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.

Turns out that my Italian is so bad, it takes around 5 minutes for me to realize my car radio is on "scan"

Two quick updates!

Remember the picture of the cassatella (ahem, "boob cake") from Allow the Marching Band Plenty of Room as They Parade Through the Inter-mall Grocery Store?  Well, my friend, Moretti, saw my blog and helpfully informed me: "'Rosolio' is a Rose Liquor that is sometimes used to make the Catanese sweet Cassatelle di S. Agata (those cakes that resemble boobs).  This mixed with the dough gives a bit of a greenish color."  The more you know... (cue NBC's PSA music)

Perhaps you recall my mentioning of local/homemade wine sold in what appear to be recycled(?) water bottles, from the entry "Where the sun don't shine" and Other Phrases That Don't Apply in Europe.   I thought you might enjoy a visual.

Found in Translation

Our Italian phrase book’s “menu decoder” did not prepare us for British pub fare written in Italian.  Fortunately the phrase book did include such questions as, “What do you recommend?” and “What is your favorite dish?” so since we were lucky enough to be at a large table surrounded by new Italian friends, butchered phrases read from the book + pointing at the menu resulted in a delicious meal.

Perhaps you remember the “American-size Me” blog entry from April 25 about meals (and copious shots) at the Spaghetti House?  Well, during one of our multiple dining experiences at said Spaghetti House, Dinosaur and I became friends with Bella and her boyfriend, Italian Male Model/Actor (IMMA).  Bella studied English in school and can still communicate in English fairly well, but would like to improve; I want to improve my Italian.  This fact, combined with Bella and IMMA’s overall cheer and likability, presented the idea to Bella and I to exchange numbers.

Being that I was too chicken to contact such a new friend, and having no idea what I would say to her or invite her to do, I was ecstatic when I first received a text from Bella.  She texts me in English, probably because she knows that her English, no matter how limited, is waaay better than my Italian.  Even so, deciphering her texts can be an amusing challenge. 

(Sidebar:  I would hate for Bella or anyone else reading this blog to think that I am in any way poking fun at Bella’s English.  I love that she’s reached out to me, and we’ve made a pact that in three years when I have to leave, she will be speaking perfect English and I will be speaking perfect Italian.  That being said, I’d like to share a recent text exchange so that you may get a truer feel for the amount of humor and humility that is involved in our friendship…

Bella: “Hi erin the 2 june is party we will be rachel horses. You thing it and say me tomorrow if you come with we.  Ok?  Good night kiss”

Me, in Italian…I think this is what I wrote but it was probably even more ridiculous: “Tomorrow [Dinosaur] will work but I like go!”

I think I misspelled the Italian word for “work,” and I haven’t heard back from Bella yet, so the poor girl’s probably been scratching her head and wondering how to reply all day.

Additionally, during one of Bella’s and my rare phone conversations, in which Italian and English are flung hap hazardously together in an attempt at mutual understanding, Bella had invited Dinosaur and I to go horseback riding.  I had to decline unfortunately, because we had birthday plans for a friend the same evening.  However, “someone riding a horse” is a common slide throughout Rosetta Stone, so I thought that was telling Bella in Italian that I would like to ride horses, even though I couldn’t go that particular time.  When I later proudly recounted this conversation to a Sicilian girl that works at our hotel, she informed me, much to her amusement, that I had announced to Bella simply that “I like to ride.”  I’m hoping Bella did not interpret this statement with the same euphemism as our hotel staff.)

But I digress.  Bella recently invited Dinosaur and I to join her, IMMA, and a group of their friends for dinner at a British Brew Pub up the coast.  Dinosaur and I spent most of the evening smiling and nodding, with the occasional response when someone realized that they knew how to ask something in English (usually “Where are you from?” or the like) and our occasional chatter when we realized the same of our Italian vocabulary, but the experience of it all was supremely unique and intriguing. 

Armed with our trusty phrase book, and slowly but surely, a blossoming knowledge of the Italian language, Dinosaur and I look forward to strengthening ties with Bella and IMMA, as well as fostering relationships will other locals.  I can only hope that one day a text of mine, in fractured Italian, will appear lovingly on an Italian friend’s blog.

Fun with my camera's stitch assist!  Taormina coliseum

"Just walkin' these goats through town..."

Church dome, mosaic'ed cafe table, cool lamp, sunset, and a volcano emerging in the sunset, no big deal.

Taormina's Piazza Duomo fountain at night

15 Types of Antipasto, Pasta, Fish, Meat & Veg, Dessert, Fruit, and Bottomless Local Red Wine

Now that I'm sobering up, I can't believe I went swimming in that cloudy, debri-laden water.  But, my judgments shrouded by the fog of a post lunch nap, a lunch that included heaps of pasta and bruscetta, two bottles of Nero d'Avela (Sicilian red wine) and a bottle of Prosecco (Italian bubbly wine) shared between four people, the pool at Vecchia Masseria seemed like a great idea.

Vecchia Masseria is an agriturismo - a strand of part-farm, part bed&breakfast, part resort (*A brief history from About.com: “Starting in the 1950s and continuing through the 1970s, small scale farming in Italy became less profitable, and, as one might predict, farmers abandoned many farms to search for work in larger towns. But Italians value highly the traditions and produce of small scale production of food, and by 1985 a law defined Agriturismo, and many abandoned buildings and estates were restored, some for vacation homes, and many for agritourismo. These agritourismi allowed the small farmer to augment the income from the farm, and for vacationers to sample the bounty of a rural life in Italy.”)  So here I sit, sipping water next to a cool, refreshing pool (despite formerly mentioned short comings), hydrating away this afternoon's wines as I prepare for the delicious onslaught of dinner.

An agriturismo must produce a certain percentage of its own food, so they are nearly guaranteed to be located on a large swath of land, putting them away from the hustle and bustle of nearby cities.  Vacationers come to them for good food and a chance to relax.  This Memorial Day weekend, Dinosaur and I, along with our friends, Boston and CrossFit, sought out this agriturismo for a one-night getaway that included adventure (in the form of a 2-hour four-wheeler excursion), food and wine (mostly local, a delicious tease of which we experienced at lunch and the coup d’état that we will experience at dinner [described in today's title]), and indulgent relaxation (swimming in the pool, napping during the day, and overall enjoying an entire day free of agenda).

Did you click on the website link for Vecchia Messaria?  This place really is as nice as it looks, possibly even nicer.   The receptionist speaks respectable English, though Dinosaur and I are priding ourselves with increased Italian communication abilities.

On that note, the process of learning a new language, really learning it, is fascinating.  At first vocabulary is memorized and laboriously cataloged in consciously sub-conscious files, but everything read or spoken or heard must first be mentally translated.  But I began to realize recently that some Italian words have taken on meaning.  When I think "cane," I picture a cane, I don't have to first tell myself "dog." The process has been, and continues to be tedious and at times frustrating, but like any other venture worth chasing, the small accomplishments along the way encourage me to keep on trucking.

Our guide, Luigi (not even kidding), followed by CrossFit & Boston.

CrossFit getting his meditation on at 950 meters.

Delicious, earthy mushrooms (I was the only one at the table that liked these).

Mmm! - stuffed peppers.  The closest flavor to "Mexican" that I've had since being here.

Beans.

Pork tripe and fava beans.  I ate it!

Feeding the resident horses of the agriturismo.

I want one.

And for good measure, an ostrich.

Yes.  All day.  With wine.

Gorgeous surroundings for eating and relaxing.

The Home Search Continues and Indoc is Kinda Boring

Those of you who know Dinosaur might be familiar with his List of Life Goals – a lengthy handwritten list that is always in his wallet, and additionally, the catalyst of our relationship-spawning conversation.  This list was started back when Dinosaur was in high school, and items worthy of such a lofty title as Life Goal have been added occasionally ever since.  A new goal has not been added in quite some time…until yesterday:  Big, awesome, wood-burning brick pizza oven. 

This epiphany was brought about while we were at the home of an Italian (a “local national”) who works in Dinosaur’s department.  Most of this man’s home (and amazing kitchen) was built with his own hands, and the quality craftsmanship was evident.  Even more evident, as we walked into his kitchen, was the unusually intense heat I felt to my back.  I turned around and was greeted by a blast in the face of hot air and the shocking view, through a brick-lined opening in the wall, of a big, bright fire, glowing orange and crackling from inside a picturesque stone oven. 

I’m going to go ahead and pause here to apologize for not having pictures of this.  Somehow we left the hotel without camera, iPhone, or any other picture-taking advice.  I assure you, readers, that this will not happen again.

Against the wall adjacent to the blazing oven was a large table laden with a rainbow array of pizza toppings and a mountainous bowl of freshly shredded cheese.  Our host poured us a glass of wine and we chatted away in “Englitalian” as the idyllic scene around us continued to bustle…

Wood was added to the already blazing fire until the stones inside the oven were white-hot.  At that point, the flames were pushed to one side of the cavernous oven and the cleared stones were swept clean of ash and debris.  Then the Italian ladies jumped into action – pizza dough was slapped down and flattened, sauce was ladled and evenly spread, cheese was sprinkled, and toppings applied.  Our host then transferred the pizzas from the table to the oven using a long-handled extra-large spatula-looking tool.  From there, it was a skilled dance of turning the pizzas, shifting them, checking for uniform done-ness, removing cooked pizzas, and adding new ones.  It only took about 2-3 minutes for a pizza to cook, and these ladies were churning them out at top speed, so the oven master had his hands full. 

It was wondrous to watch, and even more glorious to eat.  The homemade dough was freshly made that day, the toppings purchased at the market and prepared that day as well.  And the pizza – literally straight from the hot stones to the table.  Amazing.  I don’t know what was more difficult – waiting for the pizza to cool enough before gobbling it up, or trying to decide what combination of gourmet toppings to try from the ever-growing cornucopia of pizzas that were steadily covering the table.

Dinosaur and I are looking forward to finding a place to live, and when we do, we’ll surely have these lovely local nationals over to our place for a good old American BBQ of steaks, ribs, burgers, and dogs.  And you never know – perhaps “obtain a big, awesome charcoal grill” will be added to an Italian’s List of Life Goals.

Just your run of the mill neighborhood volcano, spewing smoke.

Approaching our Sicilian countryside village

Fun with reflections

Rocky coast of lava rocks, fishermen, and the Isli di Cyclopi: after Odysseus escapes from the cyclops Polyphemus (who Odysseus blinded), Polyphemus threw giant rocks into the water after him.

Adventures of the Cutest Little Red Handmade Pottery Porcupine

Less than an hour’s drive through gorgeous Sicilian countryside found Dinosaur and I in Caltagirone, a hill-top village famous for it's many churches and copious pottery, as well as the famous 142-step staircase in the middle of town.  Most of the churches there are old, old Catholic cathedrals with the usual frescoed interiors and slightly disconcerting displays of the remains of saints and whatnot.  One church that we ducked into, however, seemed to be of a different denomination, and that day, it was filled with displays from missionary trips.  Also inside were three or four elderly women behind a table set  with crafts and knick-knacks for sale. 

The ladies greeted us cheerfully upon our entry and asked [in Italian] if we spoke Italian.  I answered, "Poco," ("a little"), and a particularly small and elderly woman enthusiastically dove into, from what I could gather, an explanation of what the ladies were doing that day.  I was able to understand that they were raising money for their missions, mainly an upcoming trip to Tanzania to help sick kids.  When I turned to Dinosaur and "translated" what I thought she'd said (not because I assumed that I’d understood her better than he would, but more so to see if he’d gleaned the same tidbits as I), this sweetheart of an old lady became quite visibly excited because I "understood" her and energetically led Chris and I around the church and the displays from their missions, delightfully rattling on and on about what we were viewing.  I could rarely understand what she was trying to tell us, but I was so touched by her enthusiasm that I couldn’t help but follow her around smiling and nodding, “Si, si.” 

And I’m glad I did.  If I’d gotten shy and said that I didn’t speak Italian and then walked away, I would have missed out on a valuable listening experience.  You see, during most interactions that we've had with Italians thus far, they either switch right to English or if they don't speak English, they kind of give up talking to us when they realize that we don't speak Italian (can’t blame them).  But this lady was happy just to talk and talk and talk, and it was a refreshing change.  I was able to test my ear and see how much I could decipher.  And since she was just showing us around the church (rather than, say, trying to give us directions), it wasn't of any consequence if I didn't understand a word.  But I did understand a bit, and that made me supremely happy.  This lovely old lady didn't even know what a gift she gave me, allowing me to just listen to someone speak to me in Italian without getting frustrated or switching to English.

I bought a set of pot holders and a picture of the town's famous staircase lit up by lanterns, both as a thank-you to the ladies and to commemorate the experience with our elderly friend.  Dinosaur and I are having fun seeing tourist-y stuff here in Sicily, and I’m sure we’ll go on our fair share of guided tours, but these accidental encounters while we’re out exploring on our own are the makings of what will no doubt be our most treasured memories of Italy.

The famous 142-step Caltagirone staircase, inlaid with ceramic tiles.

View from the top of the stairs.

I heart palm trees.

The church pictured above.

So, apparently at least some of the plants get changed out every day - interesting concept.

"Where the sun don't shine" and other phrases that don't apply in Europe

I bought a purple frying pan at the open air market.  No miming was involved.  The ensuing eggs and bacon have been delicious.

You’re not completely settled into a new country until your bowels are settled.  I’m not aiming to get crass here to obtain a cheap laugh; it’s just the damn truth.  You can be sleeping peacefully, eating at the right times, exercising daily, and otherwise feel completely normal, but until those bowel movements are settled into a natural rhythm, you’re going to feel like a stranger in a strange land. 

Most shops in our current little village carry homemade bread in paper sacks, homemade wine in reused plastic water bottles, and homemade vinegar in similar recycled-looking bottles.  Today I was on a mission to find some olive oil, and I got it in my head that I’d find sketchy-looking-to-an-American-yet-undeniably-alluring homemade olive oil in equally reused-looking bottles stacked in a dim corner of a small shop.  I have no doubt that such items do indeed exist, however, in the first shop that I tried, they did not.  Upon my broken-Italian inquiry, the helpful English-speaking shopkeeper presented me with a commercially labeled bottle of olive oil, similar in appearance to something I would buy in the US.  I thanked him, but said I was looking for homemade olive oil, and I gestured toward the heaps of rustic bread and wine that in the US would be described as “bootleg.”  As I began to turn away, the gears in my head slowly realized that all the olive oil I bought in the US was imported from Italy.  I’m in Italy.  All of the olive oil that I find, if not homemade, is going to be local, in some sense at least.  As if the shopkeeper could read this epiphany forming in my head, he again presented the bottle of olive oil to me and pointed out on the label that it is made in the next village over, literally 2 miles away.  I bought it.  It is delicious.

First-hand Sicilian cooking tip:  When preparing eggplant, slice it, salt it, and let it sit in a colander for about 30-45 minutes.  Then rinse and dry with a paper towel before cooking.  This takes away some of the bitterness and helps prevent mushy eggplant.

First-hand Sicilian open-air market shopping tips:  1) When trying on shoes made in Asia, go up one size.  2) Italian-made clothing is better quality [than Asian] and therefore is worth paying a little more.  3)  Always be sure to wash clothes bought at the market before wearing them.

While walking back toward the hotel today after picking up the aforementioned olive oil and some produce, I ran into a friend who works at the hotel.  He and I ducked into a café for a quick espresso and he got to talking to the 80-year-old man behind the counter (literally - he’s 80. He told us).  The sprite old man tapped my lettuce and said that he would bring me better lettuce from his garden.  And that he would bring my friend and I some eggs from his chickens.  I had never met this man before, nor had my friend, and their conversation lasted no more than five minutes.  That’s just how it is.  The gentleman insisted that my friend and I be back at his café around the same time day after tomorrow.  At this point, it doesn’t even matter if the man remembers the eggs and lettuce or not.  My friend and I will go back for another espresso and, holding no expectations, will no doubt another lovely conversation with the warm old man.

Please forgive today’s scattered entry.  It seems my concentration is directly linked to my intestines, and alas I am still but a stranger in a strange land.  Until next time – arrivederci.  And remember to use plenty of sun block.