from Marsala: i give up

It is Sunday. Sicily parties, eats, takes walks, eats, goes to church, converses, eats. But it does not offer Internet access. A kind soul lent me his station for thirty seconds so that I can write that tomorrow, two posts will appear for the price of one. But today, I must do as the Sicilians do and put the computer to rest, so that I, too, can walk, eat, sleep, converse, eat, etc. Because it's Sunday.

from Baglio Spano: mountain towns, coastal villages and farmsteads; olive groves and Sicilian oranges; windmills and boats; vineyards and poppy fields

There, I’ve kept the text brief for those in a hurry. The day is in the title.

The morning is devoted to, well, posting. Perpetual Internet access challenges will only be on the rise as the next two farms do not even have phones, making even old reliable dial-up a thumbs down option.

By noon I am done. Yes, it takes time, yes Ed is patient, yes I do not mind sacrificing sleep for it.

We ask for a walk through the olive oil making operation at the farm. The Baglio Fontanasala where we spent the night apparently makes some award winning (aka damn good) olive oils. Ed is now carrying a bottle for me to have back home. Sometimes it pays to travel with a guy who fits two weeks’ worth of clothes into one little baggie (or so it seems).




We leave the olives and oranges of Fontanasalsa and, in the middle of a cloudburst, make our way up up up to Erice – a medieval town perched high, atop a mountain. Certo, it is terribly fun driving up the winding road, as water and mud cascade around you and you spend the minutes-seems-like-hours explaining that indeed, you do have vertigo, but no, you do not want to stop and hand over the driving to your traveling companion because you do not like his habit of taking the hands off the wheel – something that just does not work on snaky roads that haven't an inch of straightness about them.



at the top, fennel and a castle


Erice is dazzling. I would think that, sure. It is home to two best-in-Sicily pastry shops. And so we dispense with the stroll through the town quickly and make our way to both, where, consecutively we sample five pastries. That is correct, five in each. Yes, just between the two of us. For a total of ten pastries. [Okay, only two were full sized.]

Ed claims that they are all variations on the same almond theme. I don’t agree. Sure, when in doubt, guess almond paste and you’ll probably be right.



all with almond


But the one that locals favor, the Genovesi (ask them to warm it up for you so that it oozes ricotta in your mouth), is actually a simple pastry around a cheese filling. Absolutely delicious. And I have no bones to pick with the almond ones either.



warm, with ricotta

If you are going to build a medieval town on top of a mountain, you can expect that for hundreds, nay thousands of years thereafter, tourists will come, both for the architecture and the views. So it’s a sound investment. Guaranteed tourism and a source of revenue. More towns should try it.



toward the hills on a hazy day




toward the sea on a hazy day




Erice, toward the top


Of course, early May is the off season. So that in spite of perfect temperatures and wonderful walking conditions (once the clouds burst and move on), you have the place pretty much to yourself. Except for a few locals who are far too busy engaging each other in conversation to pay much attention to you.



expression: face, hands, words

A note on guidebooks

If I could, I would write a guidebook of the type I myself would want to have. It would have the small inns and guest rooms, sure, and the favorite local eating spots. And it would have listings of archeological and historical treasures somewhere toward the front. But the bulk would be on where to walk, drive, sit if you want to see life as lived by the people in the place you are in.

In western Sicily, it would describe the coastal villages as you head south along the water's edge toward Marsala (yes, THE Marsala, of the wine fame). It would mention the poppies that come together with vineyards and olive groves, creating colors that are best admired in the first week of May, when the greens are delicate and the reds brilliant and daring.



right next to the farmhouse

And the salt fields. Certainly it would suggest that a drive to the salt fields is worth the trouble, so you wouldn’t just stumble upon them by accident, because of your backroads driving habits. I mean, there stand a series of old windmills, still draining beds that are then converted into sea salt sold the world over. Sicilian sea salt. Look for it.





It would certainly suggest getting out of the car for a close up look at how men paint their boats, how in their complete friendliness, they tell you that no, orange is not the color of the boat, it is the base coat and it will be covered by a deep blue.



nothing is done solo


And finally, it would mention the baglio we are now staying in and include an explanation that a baglio is a farmstead built around a square courtyard, and that it is found only in western Sicily so that even in the eastern part of the island people don’t know what the word means.

Wake up, Frommers, Fodors, Lonely Planet and Rough Guide. You’ve got work to do.


A dirt road leads us to the first place on this trip where we are spending not one but three nights. So that I can finally unpack and put my feet up.

Tonight we are eating at the baglio because the young man that runs the place (it has been in his family for hundreds of years) feels like doing food. Other nights we can eat in Marsala, some 20 kilometers away. And what in between, during the day? Who knows. Probably looking for Internet connections. In a town that does business with the world, surely they will have points of access, wouldn’t you think?



farmhouse dinner: antipasti



Sicilian past: with artichokes, fennel, tomatoes



at the end, local marsala

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.