Sicily

We bounce across Sicily, staying in Palermo, San Leone, and Catania. Here are the moments that stand out:

Cappucino

The barista and I face off across the counter.

It is a tense moment. He is a burly man with large, hairy arms, thick eyebrows and a severe expression. He knows that I am American, that my Italian is limited, and that I do not understand how to properly order or consume a cappucino.

I am determined, however, to learn.

'Vorrei un cappacino, per piecere.'

He grunts, then launches into Italian at a clip far too fast to understand, gesticulating wildly, his voice raised. The rant ends with the word "cappucino", and I nod. 'Si. Un cappecino, per piacere.' He throws his hands into the air and turns his back to me as he operates the cappucino machine.

There is an uncomfortable tension while he prepares the cappucino, so I momentarily step outside to the outdoor seating, where there are tables under large green awnings with Heinekin logos. These awnings seem to be everywhere in Sicily; it is as if Heinekin had a huge garage sale, Sicily showed up, and after some negotiation, Heinekin sold them 100,000 awnings for a euro. I sit at a table and listen to a group of women chattering in Italian at a nearby table.

Before I can get up to go back in, the barrista comes out with the cappucino on a tray and sets it in front of me. I am amazed. This, I decide, may have been what he was ranting about - perhaps I'm supposed to go sit down, and not wait at the counter. I thank him, and he grunts.

I visit the barrista every day that we are in Palermo.

The Streets of Palermo

It has been the plan all along that we would rent a car and drive across Sicily, from Palermo to Catania. That plan changes during the cab ride from the airport to the hotel in Palermo. It is night, and the cabbie drifts across lanes, drives twice the speed limit and pays absolutely no attention to stop signs. There are scooters everywhere - Vespas - and they are fearless. During the daylight hours I see them passing between cars with less than six inches of clearance on either side while chatting on their cell phones. At night they scream down the street, often in packs, as fast as the little engines will go.

In short, there is no way that I'm going to drive in Sicily.

I tend to arise early, and our first morning in Palermo, Lisa sends me out to scout out a place for coffee. I comply happily, anxious to explore. The streets of Palermo are a sharp contrast to the streets of Barcelona. There is garbage and clutter scattered along the sidewalks. Also, the people park on the sidewalks, so walking along the street means that you are often in the street to get around the haphazardly placed vehicles.

Then there are the vendors. They show up early in vehicles that are functionally pickup trucks, and set up shop along the street and on the sidewalks. The big sellers are fish and flowers. The flower stands strike me as a bit comical, because invariably, it is big, burly men that sell them, and they walk in the street, a bouquet of flowers in hand, calling out to the passing cars. Imagine Mike Tyson selling lingerie, and you'll get the idea.

The fish vendors neatly place their fish upon piles of ice, but fortunately, unlike the flower vendors, they do not walk in the streets holding out, say, a raw squid, calling out to the passing cars.

Sicilian Food

As Sicily is an island, there is plenty of seafood. There are also a lot of pastries and pizza. And coffee, either as espresso or cappucino. And beer and wine. The Sicilians are big on sweets, especially ice cream. There are ice cream parlors (gelaterias) everywhere, and they serve both ice cream and alcohol in roughly equal quantities. The adults drink, the children have ice cream. It seems to be a family favorite.

Much of the seafood is served raw. One particular night, in a single antipasto, I consume octopus, squid, a raw oyster, raw stuffed salmon, and two other types of raw fish. The raw salmon, to my amazement, is delicious, probably due to a wonderful sauce that covers it. It becomes clear to me that sushi will no longer be a challenge.

After three nights, we leave Palermo for San Leone. The hotel talks us into hiring a private car for the two hour drive, which provides breathtaking view of hills covered with vineyards and olive trees with mountains in the background. As I watch vistas pass by, I am filled with a burning question: Is the barrista going to miss me?

San Leone

Our second stop in Sicily is Agrigento, or to be more precise, San Leone, just outside of Agrigento, by the Meditteranean Sea. It is an upscale neighborhood, and our hotel is about 100 yards (okay, fine, meters) from the beach. Lisa and I fall in love with this town; she points to various houses as we walk along the streets, saying,'No, no, that will be our retirement home.' We are on the move all day, and have dinner and drinks at seaside bars in the evenings.

It is here, during our stay in Agrigento, that we visit the Valley of the Temples. The temples are supposed to be the best-preserved Greek ruins in the world. It is the first of many ruins that Lisa and I will visit during our time in Italy. We walk all afternoon, taking photo after photo. We drift apart at several of the temples to sit quietly, taking in the beauty and the history.

Our last day in San Leone, we take the bus to the old district of Agrigento. Once we descend from the bus, we become completely lost. I use a map and my sense of direction to lead us to the edge of the city. The wrong edge of the city. I walk into a building that is under constrution and talk to a couple of the men working there, and they point out, on my map, just how far off course we are. We turn and walk about a mile uphill, back to the center of the city, to where the bus dropped us off. There are two women nearby, chatting, that look friendly. I approach them for directions.

'I am sorry,' says the older of the two women, 'but we are Morrocan. We are from Morroco. We do not know the city.'

'Morrocan.' I repeat, thinking of the woman on the flight to Madrid.

'Yes, from Morroco.' She looks up at me and adds, 'You must come visit.'

Lisa takes over navigation, and we promptly arrive in the historic section of Agrigento. The streets are steep and winding, and the buildings are ancient. We walk up dozens of flights of stone stairs. It is here, in old Agrigento, that we accidentally stumble across the Spirito Santo, which is advertised as one of the most beautiful medieval churches in Europe.

When I say we stumble across it accidentally, what I mean specifically, is that Lisa needs to find a restroom, and we are hundreds of flights of stone stairs from the nearest public facility. We see Spirito Santo, and throw ourselves at the mercy of the church. There is a man in the office at the entrance, and he tells us that the church is closed for renovations, so only the courtyard is open to the public. I explain that my wife needs to use the restroom. He looks at her, then at me, and relents, giving me directions to the bathroom, which is in the area of renovation. Chivalry is not dead in Agrigento.

There are men carrying out buckets of stone and concrete at the renovation site, and they look at us with concern and curiosity as we pass into the restricted zone. The bathroom is on the second floor, and Lisa ascends as I wait on the landing of the stairs.

And it is here, on the landing of the stairs, that I am struck by the simply beauty of the church. The walls are constructed of large blocks. There are stone busts lined up along the walls. There is natural light coming through a small window across from me. Apart from the sounds of renovation, there is silence. I am filled with a sense of calm, of tranquility, of sanctity. When Lisa rejoins me on the steps, we wander as much of the church as we can.

The sense of peace continues as long as we are on the church grounds. We will see many holy places during our time in Italy, including St. Peter's basilica and the Sistene Chapel, but in no place am I moved as much as I am here, at Spirito Santo.

Catania

Our time in Catania can be summed up in one word: Rain. We have only a single night here, and we will arrive late and leave early. There are black beaches, formed by volcanic rock, and Mount Etna, the largest active volcano in Europe. There are beautiful Greek outdoor theatres to be viewed.

We see none of it.

What we do discover at the hotel in Catania, however, is as beautiful as all of the sights we have missed: cafe americano. For the first time since leaving the states, we have real, honest-to-God coffee.

And then we are gone, on a plane bound for Roma.