Oskar is a quintessential German industrialist (you know, in my imagination, since in truth he is the only German industrialist I have ever met). He puts his car in the fast lane of the highway and stays there for the entire fifty mile trip home.

There are no speed limits on this highway? Ed asks this staring at the speedometer which is registering 180 km/hr ( approximately 105 miles) and still climbing, as sheets of rain drench the road, and wimpy cars jump out of the way, to make room for the big black bullet, driven by a man with very gray hair.

Oskar booked us a room at a lovely inn in the center of Buren. We had searched the Net and asked about a few simple choices on the outskirts. I think he must have thought we were Americans without an imagination. He ignored them all and placed us in a hotel fitting for one of his major clients.

He points now to a church across the street. Looks very old, very… Christian.
You want to go in tomorrow? To look, sure. A noble if ancient history, there.


[N.b.: Buren is known for the castle on the outskirts, where Himmler set up his experimental epicenter for the breeding of the superior race. We went there today. Wewelsburg – a beautiful castle turned ugly.]






In the evening Oskar and his wife prove that what goes on in the German kitchen can be splendid. In the home kitchen that is. Buren is pork country and we have it wonderfully prepared with roasted veggies, on kebab sticks.



But it’s the dessert that deserves loud clapping and hooting, if only Mr and Mrs Oskar did not seem so refined and proper. An appfel kuchen (forgive spelling, it’s not my language) with vanilla ice cream and a home made eggnog sauce.



And the drinks! You’d think it would be all about beer, but no. A lovely aperitif of a local bubbly white poured over brandied apricots, followed by a German Riesling look-alike (actually two bottles of it, as we are all in the mood), followed by an herby digestive, lovingly called killepitsch. I received a present bottle to take back home. I’ll serve it with the story of why it has the word kill in the name, a story that seems to trace it back to the drinking habits of German soldiers during The War.


In the morning Ed and I sit down to a German breakfast. Bread, yes of course. And cheese and boiled eggs. And meats and salamis and all the rest of it, the part that was to be expected.



After, as Ed and Oskar meet over machines, Mrs. Oskar and I walk through the town, out of town, around town. Best to keep moving. It’s 3 degrees C outside and the umbrella needs a raise every now and then.








Shit weather. Those were Oskar’s first words to us at the train station. Agreed. But a golden day nonetheless sparked by the amazing generosity of our hosts. Down to the very last golden spear of pale asparagus that we eat for lunch, along with boiled potatoes and wine. Beer for the boys. Cakes at the café for all of us.