We’re Not in Virginia Anymore, Dinosaur.

We have a house!  It’s roomy and yet cozy, antique but remodeled, secluded and yet within walking distance of cafes, shops, and restaurants.  The expansive garden contains – get this - a petite citrus orchard.  In a word, it’s pretty great.  We signed the lease last week and our things were delivered shortly thereafter.  And after over 60 days of living in a hotel room, surely our lives are about to get easier…?

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The thing about renting a living space in Italy is that you are literally just renting the space, encompassed by four walls and entered through a door.  There are no closets.  None.  Not one_single_closet.  And when Italians move, they take with them everything  - and I’m talking the kitchen sink.  Literally.  They’ve bought their own, and therefore take with them when they go: kitchen sink, kitchen counters, cabinets, cupboards, fridge, oven, hood system, microwave, etc.  With the rented space, there is no washer, no dryer, no window fixings, no carpets, no wardrobes, no hooks, hangers, or racks.  I think they occasionally leave light fixtures.  And perhaps a crumb that is even too small for a mouse.

So before we even begin to unpack what looks like an indoor paintball course of stacked brown boxes, we must attempt to visualize all our belongings, then go out and try to find storage structures – wardrobes, cupboards, hutches, cabinets – that we estimate will be the perfect size in which to fit our belongings.  Alternately, we could unpack and unwrap all of our stuff in order to better calculate our storage needs, but then we’d be left with daunting piles of commingled belongings, a la Wall-E-esque towers of things. 

IKEA is a great place for purchasing what were before unnecessary and un-contemplated pieces of storage furniture that replace the concept of closets.  But upon return from IKEA, all the new storage structures require assembling.  Now which of these stacks of identical brown boxes contains our tools…?

OK, forget the unpacking of boxes and assembling of hutches; I’m hungry.  And luckily, I still have my hard won frying pan from when we were staying in the hotel.   I bought eggs (unrefrigerated, of course) from the corner store, so I’m in business for a fried egg.  ---  But wait, why won’t the gas stove freaking light?!  Ok, I turned the gas valve under the sink to the “open” position.  I checked the valves on the side of the house (there are four of them), and they’re all open too.  We just had a gas truck deliver 400 liters of natural gas to the external tank sitting in our yard, so I know we have gas.  Oh, maybe the delivery guy closed something while he was delivering the gas, and I need to go open it…

Nope.  I checked all three gas valves attached to the tank, and they too are in the open position.  Maybe there’s a switch outside that I didn’t see.  Or perhaps one of these humming metal boxes attached to the side of the house that are bedazzled with an array of switches must be flipped on.  And maybe something has to warm up for a few minutes.  I just want an egg, for pete’s sake, c’mon!

The difference between American homes and appliances and their Italian counterparts is that American abodes assume most of the control.  For the majority of American appliances, there is an on/off button, and that’s really about it.  If the on/off button doesn’t work, we call the repairman.  Now, Italian appliances within Italian homes present the user with much greater responsibility.  There are valves (often multiple ones) that must be opened and then closed when the task is complete.  Things need to be switched on outdoors and then allowed to warm up before other things indoors can function properly.  There are reset buttons.   There is the constant concern that running too many appliances at once will overload the system, causing power to go out either for a section of the house or the entire place.  And when that happens, there are outdoor circuits to switch and more reset buttons to uncover and push.  The Italian way isn’t bad per say, it’s just much more user-dependant.  Almost like a scavenger hunt every time you want to boil some water or run the AC.  And while I love a good scavenger hunt, this user isn’t accustomed to the pressure of such responsibility!  Yet, that is.

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Alright then, no worries.  I called the landlord’s super friendly and somewhat English-speaking sister, and she came over to help me.  With her boyfriend.  And two workmen.  Who weren’t there related to the gas issue; they were there to fiddle with some other things and now our AC will be controlled differently.  Like, two switches have to be flipped inside the house and then a switch on each AC unit (there are four) instead of one switch outside.  That’s cool, whatever makes the cold air blow.   Ah, then the landlord showed up too.  Spontaneous party at the villa!  I wished I could offer them some espresso, but – mi dispiaci – the oven won’t turn on.  Oh yes! – the oven.  Turns out there’s a reset button hidden under a big metal bolt-looking thing outside with the valves that has to be unscrewed before the button can be pushed, and this has to be reset from time to time.  What causes it to have to be reset?  Um…ah, you know…things.

We have a dish washer, which will be wonderful since I love to cook and I hate to wash dishes.  It’s European made, but despite that, when the dishwasher is running, nothing else can be running.  Not the AC, the washer or dryer, the microwave, or especially a hair dryer.  If so, the power goes out in the entire villa.  This happened twice already.  And then once again last night when the dishwasher wasn’t running, so we still don’t know what caused it that time.  But I was in the shower.  Our bathroom is very dark.

Momma mia, I digress.  These hutches aren’t going to put themselves together.  But really, they can wait.  It’s time to hit the reset button on the gas, open the gas valve under the sink, light the flame, make some stovetop espresso, and then stroll through my lovely little citrus grove and remind myself that I am in beautiful, ever-sunny, lovely Sicily.  No, we’re not in Virginia anymore, Dinosaur, but this place is pretty great too.

Check out our big domed ceilings!

And antique tiled floors!

 

Notes on Vehicular Activity

Recently while driving my compact Honda Fit with a Sicilian friend in my passenger seat, I had to execute a [not-unusual] hair-raising merge from a full stop (the on-ramp was questionably if not specifically designed to prevent the usual moving acceleration-to-merge and instead tested drivers’ ability to simultaneously pray and discover the zero-to-sixty ability of their cars).   I waited for a window in the traffic zipping by (due to the variance of speeds driven, you can never quite tell if the window is sufficient, hence the praying), floored my gas pedal, and away we went.  My engine roared and I chuckled to myself at my little car’s short-man complex:  it seems to need to roar extraneously while increasing its speed at merely an acceptable pace.   My friend made an appreciative sound and said in all earnest (and thick Sicilian accent), “Ah nice.  Like Ferrari.” 

Uh yeah, sure…my Honda Fit is juuuust like a Ferrari, haha.   ;D

I had remarked in an earlier blog entry that driving here is a whole new experience, seemingly without rules.  And (before my Fit made its way across the ocean), while driving our European rental car, which was calibrated in kilometers per hour, I didn’t really know how fast I was ever going.  But now my car is here.  My lovely little Honda Fit was dwarfed by every other vehicle on the road in America, but here it is in constant peril of having its side mirrors decapitated.  Anyway, my car tells me how fast I’m going in miles per hour.  Turns out that the left lane of the autostrada (the interstate) travels at a flow between 90-100mph.  So that’s why driving seemed so slow during our visit to the States.  Ah, ahem, it also turns out that my darling Honda Fit isn’t nearly as fuel efficient while barreling at autostrada velocities…

I may have also previously mentioned that our neighborhood volcano, Mt. Etna, constantly Christians us with a light sprinkling of ash from its ever smoking summit.  Virginia folks, recall that one week during Spring when yellow pollen coats every outdoor surface and turns your car a putrid hue.  It’s like that all the time here.  Except not yellow, fortunately.  Everyone’s cars are in a constant state of that I-just-went-4-wheeling-on-a-dusty-country-road look.  Not many people have garages though (us included), so we’re all in it together, and I choose to think that the ash gives everything a quaint “antique” look.  Here’s the thing though – this dusty coating, it’s not dirt, it’s ash.  Our cars are relentlessly coated in microscopic rock shards.  So we have to be careful to thoroughly rinse the windshields before running the wipers or we’ll scratch the glass (hmm – “frosted” windshields; could be pretty, if dangerous).  And no one dares write “Wash Me” (or what have you) with their fingers on their friend’s cars, lest they scrape the words or images into the paint permanently.  Unless that’s what they’re going for.

Turns out my car’s gas tank holds about 35 liters.  Good to know. 

Vespas and scooters and motorbikes are everywhere here.  Talk about no rules of the road - those guys do whatever they want.  It’s insane.  To me.  There must be some code of conduct, but for the life of me, I can’t figure it out.  It’s got to be something the Italian’s are brought up to understand; something that as a foreigner, I’ll never fully catch on to.  So while I’ll occasionally let myself feel the thrill of the left autostrada lane, I’m going to go ahead and miss out on the European scooter experience.  I’ll take my Ferrari, er, Honda any day.

Un Momento, Per Favore

Readers, I apologize for the gap between entries. I currently have no internet access, save an iPad. The situation is projected to be remedied within the week. Keep an eye out for a new entry soon!

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.