But Why is the Rum Gone??

Following a delicious meal in Spain (en route back to Sicily from the US), Dinosaur and I were each served a complimentary shot of an unknown aperitif.  Our hearty meal had consisted of:  tomatoes and oregano, garlic shrimp, a caveman-worthy mixed meat plate containing steak, chicken, chorizo, pork ribs, and veal chops, washed down with the most refreshing sangria that has ever danced its way across my tongue.  The post-meal aperitif glasses can only be described as both cute and modern – the volume of the liquid within was similar to a regular shot, but the squat, cylindrical shaped glasses suggested a more sophisticated beverage than your run of the mill post-Spaghetti House meal shot of tequila.  However, Dinosaur and I have been burned on more than one occasion (and I do not use the word “burn” lightly here) from the assumption that an unidentifiable aperitif would be pleasant and palatable, therefore we took no chances here.  ("But just sip it," you may be thinking, "Or give it a sniff to better guess if it's sweet and sip-worthy or strong and shot-worthy."  Yes, but Grappa and Roki are also after-dinner drinks that take no prisoners in either the sip or smell department.  Had this liquid proven to taste or smell anything like those vile drinks, mine would have gone undrunk.  I like to think that it's better to be ignorant of your fate, drink quickly, and appear foolish rather than know what you're getting into, refuse it, and appear rude.) We quickly shot the light amber liquid down our respective gullets, only afterwards realizing sheepishly that the liquor was indeed sweet and delicious.  Our server was also surprised that our free treats had disappeared so quickly (his humored expression and involuntary “Already?!” when viewing our empty glasses were further proof that this drink was meant to be savored) and he hurried to replace them with another round of what we learned to be honey rum.  Dinosaur and I were happy to have a second chance at Spanish etiquette, as well as a chance to actually taste and enjoy the liquor that was, thankfully, much more honey than rum.

This “clumsy Americano” situation held extra zing since during our dinner I had remarked to Dinosaur that material for this blog was becoming sparse the further he and I oh-so-smoothly assimilated into European society.  Mm-hmmm...

So fear not, my dear readers, it seems as if Dinosaur and I will continue to make asses of ourselves, and continue to provide you with slow-workday online reading material, for the foreseeable future. 

You’re welcome.

Honey rum!  Aren't the glasses cute and modern?  And wouldn't you be cautious of this liquid if you didn't know what it was??

Mmmmm - Sangria.  This stuff was how Sangria should be: cold and every so slightly bubbly, refreshing and not too heavy or sweet.

Meat. Yum.

The Rota beach at sunset.

Home is _________

During my widely social-network-publicized endurance travel experience to the States, a friend in Italy posted to me, "I hope you make it home soon!" It took me a moment of thinking that she wanted us back in Sicily soon to realize that she actually meant she hoped we'd get a flight to the States in due time, the place that she thinks of as home.

Which got me thinking…where is home to me? "Where the heart is"? "Where the Navy sends you"? In the past for me, home has generally just referred to my home “base,” the place I longed to return to at the end of the day to relax, wherever that happened to be at the time. But I've been living in a hotel in Italy for 6 weeks; that certainly isn't home. Tennessee is where I'm from, but my parents' house hasn't been "home" for about five years. Then where is home? You would think that as the carrier of an American passport, "home" could at least be broadened to the inclusion of one entire country. So why, when in the US to visit family and  joyously celebrate the wedding of two friends, why do I find myself missing Sicily..?

Make no mistake, it is great to be in the States. I had to suppress the overwhelming desire to hug the first dear Southern soul who stood behind me in line and made idle chit chat. How comforting it was to understand someone else's vocal train of thought!

And, ah, how nice it is to be able to effortlessly decode a restaurant menu. To not be forced to sit in silence next to Dinosaur after we've both made our meal decisions because we're each mentally reciting over and over what we'll need to say to the server.

The space, oh the space! A Queen sized bed in our host's guest room, a shower within a bath tub instead of a cramped stall, room to move and stretch inside the cars and space to drive amongst other cars without cringing.

And of course there is the comfort of familiarity. I innately know what messages the road signs want to convey. I know which stores to enter for specific goods. I recognize the goods within stores, can be in and out with exactly what I need, no need for a phrase book or translator.

But I do miss Sicily. Somehow I actually miss Europe's lack of AC. I had unknowingly grown accustomed to the absence of climate shock when entering a chilly air conditioned building from the balmy outdoors.

I miss the wooden shutters on every door and window that virtually block out all daylight, allowing one to seamlessly sleep off the previous evening’s late-night transgressions well into the next day.

I miss espresso.

I certainly didn't see this coming, but I miss the challenge presented during everyday life. In Italy I had developed a love/hate relationship with mixed feelings of both trepidation and adventure, of not fully knowing what to expect, each time I embarked on an errand. That feeling, I did not expect to miss. The experience of being in the US and missing that challenge is like playing sports: there is an invisible line drawn when, after playing unorganized pick-up with friends, you advance to city leagues and then up to college teams. The higher ranks cause you to work so much harder and you long for the pressure-free days of running around with friends. But should you go back for a light game of pick-up, it no longer holds the old enjoyment. You know you should relax and relish the chillness, but all you can think is, "Well this is just too easy."

Friends, family, it is wonderful to see you. I'd missed the hugs and laughs and fun of old friends, people that know me well. I love catching up, hearing about what's going on in your lives and the happenings throughout this beloved land that holds so much of my heart. I eagerly look forward to seeing you all again. But perhaps next time we can embrace in Sicily - the home where the Navy has sent Dinosaur and I, my home “base” for now, the place I have grown accustomed to returning to at the end of the day, more than I had consciously acknowledged. You'll miss certain things about America while you're there, but I'm confident that we can find other things that you'll love, maybe even yearn for when you return home.

Tickets were 7 Euro each...

And that is why life here is so cool.

Wiser to Go Around the Volcano Than Through

 “At 3329 meters, it is Italy’s highest mountain south of the Alps and the largest active volcano in Europe,” tells Lonely Planet – Sicily.  Mt. Etna graces our skyline on clear days (which are most) with its vast, looming, and ever-smoking presence.  It is the subject of centuries of folklore and countless items of merchandise, including nearly every postcard from this region.  So on a bright and sunny day too windy for outdoor activity, Dinosaur and I took to the rental car and decided to drive around the brooding volcano to see what was offered at it’s feet.

Heading West, we first came upon Paterno, a sweeping cluster of homes, churches, and businesses nestled in a valley between Mt. Etna and a hilltop Norman castle built in 1072.  

I reeeeeally want to go inside one of these castles!!  But they all appear to be locked up without hope of entry.  What’s it like inside?  Why can’t I wander the corridors?  And who do I need to talk to about renting it out for the most kick-ass party EVER??

Continuing North, we stopped for lunch at a café in Adrano.  Dinosaur and I shared a pleasant lunch of cheese pizza followed by pistachio cake (me) and strawberry gelato (Dinosaur).  We attempted to chat in Italian to the nice Romanian woman working the counter.  Well, either she was Romanian or she was from Rome.  That’s how spectacular our Italian is.

 Outside the café, we meandered around yet another 11^th century Norman castle, and strolled through a pleasant tree- and rose garden-filled park.  

On the way back to the car, I noticed this weather vane atop an old baroque church.  The stout breeze that day couldn’t decide on one direction, so this angel was swinging around, appearing to my unorthodox eye to be a rogue angel pole dancer spinning away above the oblivious church-goers.

 

Halfway up the West perimeter of the Etna National Park, we found ourselves in Bronte, a town famous for pistachio nuts.  Our Lonely Planet guide recommended stopping here for pistachio gelato, and that seemed to me like advice worth heeding.  Best pistachio gelato thus far!  Even served with a sprinkling of crushed pistachios on top.

Apparently even Homer Simpson loves the green pistachio gelato.

Driving through acres of sprawling pistachio groves, we  made our way due North of Etna to Randazzo.  This town is closest to the active volcano’s peak, but has always escaped catastrophe throughout Etna’s frequent (geologically speaking) eruptions.  (Catania, for example, has not been so lucky.)   

We spent quite a bit of time wandering around Randazzo, enjoying the scenic setting and finding each of three WWII crenellated churches.

While in Bronte, I received a text from Bella, inviting us to dinner at Rachel’s horse ranch East of Etna.  We had a few hours to spare, so when we saw a road sign for 22 km to Floresta, a supposedly gorgeous nature getaway that had been recommended to us by a local, we decided to head North to check it out.  Floresta was a bizarre break from the typical Sicilian landscape – instead of flat, dry, rocky expanses, we climbed a mountain into lush forests.  Cacti gave way to tall leafy trees, with wildflowers abundant.  I took a mental note that a Floresta agriturismo should probably be called upon soon to provide a welcome escape  from Sicily’s harsh summer heat.

As dusk crept upon us, we looped around Etna’s Northeastern side and down the Eastern perimeter to Zafferana Etnea, the location of Rachel’s horse ranch. 

Sunday dinner is a big family ordeal here in Sicily, and many of Rachel and Bella’s family members were gathered at the ranch for what Bella described in a text as “traditional Sicilian pizza.”  I was picturing another delicious encounter with stone-fired pizzas, but what we found was an entirely new gluttonous glory altogether: closed pizzas cooked in oil.  Essentially, deep-fried, cheese-filled calzones.  Hel-lo!

(Smoke in the air muddled this pic of IMMA toasting bruscetta bread on the grill.)

 

 

 

In addition to the “pizzas,” we enjoyed grilled chicken and veal, fresh bruscetta, fruit salad, and strawberries so sweet they made me want to dance and sing.  This fabulous feast lasted well into the night, ending with us waving goodbye and shouting “Ciao!” and “Buona notta!” around midnight with straining waistbands and a heaping plate of leftover pizzas to enjoy the next day.