from Campofelice di Rocella: agriturismo

(Wednesday post)

So what’s it like to stay on a farm in Sicily? This is our third. Each has been different, but let me say a word on this last one.

It has no name and it appears to have a sole inhabitant, Signora Cristina. I did not correspond with her. She speaks no English. I’m guessing she has a friend handle any email in another language. She is gentle in spirit and manner as she has an expquisite sense of detail.

The house is very very old. She tells me it has been in her family for hundreds of years. The guest room is in the second floor, over the old olive press.





In all three farm houses, we have been left to ourselves. In Wisconsin, you have to be social if you go the bed and breakfast route. Most of the time, breakfast will a communal affair, whether or not it is your inclination to be bright and chatty from the minute you take a sip of o.j.. Not here. You are given space. But if you ask questions, you are given the moon (see post below).

These are all working farms. The first one was a serious producer of olive oil under its own label. The second sold grapes to the cooperative. This third one has the olive trees as well, but it seems more laid back – as if their livelihood did not depend on farming.



farmhouse, olive trees


The breakfasts have been typical Italian affairs: excellent coffee and then some stuff thrown in – usually breads and jams, sometimes a boiled egg, sometimes cheese. In this last one, we eat in the garden, bordered by lavender bushes on one side, and the sea coast, just a few miles down below, on the other.









view from farm to sea

There are no phone lines, no televisions. Tile floors, puffy quilts and a sprinkling of antiques. All have views onto gardens and all abound in the wake up calls of birds, or, as I write this, the occasional rooster.

From Campofelice di Rocella: a chapter book

[Tuesday post]

Sometimes I feel that by the time I find an Internet place, I will have enough pages ready to publish on Ocean to constitute a book.

I apologize in advance for the eyestrain.

For simplicity’s sake, let me group yesterday’s events into four chapters within this odd little chapter of a day

1. the long answer to a short question

It happens that on this day (Monday) we leave the western coast of Sicily and cross the island all the way to the north-eastern shores. Unless you are determined to make this journey ten times longer, your only choice is to cut through the mountains of central Sicily.

I must have switched into second gear more than a thousand times in the course of the day.



goat herder below, mountain village above



his close-up



their close-up, hidden by grasses and flowers


Ed promised, in the empty way you toss about promises to make your traveling companion shut up already, that several of the towns along the way would have Internet Points. He was not exactly wrong.

The only way to locate these points is to ask. The preferred category of person to direct inquiries to: young-ish, male, on a motorcycle. Works every time. But it took us a while to think this one through.

What becomes clear from the very first person we hail as we drive through the first big town, to the very last, as we pull into the coastal city of Termini (see brief note posted the other night), is that the people of Sicily have an overwhelming desire to give even more than is asked of them. I am remembering several chance encounters on this day:

[first encounter]
Do you know if there is an Internet Point in this town?
Yes, yes, just a minute.
The man works his body into the car, passenger side, where Ed is sitting. He has a look of great concern. He points to Ed’s foot.
But what happened here? Did you hurt it? Is it broken?
He looks closer and the lines of worry on his face change to lines of laughter. He pulls on the elastic of Ed’s big burly white socks (Farm & Fleet, a dozen for $5).
Socks! They are only socks! I thought a cast for sure! What a relief! Now, here, you want to turn the car around. Go right into this driveway. More, more, that’s right… (and so on)
[n.b., the Internet Point is closed. Why? A neighboring storeowner shrugs his shoulders. It’s Monday so maybe they needed an extra day off.]

[and another]
Do you know if there is an Internet Point in town?
Yes, yes, but it is hard to find. It is far, out of the way. Come, follow me, I’ll lead you there on my motorcycle.
[There follows a crazy ride through back alleys as I struggle to keep up. Internet Point is about to close, but they stay open one minute so that I can post my Ocean disclaimer.]

The desire to help, to explain, to protect, does not arise only on matters of the Net.

[Conversation in the late afternoon, in a café, in a mountain village]
One capucci’o please.
You want a capucci’o? Let me see if I want to serve it to you. [Man behind the bar takes out carton of milk, opens it, inhales deeply and shakes his head] I am sorry, but for you I do not think it is good enough. The smell is not good.
He knows I have three other bars to choose from in town. He has just saved me from spending the rest of the day in a toilette.



happy to switch from capucci'o to gelato


And:
[It is very late. I pull up in front of a store.]
Do you know where the road to Campofelice di Rocella is?
Campofelice di Rocella! Come, walk with me.
She prods me to go with her. We amble up the road. She points to the hills ahead.
Do you see those lights there? Campofelice di Rocella. Not the pink lights, mind you. The blue ones.
And how do I get there?
She has prolonged the moment. But now I must move on.
Ah. Just follow the road. There will be a sign.




2. Another set of hiking difficulties, all blamable on “Hiking through Sicily,” copyright 1998

We do not have time to get lost, Ed, pick an easy one for today.
Okay, right in the central mountains of Sicily. It’s rated “average” and talks of gravel roads.
I have enough sense not to wear a denim skirt. We set out.



watching us



showing off





It says we are to go through a gate and cross the field.
Ed, there is a herd of sheep and I see at least three dogs and they are all barking ferociously at us.
Let me see if they mind my walking toward them
They are directly in your path. Do the dogs mind? Listen to them! They think you and I are wolves ready to destroy their herd. Their teeth will be firmly around my shin any minute now!

And so we detour.

And then, yet again we are faced with a path that disappears.



all flowers, no path


And it continues thus.
It says to look for a solitary oak on a meadow.
Brilliant. There are a dozen solitary oaks. Which one?

Where there is a path, it is wet, muddy, good for horses, less so for people. When three hours later we do finally make our way back toward the village, I wash off my shoes in a watering hole, picking at the muddy soles with a thin stick. I should have photographed the look of shock on Ed’s face. I do not think he has ever even contemplated that anyone would, in the middle of a hike, wash the soles of shoes. We are different in this way, Ed and I. Very different.


3. The men

This is a country of men. By five in the afternoon, the piazzas, bars, benches are filled with them. We all know what the women are doing – fixing their food back at home. Still, the sight of all these men makes you think that a plague has swept through the towns and deliberately wiped out those with different reproductive systems.

These, then, are the photos from the village to which we returned at the end of our hike. It is 6. The sun is low, the stone houses are the color of burnt butter. The men come out to talk.














4. lost

The farmstead that is to be home for the next three nights is the most obscure of the whole lot. I do not even remember how I found it: it has no name. It is not listed in any of the books I own. It has no website. But as I corresponded with a Signora Flora, I became convinced that it was special. The owner is an advocate of organic farming. She rents just one or two rooms, not too far from the sea, in an ancient stone structure in the middle of nowhere, of course.

And when it is dark, that nowhere becomes even more nowhere.

What’s that smell? Didn’t you say they practiced organic farming? The air is absolutely acrid!
I agree. But as we get out of the car, having finally found the place, only because out of the three dozen people we bothered along the way, one actually had heard of Signora Flora – it becomes clear that the smell belongs to the car.
Have you been riding the clutch??
I have. I am tired. I have switched gears close to five million times as we navigated roads, paths and terrain that has made our rental look like it signed up for a mud bath special and they forgot to do the final rinse. We should have arrived at 7, instead, it is 9:30. Riding the clutch comes from not giving a damn anymore.

After we are shown our quarters, we are told of a small eating spot in the village, some 3 kms away. The place is empty. The food is, of course, excellent.

Are you from here?
It is a two people place: he cooks, she serves.
No, but my husband is. I am from Paris.
Do you like Campofelice?
I love it. My entire family comes here for the summers from France. My two children play outside and I do not worry about them. They are well cared for in this village. They are safe.

Safe, cared for. Fussed over. It describes me here as well.



bruschetta



pasta

from Baglio Spano: the Sicilian way

[Monday post]

As I type the last words of yesterday’s post and watch the sun come up over the orange trees just outside the baglio, it strikes me that it is Sunday. In travel, time is measured by how many days are in front of you and how many have passed. Dates, days of the week are irrelevant. Until you realize that they are very relevant to everyone around you.

Sunday is not a work day here. Nothing that can be closed stays open. Internet points? Forget it.

We drive into Marsala just to make certain that someone somewhere hasn’t decided to rebel and open the door to the world of the Internet for the likes of me. And there we find the obvious. This is a day for pleasure, not for work. People, crowds of them, dressed with great care, are out for The Stroll, and maybe The Capucci’o (with pastry), nothing more. In groups, in pairs, in embrace, arms, hands linked in a physical demonstration of connectedness. It is jarring how different their world is from ours back home.



Sunday stroll, 1



Sunday stroll, 2



Sunday stroll, 3


We interrupt our own hiking plans to join this sea of humanity. We stroll, we eat pastries.



selection



choosing the right one



my choices


…And I ask with my best smile a hotel clerk downtown if I can, for a moment, use his computer for two minutes. Ocean is there, of course, but equally significantly, I cannot tear myself away from an email check. The world may implode and I can live without learning of it from the NYT or CNN, but email? That’s another matter. [In fairness to myself, I am anxious to hear from family members who are in the midst of a number of significant events back home.]

Thus, yet again, our hike is pushed to a later hour. It cannot be helped. La passagiata (the stroll), the café, and the drive through hill towns (you haven’t lived until you’ve driven a five foot six inch wide car – with a 900 Euro deductible for damage to it – through twisting five foot seven inch wide lanes), admiring the symmetry of grape vine fields – it all takes time.








As if awakening from a siesta break, we finally abandon the car and start looking for the trail for this day at (please don’t laugh) 4 in the afternoon.

After realizing that this island is not full of recorded paths nor marked trails, Ed has succumbed to studying the printed word. He has lost himself to books and texts, poring over pages and pages of tourist matter to find the ideal path for the day.

On this Sunday, we are to climb a mountain that stands across the ravine from the Segesto Temple – possibly the most beautifully positioned ancient architectural wonder of the entire Mediterranean basin The goal is to view the temple from this more remote, neighboring peak, towering more than a thousand feet above the ravine.

The path begins by the creek and crosses over the water repeatedly before beginning the ascent. In places it is overgrown with shrubs, reeds and grasses. Ed reads this as I survey the terrain.
Ed, there is no path. What year is that book from?
1998.
It was “overgrown” in 1998? Let me tell you, it is “gone” in 2006. And the water level is, shall we say, “different” as well.




overgrown, wet, rocky


But we are old and foolish and we think we can make it. The going is absolutely treacherous. Vertigo be damned, I can’t be bothered. I am climbing up a mudslide, while reeds, made wet from an afternoon shower, are marking up my bare legs and a short denim skirt is absolutely saturated with water.

Yes, you read it right. I am hiking in a short denim skirt. Why this most inappropriate attire? It’s like this: we go from hiking to eating. Everyone around me is dressed up. Women are wearing pointy shoes and jewels. I refuse to go to Sunday dinner in hiking jeans. So I compromise with a denim skirt, thinking, how hard can it be to hike in a denim skirt? Never again.

By the time we are half way up, we can catch glimpses of the Doric columns across the ravine.



first view: looking up


It is inspiring. It makes us continue, up through the forest, up, climbing now between squat palms and sage brush, legs scratched to the core – until, three fourths of the way up, the path completely disappears.



next view: eye level


And still we continue, cross country now, looking for any possible way to reach the top of the mountain. We read that there is a jeep track on the other side. The idea of descending through the ravine is absolutely horrifying and so we are determined to reach the summit, just find the track down. We are rewarded with this:



slightly higher


Ed tells me later that the climb was absolutely too risky and should be eliminated from public consumption. But the view, oh the view!



from the top, looking down


We return to Marsala for dinner at La Botega del Carmine – a simple trattoria, empty when we arrive at 9, packed by the time we leave at 11. The meal, Sicilian to the core (it’s sort of like taking Italian cooking and turning up the spices a notch), is fantastic: my pasta, with fish and eggplant is faultless. Next come huge prawns, steamed in their shells in a spicy broth. But it is always the antipasto tray that stands out. Mounds of variously spiced and grilled vegetables, calamari, salami, couscous in the center (a Sicilian bow to the continent across the sea) – it is a wonderful assortment of flavors.



antipasto


I eat and watch the families around me. Behind us, the mother takes into her lap her sleepy four year old daughter. She smiles at me. I am sure she can tell I am moving back in time to my own images of daughters in restaurants, in laps.

The two men that run the show at the Botega are determined to please us. At the close of dinner, they place bottles of grappa and herby liqueurs for us to sample. The room is charged with the music of Italian banter and laughter. A Sicilian Sunday. No work. Not today.

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?