A Return to Americana and a Time for Thanks

Dinosaur and I have lived in Sicily for nearly seven months now.  Upon first arrival, the culture shock was a relentless bombardment.  In the beginning, every move required extra thought – thirst was followed by grabbing a bottle of water rather than turning on the tap (not that the water here isn’t potable, it’s just hard and mineral-y); hunger meant a language-strained trip to either a bar (which serves a type of fast food, not just drinks) or a restaurant; driving took extra courage; walking on the tiny sidewalks (if any) took even more guts.  The learning curve was nearly vertical, and I often felt like an infant, interacting with the world for the first time.  I spent most of my time in the beginning wandering through town, attempting to shop, learning Italian, and hanging out with Dinosaur in the evenings and on the weekends.  I had little reason to go to base, so my exposure to other Americans was limited.

But seven months have passed.  Dinosaur and I have made numerous American friends, but the number of our Italian friends remains at Bella and IMMA, as well as the Italians who work at the hotel where we first stayed (but that hardly even counts, since they speak flawless English).  I’m on base nearly every day now, whether to workout at the gym or use the internet (since we still do not have it at our house and it is beginning to look like we never will).  Though I still buy my produce, eggs, and bread exclusively out in town, I am guilty of purchasing the remainder of my grocery needs at the commissary on base (and why wouldn’t I? – they’re cheaper than out in town and they’re brands that I know and love).  With my recent adoption of an adorable Sicilian mutt puppy, Fluffy Bear, I spend even more time on base, since walking the dog on the narrow, busy Sicilian streets is dangerous and stressful, and there are few fenced sports fields outside of base in which to let Fluffy Bear run free.

The progression from culture shock to settling in is a curious one.  It is easy to become comfortable in my habitual ways.  I am at a point where the new and shocking everyday experiences are few and far between.  I must push myself constantly to seek out new challenges and continue to explore and learn about my host country. 

I believe I’m in a not-so-uncommon cultural dip.  Revelations and discoveries must be sought, as well as experiences outside my comfort zone.  And that is why I wanted to share this with you, readers.  I have shared with you times of joy and moments of embarrassment, moments of wonder and times of frustration.  I wanted to also share with you this new development where I find myself shifting back into the habits of a typical, comfortable American life.  I have loved sharing my Italian adventures with you thus far, and I cherish your comments and encouragement.  I suppose what I am saying is that in this week of Thanksgiving, I am thankful for you - the friends who read my blog and join me in this journey.  I am thankful that this blog nudges me to continue seeking out new experiences, allowing me to make the most of my time in Italy.  Thank you, friends.  Let us continue on with the journey!

Da Bears! - British version

Neither Dinosaur or I had ever been to a professional football game before seeing one in…London.  A little strange for two Americans to get their first taste of live NFL action that way, but no complaints here. 

From what I gathered, there is just one official American football game in London each year.  That means that all fans of American football who are in the area attend the game, regardless of the allegiance of the fans to the teams playing.  Again, I’ve never attended an NFL game in America, but I assume that at those events, if the Bears were playing the Buccaneers, the majority of jerseys that you would see fans wearing would be either Bears jerseys or Buccs jerseys.  Not so in London.  If you’re an NFL fan in Britain, you have but one chance per year to let your pride show, so you throw on that NFL jersey, no matter what team it represents or whether or not that player’s name on your back is even still on that team’s roster.  As we made our way from the Tube to the stadium, the rainbow of jersey colors and spectrum of teams represented was astounding.  

The Buccaneers were the “home” team (is that just a bizarre American sport occurrence – to designate one team the “home” team, regardless of how far both teams actually are from their homes?), so the stands were filled with Buccaneers penants.  And because most of the British NFL fans filling the stadium held no allegiance toward either team that was actually playing, most seemed stoked to score a free NFL souvenir and waved the penants furiously.  Not that the stadium filled from top to bottom with waving Buccs penants actually helped that team in the game’s outcome (go Bears!).

The GooGoo Dolls played a few songs as the opening act.  That was entertaining.  And also funny that an American band was brought over to London to open.

Both the American and British national anthems were sung.

Looking around the stands (which were quite full), hardly a woman could be found.  Is this typical of an NFL game in America?  I can imagine that it is, but still, hardly to the extent that I witnessed in London.  I would hesitate to bet that even 10% of the audience was female.  I definitely felt…outnumbered.

The people sitting near us in the stands were very friendly.  The row of people behind us held retiree-aged Bears fans from Scotland.  To my right were five college-aged friends from Ireland who make a yearly journey to London for the NFL game.  Each of the five boys wore a different NFL jersey.  I was able to chat (well, yell) with the nearest three, to glean the stories of how they chose “their” teams.  Steelers jersey, sitting next to me:  “I used to have hair like Polamalu’s.”  Patriots jersey, who had been sipping Smirnoff Ices throughout the entire game:  “I’m in love with Tom Brady.”  Bengals jersey:  “My cat looks like Garfield.”  Beyond Bengals, the two others were sporting Broncos and Buccaneers.  I didn’t catch their stories, but Steelers fan sitting next to me shrugged and stated in his thick Irish accent, “We play a lot of Madden.”

Continuing on in thick Irish speak, Steelers fan entertained me throughout the game with his incredulity at the cheerleaders:  “What on earth are they doing??”  “Can you imagine, if in the middle of a rugby game, a bunch of girls in bikinis ran onto the field??  There’d be utter madness!”  “Not that I’m complaining…”  “Do you reckon they’re cold?”  “Who pays for them??”  “I like this sport.  All I need is the sport.  When did Americans get so bored with sport that they had to bring in girls in bikinis??”  “Who are these women?!?”  “Again, not that I’m complaining…”

Dinosaur and I enjoyed the easy Bears win, high-fiving the Scottish retirees behind us after touchdowns.  We sipped beers and munched on crispy chicken and chips (thick British French fries, not potato chips).  (I’ll admit, I was hoping for a warm, hand-held meat pie, a la Aussie footy games, but no such luck.)  We braved the crowded Tube and managed to maneuver back to our hotel.  All in all, our first NFL experience, though unconventional, was a thoroughly delightful one.

Hold the Clotted Cream

Some of you may not be aware, as I was not, that the NFL sends two teams to London once a year to play a regular season game there.  Luckily for Bears-crazy Dinosaur, this year those two teams were the Bears and the Buccaneers.  Two short flights from Sicily, Dinosaur and I found ourselves in foggy London town.

It must be noted that London/British related songs and movie quotes encompassed my mind for the entirety of our trip.  The far most prevalent were “The Worst Pies In London” from Sweeney Todd, “Feed the Birds” from Mary Poppins, and the entire script of Love Actually.

London is in a different time zone than Sicily; we gained one hour in travel.  Though our cell phones picked up service from a British carrier, I chose to keep mine in airplane mode to avoid roaming charges.  Dinosaur turned his on sporadically for map/internet uses.  Our first night, I used my cell phone as the alarm clock that roused us early for a full day of sight-seeing.  At 7:00am, my cell phone chimed us awake and we went about our morning routines.  About a half an hour later, while making myself a cup of tea, I clicked Dinosaur’s cell phone to check the time.  It was 6:37am.  A full day of sight-seeing, indeed.

The London Underground (“The Tube”) is awesome.  SO easy to get around to exactly where you want to go.

Our first Tube stop was Big Ben and Parliament.  Big Ben was my favorite sight in London.  It’s just so idealic.  And it was fun to look at Parliament from the nearby bridge over the Thames and picture Sherlock Holmes diving out of a Parliament window (aw, there’s another movie that occupied my brain while in London).  After snapping some pictures and simply gazing around, Dinosaur and I wondered if it was time to line up for Westminster Abbey.  We both automatically pulled out our cell phones to check the time.  While standing under Big Ben.  Which is a big clock.

Westminster Abbey is impressive.  Both Dinosaur and I were expecting a big church, a la St. Paul’s cathedral.  In actuality, it struck us as less of a church and more of a giant tomb, teaming with dead kings, queens, poets, and other notable historical figures.  I enjoyed seeing the graves of Geoffrey Chaucer and Charles Darwin.

The changing of the guard was perhaps slightly overrated, but iconic nonetheless.  Seeing the Beefeaters ride in was worth the crowd.

The pub fare of London was most definitely NOT overrated!  I could not wait to enjoy a pie and a pint, and I was not disappointed.  Dinosaur munched on fish and chips while I feasted on a venison pie.  We sampled four pints between us – a house Porter, ESB, Golden Pride, and Bengal Lancer IPA.  YUM!!

After our pub lunch, Dinosaur and I wandered through the Burough Market, which is a foodie’s dream come true.  I chased down my pie and pints with a cup of goats milk ice cream – raisin rum.  Surprisingly scrumptious!

The London Bridge is grand, though perhaps a bit garishly painted in white with bright blue trim.  Then I had “London Bridge is Falling Down” in my head.

For dinner, we ate at a cute sit-down restaurant, and it became abundantly clear to me that I am better able to communicate with Italian servers in Italian than I can with British servers speaking English.  The Queen’s English and American English might as well be foreign languages.  Thank goodness we’re not stationed in Britain; I’d starve.

Our restaurant was close to Fleet Street, and I had just recently watched Johnny Depp’s Sweeney Todd, so despite the cold and blustery wind, Dinosaur and I took an after dinner stroll.  There was a barber shop, but it was down a side alley, so it was not called The Fleet Street Barber or anything similar.  Adding to my disappointment, there was no pie shop to be found.  But in reality, I suppose a pie shop modeled after one in a movie that served unknowing customers cannibalistic meat pies might not be the wisest business model.

I’ll tell you next week all about seeing an American football game in Britain.

Dolci Gratis?

Ah, Halloween.  There comes an age in everyone’s lives when, despite the constant variable of costumes, the gastronomical association turns more toward libations than candy.  For Dinosaur and I, that time began with the commencement of college and has continued on through to the present.  Post college life, in the U.S., Dinosaur and I have always lived in apartment complexes not frequented by trick-or-treaters.  If we really thought about it, we would acknowledge that trick-or-treating happened, but it was not something that we witnessed or paid any mind. 

Here in Italy, it seems that most Italians know about Halloween, but only as an American holiday.  I knew that trick-or-treating was going to happen on October 31 at the base housing complex, but since we live off base, Halloween all but slipped from my mind once dinner was on the stove.

Then our buzzer rang.  When Dinosaur and I aren’t expecting anyone, the buzzer ringing is generally cause for nerves and unease.  Not because we live in a bad neighborhood or anything; quite the opposite, actually.  We live in a pleasant, friendly neighborhood, at the top of a very long, steep driveway, at the bottom of which is the gate where callers buzz the house.  When the buzzer rings, we can pick up a telephone and talk to the person at the bottom of the driveway, but 90% if the time, that person is Italian and solely Italian-speaking.  Hope as we might for a successful verbal interaction, Dinosaur’s or my response to whatever was spoken to us is inevitably, “Mi dispiaci, un momento” (“I’m sorry, one moment”), flip-flops thrown on, keys snatched, iPad grabbed, and then there’s the long trudge to the bottom of the driveway to see if a face-to-face interaction can be any more successful.

On Monday night, when I answered the buzzer phone, I heard kids on the other end, but couldn’t understand what they were saying (no surprise there).  My initial reaction was that kids were playing with our buzzer, and I didn’t want to bother putting shoes on and walking all the way down the driveway in the cold to tell them to go away.  (It should be noted though, that this scenario I fabricated in my mind has never actually happened, and since we have very nice neighbors who seem to collectively raise the few kids in the neighborhood, I cannot imagine that any of the kids would ever get away with randomly ringing our bell for fun.)  I hung up the phone, but the buzzer rang again within seconds.  “Well crap,” I figured, “I’d better just go see what’s up.” 

I pulled on a sweatshirt, shuffled into some sandals, grabbed my keys, and headed outside.  No sooner was I off the porch than I looked down the drive and saw two kids in masks outside our gate.  Trick-or-treaters!!  The first I’ve seen in over ten years!  Brightening considerably, I laughed out loud and waved my hands in a gesture that I hoped told the kids I would be right back.  As I did, I heard our neighbors’ peals of laughter from their third floor terrace.  I knew immediately that the kids at my driveway must be Jessica and a friend, and their parents were no doubt gathered together, enjoying dinner and the entertainment of whether or not the Americans would indeed pull through with free treats if kids rang their doorbell in costume.

I ran back into the house, mind racing – alas, I knew I didn’t have any candy!  Dinosaur and I love candy, and we usually have a bag of fun-sized something-or-other in the pantry, but not that day.  Fortunately, Dinosaur has a soft spot for individually-wrapped breakfasts, so I grabbed two Little Debbie coffee cakes and headed back out. 

I opened the automatic gate and the two kids met me halfway up the drive.  I noted with delight that they were wearing identical Scream masks and normal clothes.  I didn’t see the requisite grocery bags or pillow cases in their hands, so I figured I’d just hand them the cakes.  To my even greater delight though, the kids tentatively raised teeny tiny little girl’s purses to me, held open to receive their treats.  I pressed the cakes inside, and if it was not clear before, it quickly became obvious that this was our neighbor kids’ first trick-or-treating experience.  One girl pulled off her mask, revealing, as I had guessed, my vocal neighbor, Jessica.  The other girl pulled off her mask too, and I didn’t recognize her, so I assume it was a friend.  Jessica gave me the usual Italian dual-cheek kisses, and then the three of us stood there for an awkward second.  I said “Happy Halloween!” and the girls looked at me quizzically.  Jessica asked me something in Italian, and I cocked my head to the side before answering, “…si.”  (Surely her inquiry was some sort of rhetorical question in which “yes” was an appropriate answer, right?)  The girls smiled, shrugged, waved, and headed away down the driveway.  The parents cheered.

Before There is Wine, There are Grapes

Dinosaur and Boston and I got to partake in the coolest experience the other weekend: Grape Harvesting!  A co-worker of Dinosaur's told us about a friend of his, WineMan, who knows a small-scale vintner.  This vintner produces commercially sold wine, but on such a small scale, that he does not hire “professional” pickers.  He instead invites over a bunch of friends to pick (and munch on) grapes, and then everyone enjoys a homemade feast and plenty of vino.  We were more than happy to help out!

The day began early, with Boston and I sipping cappuccinos on the drive up to the East side of Etna.  We met up with WineMan at a café in one of the quaint little towns on Etna.  I enjoyed an additional espresso, Dinosaur, Boston, and I munched on mouth-watering pastries, and WineMan…was that a shot of grappa that he just ordered?  It’s not yet 8:00am.  Oh well, no judgment here!  After chatting to some folks in the café that WineMan knew, the four of us made our way out to our vehicles and our party of three followed WineMan’s car to the vineyard, a bit further up Mt. Etna.

Upon arriving at the vineyard, we were merrily welcomed by Pepe, the owner.  We briefly ducked inside the farmhouse, where WineMan asked us if we’d like to sample some of Pepe’s homemade grappa.  Uh, say what..?  Yes, grappa.  8:30am grappa.  Well, when in Rome!  Pepe offered us all generous Dixie cups of the golden liquid, and it was bottoms up, throats on fire, here we go!  I don’t know if it was the multiple doses of espresso coursing through my veins, or the early morning fire water, but I was ready to pick some grapes – wooo!

The barrel of homemade grappa.  You see the corrosion down the wall underneath the spout, right??

The process was pretty simple.  We were each given a pair of clippers, told to pick any and all grapes (“Even the bunches that have withered, dried grapes at the bottom?”  “Si, si, tutte le uve!”), and given buckets to fill with the purple and gold orbs.  When our buckets were full, we emptied them into crates at the end of the rows.  When we found especially plump grapes, we were invited to stop and munch on as many as we wanted.

This particular vineyard boasted some very old vines – some were 60, 70, even 80 years old!  I had no idea grape vines could live that long.  The age of the vines hints that the resulting wine will have its own unique flavor:  first, because these grape vines are so old, the vineyard might contain strands of grapes that have become rare and possibly exclusive to this vineyard; second, because the planting theory was different eight decades ago, the vineyard contains mixed species of grapes – reds and whites all mixed in next to each other.  When harvesting, we threw all the grapes into the crates indiscriminately, and they will all go into the same wine.  Many newer and larger commercial vineyards will plant exclusively one type of grape, to help ensure a uniform wine from one season to the next.

The harvesting of the grapes didn’t take too long, and it was relatively easy work.  We were moving at a leisurely pace, of course.  I’ve heard from a friend who has worked as a day laborer picking grapes that the speed at which you’re expected to pick when you’re getting paid is exponentially increased.

After all the vines were picked clean, we made our way up to the shed where the grapes were crushed and the wine would sit while fermenting.

Pepe tends to the grape-squishing machine.  The grapes are poured in the top, and then the stems are separated and spit out in a pile (in the foreground).

Grapes are poured into the squishing machine (no, sadly I did not get to stomp on the grapes with bare feet).

 After that – feast time!  We enjoyed an amazing Italian spread of salamis, cheeses, bread, chickpea soup, grilled vegetables, grilled meats, sausages, cakes and cookies, and wine, wine, wine!

It was a wonderful, and dreamily authentic Sicilian, way to spend a Sunday.  If you ever come across a 2011 bottle of Feudo Arcuria, snatch it up!  You’ll be sipping the fruits of my labor.

I'M a cat??

With regular studying, my Italian is coming along swimmingly.  Swimmingly enough to order food like a pro and purchase vegetables and even meat at the markets, but not enough to really communicate well with the neighbors.  Therefore, I have wizened up enough to tuck the iPad (equipped with its translator app) under my arm each time I head out to interact with the neighbors.  Jessica, our young neighbor girl, loves the iPad.  She has readily accepted this tool as our way of communicating, and therefore there are now no holds barred when she wants to talk to me. 

The other day, she saw me outside on the patio shaking out a rug and hollered over to me.   (Our villa is up on a hill, our front yard shoots steeply downhill, the road is at the bottom, and on the other side of the road, Jessica’s third floor balcony is at the same height as our porch, albeit 200 yards away.  The girl can yell loudly.)  Since I was already outside, I trekked on down our long driveway empty handed.  Once through our gate, Jessica began rattling to me in Italian, and the only word I could pick out was “gatto” (cat).  Jessica had seen Fat Cat the day before, when I’d borrowed her mother’s iron and she came over to help me set it up.  So I assumed that she was referring to Fat Cat.  Concentrating as hard as I could, and trying not to be distracted by Jessica’s adorable habit of talking progressively louder and more animatedly the longer I fail to understand, I thought I picked up that she was saying she saw a cat.  Which worried me because Fat Cat is an old, pudgy, slow, docile cat that spends his days inside and would not cut it in an interaction with a scrappy Italian alley cat.  Did he wander outside while I was cleaning, and is Jessica saying she saw him?

I asked her in Italian, “You see a cat?” 
“Si!” 
“My cat??”

At this, she squealed with laughter while shaking her head, and I realized I had just said, “I’m a cat??”  So I figure, ah hell, I’d better run all the way back up the hill to the house and grab the iPad.  I did this, and in the house, I was relieved to see Fat Cat lounging in his usual spot on the couch, so then I was especially curious about what Jessica wanted to tell me.  

That, however, will remain a mystery to us all.  I returned to Jessica with the iPad open to the translator app, but the thing about the translator app is that it cannot guess at what you’re trying to translate.  If the spelling and grammar are not spot on, both parties attempting communication are still left in the dark.  And a young school-age girl who most likely speaks the Sicilian dialect at home with her family cannot be expected to flawlessly type out her thoughts in Italian onto a magic iPad machine precariously balanced in one hand while she is standing in the middle of a street.  

So.  It was time to forget the iPad and instead play the game of “put myself in her shoes.”  Why would Jessica call me over and talk about seeing a cat if my cat was inside the whole time?  Maybe she wants to come over and pet my cat!  I typed “would you like to come see my cat?” into the iPad, and while it seemed that this was a new idea to her (and not originally what she had in mind), she enthusiastically agreed.  Together we hiked up the steep driveway, into the villa, where Fat Cat eyed us curiously.  Jessica exclaimed, as most people do, how incredibly large Fat Cat is.  I laughed and agreed; Fat Cat is at least double the size of any Italian street cat Jessica’s probably ever seen.  I walked right up to Fat Cat and petted him, inviting Jessica closer, but Jessica stayed back, looking wary.  Uh-oh, I thought.  I typed in the iPad, asking if she’s allergic to cats.  She typed back, no, but she’s scared that the cat will scratch her.  (Fat Cat, during all this, hasn’t so much as lifted his head.)  Well, I thought to myself, if Jessica is afraid of cats, then coming up to see him certainly isn’t what she originally wanted.  So now what?  This poor young girl and I stood awkwardly in my dining room for a few seconds, and I started to feel like the creepy neighbor who coerces children into her home.  Must.fix.the.situation!  I decided that in the least, the best thing to do was go back outside.  Once there, I realized that our vast yard, lush with vegetation, is probably pretty cool to a kid, so I invited Jessica to come with me to see our orange trees.  I mentally congratulated myself on my quick thinking in defusing the awkward moment, and we began to chatter to each other, somewhat conversing, as she complimented me on our large, beautiful yard, and I attempted to let her know that she can come over and pick oranges when they’re ripe.

As we walked back toward the front yard, she said that she’d go now, and I bid her goodbye, still somewhat curious about her original intentions, but feeling confident about her visit and our strengthened neighborly bond.  

I got back to my cleaning, but about thirty minutes later, our bell rang, and I headed down to the gate.  Jessica and her older brother, who is probably 14 or 15, were standing there.  Jessica said something, and the only words I caught were “brother” and “cat.”  Maybe I have an insecurity complex about my grotesque cat, but I immediately assumed that Jessica had gone home and told her brother that our cat is the biggest, fattest cat that she’s ever seen ever, and that he absolutely has to see it.  Which is fine with me.  I guess there are worse things the neighbor kids could associate us with than a circus-freak humungous cat.  So, chuckling to myself, I warmly invited them up to the house.  

When we were all inside, I gestured toward Fat Cat (who had not moved from his original location), and Jessica’s brother reacted with the usual shocked response of raised eyebrows and exclamations of Fat Cat’s size.  But then he gestured toward the iPad, and after he typed, I read that he came over to apologize for Jessica bothering me earlier.  Oh no!  I type, she wasn’t bothering me at all!  You guys can come over and visit me any time.  He thanked me, and they left.  I’m left scratching my head, thinking back on the events of the afternoon and how they must have seemed to the other parties involved:

Jessica sees me outside and calls me down to talk to her. 
I don’t understand her, but I invite her up to my house.
Rather than offer her something to eat or drink, I immediately invite her to pet my cat.
She is afraid of cats, and probably regrets coming up to my house.
I show her my yard, and maybe her visit is redeemed.
Upon return to her house, her brother probably scolded her for bothering the American woman, and made her come with him to apologize to me.
This American woman greets them with a big, clueless smile and invites them up to her house.
Once again, as soon as the two are through the door, the American woman rushes over to her cat and enthusiastically invites them to do the same.
The brother acknowledges the cat, and apologizes to the American woman for his sister – mission accomplished, time to go home.

Oh my.  We’re the crazy American cat-obsessed neighbors.  I’m not sure any amount of orange-picking parties can fully erase that memorable first impression.  I can hear it now – for the next three years, any time a neighbor comes up to our house for any reason, Jessica and her brother will laugh and ask them, “I bet she showed you her cat, didn’t she??”

If a Fist Bump is Good Enough for the Obamas...

Aaa - Italian manners fail. I came home a few minutes ago to find a maintenance guy doing some work at our house. When I went to say hello and shake his hand, he extended the back of his wrist to my extended hand because he was wearing greasy work gloves. I felt that brief freak-out flash of "there's something I've learned I'm supposed to do in this situation!!" but the freak-out part of my brain froze all thinking. My reflex was to bump the back of my wrist against his, like an awkward fist bump. Naturally, as soon as the moment passed, it hit me: I learned in indoc class that an Italian will always want to be polite and shake your hand, but if his hand is dirty, he will extend the back of his wrist instead; I was supposed to grasp and shake his wrist as if it was his hand. (Would you have thought of that?? You would have wrist-bumped too, right??)

The crazy annoying thing is that in Indoc, I was the student to whom the instructor extended his wrist to teach the proper response. I know better! The guy is still working outside, and I'm inside unable to let go of my faux pas. I want to run out there and have a do-over; show him that I'm not a gauche American, I'm a cool, Italian-knowledgable American!

But since it's also dawning on me that when I thought I was asking him if he'd like some water, I actually said, "I want water?" (no wonder he looked at me so oddly before declining), I think I'll just stay inside and begin patching and reinforcing my dignity in preparation for my next awkward Italian encounter.  There will always be a next awkward encounter.  And that's ok, because nestled between the painfully awkward moments are moments of blissful break-through and gratifying communication.  Some very smart people have taught me that you only get better by finding the very end of your comfort zone and then taking another step.

My Pet Volcano

I love Mt. Etna.  Not in an intellectual, geological way, like the fascination my younger brother would hold for Mt. Etna.  Not in a cult-ish "I-worship-the-volcano-god" kind of way.  It's just that the huge, looming natural structure is so...cool.  I love to drive around the area and, on a clear day, see the intricacies of the mountain standing stoically in the distance.  The feeling that I get is that the mountain is somehow comforting to me.  I can't really describe why.  I regard it in a loving sense, like it's my big, lazy pet.  Wait...I think we found the connection.  Is it that Mt. Etna - large, brooding, sedentary - reminds me in a bizarre way of my pet cat??  Perhaps.

I can view just the very tip of Etna from my house.  A few weeks ago, I was lucky enough to wake up early and see lava spewing from the summit.  How cool is that?!  (Luckily the pet volcano/pet cat parallel didn't follow suit, and there were no violent, messy eruptions from Fat Cat that day.)

Dinosaur and I decided to venture up on Mt. Etna, one recent weekend.  Visitors to the mountain are able to drive up to a certain altitude where dormant craters can be viewed and climbed.  From there, if you'd like to go higher, you must ride a ski lift (yes, there is skiing on Mt. Etna during the winter), and then take a van ride closer (but not too close) to the active craters.

View of a lower, dormant crater and the parking lot from the top of another dormant crater.

Venturing up to and along the rims of the lower craters was no easy task.  The only ground cover is a homogenous mixture of small lava rocks, lava pebbles, lava sand, and course ash.  Climbing up the steep crater walls was a thigh-burning effort of one foot gained, 6 inches lost, with frequent stops to empty the lava scree from our shoes.

The vans trails are marked with poles, since ash fall is an everyday occurrence and the roads disappear daily.

Tourists gather round a steaming crater.

View of the vans, and beyond them, the active craters of Etna that Dinosaur and I view from our villa (which are inaccessible to tourists).

It was nice to get to know my pet volcano better. He's not particularly cuddly, but he's nice to look at and good for a bit of visual entertainment. I think I'll keep him around.