I am not trying to make a habit of being late with this, as it may appear. As of last Thursday, i was walking home, dazed after a 12hour train ride from the island of Sicily.
From where i left you, I was on the other side of midterms and on the other side of the halfway mark of my trip. Both lines have now been crossed, and while i am eager for things ahead, i wish i had the ability to press pause and stop for a moment. I feel sometimes as though i am chasing the days, trying to catch them all at once in a jar. As of today, i have less than half of my time left and if that isnt shocking to you, it sure is to me.
I left for Sicily on the evening of the 23 and spent 12 hours not sleeping on the train. Once arrivng in Catania, we manuvered busy unrelenting streets of traffic and after asking as many sources as possible to find a bus to our B&B, many of which were contradictory, we eventually were on a bus, up Mt. Etna. I would like to especially point out that about halfway there the bus slowed and evetually came to an unexpected stop. Instictly i leaned forward in my seat to see what was the reason. A herd of about sixty old world sheep, long haired and horned were being guided across the street by a shepard and a pair of snippy slinking dogs. Once they had passed and even the stubborn noncomplying members of the flock had been convinced across the street, the busdriver causually put the bus back into drice and continued on his way. Our trip was further detoured when he decided on several occassion to stop in various towns for espresso or a sandwhich and left his passangers in the quarters of the vechical like waiting dogs. We realized a stop too late we had passed our destination and jumped off the bus at the next stop, alone on the side of a mountain. We laughed at the mistake and headed down the road, being narrowly missed by passing vechicals on the sharp edges of the road, dropping into the hills. We found our B&B and very pleased with its adorable rooms and view of ioanic sea from the balcony, unpacked and cleaned up standing on the heated floors of the bathroom and dried off with towels off the heated towel rack. These measure were true royalties after cold hostel floors and crispy bleached sheets taht are often supplied by board on other excursions. We spent the evening out to eat in the small town and i feel asleep easily after my 24 hours awake.
Awaking to the sound of clattering dishes, I dressed and wandered out in the hall meet by a cheerful room full of food for breakfast. It would be a lie to deny that the pastry i had may have changed my life forever. With help from Patrica the women who owns the BB with her husband we made phone calls to the top of Mt. Etna to decide if it was advisable to mount the climb that day. We were discouraged to do in the poor weather and decided to see Catania instead that day. In the city we found a food market like nothing i have ever seen. Fresh fish flew back and forth, vendors yelled at the top of their lungs to one another and to customers of their low prices. Live canaries, octupus, fruit in every conceivable variety, pig faces and the esteemed heads of swardfish were avalibale for purchase. Old women pushed their way to the best fruit and the noise and clamor of the comerce could be heard a full five blocks away. We were tolerated by the locals, but just barely. Sicilians are Sicilians, and they know it. The guy who took a liking to me on the ferryboat the train must board to advacne over the water that seperates Sicily from the rest of Italy told me, as we gazed over the water that Sicilians can live in Northern Italy, but the rest of Italy can not dwell in Sicily. They do not understand the mafioso, and are not at ease with its existance as the Sicilians are.
After the market, we strolled the streets to the elephant fountain, up the hill to a monastery. Avery eventually sat and painted in the square as i spent the rest of the time wandering myself. I made a very humerous exchange in a electronic shop when my ipod headphones shorted out, full of hand gestures wild and enthused enough to keep up with the locals.
We made our way back to Nicolosi and headed back to the resturant for some more Sicilian pizza. While it was wonderful it did not compete with the aranche that i had devoured at lunch. This dish of rice and meat fried into a pearsized ball, Salvo, the guy from the ferry boat, noted with a smile and a twinke of pride you will only find it there.
The next morning with determination we insisted that we wanted to go up Etna to our hosts who looked at us with wonder but non the less dropped us off at the bus stop in town, the first i have been in a car since i left America, and the 2 minute drive barely counts. In mockery to our hurry to be there on time, as there is only a lone bus that goes up each morning, it arrived 45 minutes late. Eventually it arrived and climbing the slope, Etna continued to amaze us with gorgeous panaramic views asnd her lava remained, slopped onto the slopes, now dark and deserted of any life. The fields of lava went as far as one could see, broken only by slashes of trees that were not initailly covered. Once we arrived on the summit, we boarded jeeps that headed up further. In the mist and fog and blowing wind we followed a guide to several craters. While it was freezing cold, digging only a few feet into the rock would find stones almost too hot to hold. We eventually went back down to a resturant and spent the day clammering around and dogging in and out of shops that have been built on the hub of the bus stop to keep warm.. There was only one bus up and one bus down, and we could not miss it. Thankfully, this one came at its scheduled time. After 2hours we were dropped at the train station and Avery and I felt the relief of a trip done successfully. That is until we found ourselves at the designated platform, full of yelling Italians. Through strained listening and the help of Sicilains who endulged us with broken English we learned that we needed to catch a bus to a different station, 2 hours away to get on a train to Florence, on the other side of Italy. We had made our assertive moves of finding out just in time and grabbed our bags and ran to the bus, encouraged by handsome train station workers. A large flood and mudslide had caused the rails to not work, and this bus was used to shuttle us to a workable port. Finally arriving at the next station, something we hadnt even imagined we would have to do, we waited and waited for the train to board. We stood for an hour as it was prepared, and ourselves and the other passangers grew quite restless and irritated at the delay. Eventually amongst the yelling and grumbling of the rest of the passangers we finally collasped in a cabin of the train. It wasnt the sleeper we had paid for but at that point memories of Florence were making us more than ready to reach her again. Salvo showed us how the seats reclined, and after taking in the glistening sea with him and making pained exchanges, his english bad and my italian worse I fell asleep as the train chugged its way across the countryside. I awoke to a full morning moon looking down on Roman ruins out the window.
Finally the train slowed, its breaks squeaked and we stopped in sweet Florence. My bag flung over my shoulder i walked home in the early morning light, the shops opening slowly and sleepily, the thick doors opening like a yawn. I got home, but too antsy to sleep i decided to check out a flea market that occurs only on the last Sunday of each month i had joted down questioning on my calendar. It was fantastic. I gazed over gasmasks and helmets from WWI, along with oilpaintings and old Venician vases all cluttering tables. Sparkling necklaces hung from hooks, catching the morning light and Florentines dug through piles of sweaters and scarves. Antique photographs littered countertops and books, some looking like manuscripts blew open in the wind. I made one well picked purchase, a unique silver necklace, with tearshaped pearl beads from an old man and women who wrapped it delicatly and handed it to me with a "thank you" in an thick italian accent, returned by my ''prego'' delivered with american dialect.
I searched out a painted fresco afterwards in one of our many churches here and the experience was one of a loud reminder that i am indeed in Italy. Ducking into the church, the deafening noise of the street was deadened. The ceilings were high, and the walls thick, and the echoing noise of my footsteps were all that could be heard. Candles light in front of each chapel danced in the wake of my passing. Glancing out the open door of the church i could see bustling shoppers, and i knew that just down the road are shops of such designers as Prada and Gucci. A mix of old and new. An acceptance of both. Bikes swerved in and out of buses and teenagers walked past the door clutching McDonalds bags.
Florence loves both. Its bustling city, but defends its heroic past as well. The birth of Opera, gelato and the independant mind. Dante was a Florentine. So was the poet Pietro. Americo Vespucci. Galileo Galilei. Leonardo DaVinci. We were the capital of Italy. We defended ourselves from being taken by others, and nearly died because of our beliefs. The Italian language was based off of our dialect. The Renissance of man, his independant mind and the things he could create, the things he could think about and the thoughts that could carry him to the heavens were allowed here for the first time since the Roman empire and we escaped the dark ages and the thumb of the Christian church that oppressed the autarchic mind and a higherarchy of classes. We made the art that the masses marvel at, we supplied the knowledge of medicine to the masses, we thought reading was a good idea and questioned the world. Of course, I am becoming biased, but everytime i leave Florence to see more of Italy i am always anxious for my return, even after just a few days. This does strike me as distressing because in 46 days i will leave. wow. and then...what will i do?
-Corrie
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