8 June to 14 June

When I was in Sicily, during my college years, I don’t recall if I’d made it to Palermo. I’d thrown out the journal I’d kept then-too many growing pains to relive while I was still living them. But the Palermo I saw now wouldn’t be familiar anyway.

La Kalsa, a neighborhood so impoverished that Mother Theresa set up a mission there, now has swanky restaurants and wine bars. Other neighborhoods have followed suit. Poverty has not been eradicated, but like the mafia, hard-fought battles to dissolve it have been won.

The assassinations of magistrates Giovanni Falcone and Paolo Borsellino in 1992, among countless others, by the mafia, who were the focus of their efforts, stirred the people of Palermo, supported by its mayor, into protests and fighting back. It marked the beginning of the end of the mafia’s seemingly invincible power. Memorials of the mafia’s victims are seen throughout Palermo and Sicily. The mafia remains a potent interest amongst tourists. But the residents, except those selling “The Godfather” tee-shirts, seemingly prefer to honor the fallen while leaving their painful past behind.

The difficulties residents face, like unemployment, are not readily apparent. Markets are bustling, cafes are busy, groups of men and women-rarely together-chat contentedly in public.

And the arts are thriving. This year Palermo is hosting the European biennial of contemporary art and was chosen as the Italian Capital of Culture 2018.

Palermo’s renaissance does justice to its beauty, promise, and people.

14 May to 8 June

My decision to visit Stromboli was soley based upon a friend’s notion. I knew nothing of it, except as a title from a film, nor of the other Aeolian Islands. It did not take long to become so entranced that I ventured to visit all seven of the inhabited islands.

The Aeolian Islands:

Stromboli (more photos in previous post) captured my heart with its extraordinary geography and beauty.

Lipari: I chose to rent a house out-of-town with the intention of having a car. However the car rental offered no insurance, and although I was assured “the worst you will get is a few scratches, there is little traffic, and everyone drives slowly”-I saw little evidence of that claim. I opted to rely on the buses and occasional hitch-hiking (the island is small enough to feel secure.) I went on several hikes, lived in an area with only locals, explored the towns and ports, people watched, and used Lipari as a base to visit Vulcano and Panarea.

Panarea: Only here for the day to circumnavigate the island. It is the “posh” island and smallest at 3.5 sq. kms, but its rocky hills and fierce sun made the hike challenging.  Swimming in the sea and eating peach “granita” was a perfect end to my visit.

Vulcano: Another day trip to hike to the live volcano’s crater. The sulfur smells hit you when you embark on the island.

Filicuidi: Yet another day trip. This time to visit an ancient settlement.

Alicudi: There are no roads, just stone paths, and little water on the island. I recycled my washing and shower water to flush the toilet and water the plants during my six-day stay. (I stood in a large washtub for showering and transferred the water into pails.) It’s a great way to become conscious of ones daily water consumption. Mules are used for transporting goods. Electricity came only fifteen years ago. To get anywhere requires tackling steep inclines, but the tranquillity was incomparable. Of all the islands Stromboli and Alicuidi stole my heart.

Salina: The last island I stayed on before returning to Milazzo in Sicily. It is the largest and greenest and Pollara at sunset offered spectacular views.

It was a tough decision to leave the islands, but the high tourist season was arriving and with it a notable change to the ambience.

I made plans to spend six days in Palermo before renting a car to explore Sicily.

11 to 24 May (Naples, Milazzo, Stromboli, Ginostra)

STROMBOLI, Stromboli
Approaching the island of Stromboli by hydrofoil, I saw only a volcano jutting out of the sea with a blackened, scarred swathe running down its side.(I’d learn later this barren strip was called the Road of Fire).It seemed unimaginable that people lived here.

Arriving on Stromboli seemed surreal. I was picked up in a golf-cart, most of the roads are too narrow for cars and taken to my home. A convenient misunderstanding on the owners part led me to find somewhere else for the other four nights. It turned out to be a much nicer place at half the price.

Resources on Stromboli are scarce. In the past, rainwater was gathered in cisterns, but the increased population made that no longer viable. Today, the running water in homes arrives by ship from the mainland-drinking water is bottled-and almost all of the food as well.

Wandering along the black beach, I was rewarded with a stunning sunset.

I quickly learned Stomboli was pronounced “STROMboli” and not “stromBOli.”

Day trippers, in full hiking gear, make up a good part of the tourists and are easily spotted walking the main street looking for last minute provisions before trekking with a required guide to the active volcano’s crater. Each evening, around 5pm, a hundred or more tourists donning hiking boots, hiking pants, high tech tee shirts, walking poles, daypacks with fastened hardhats waited in the main, and only plaza, for their guides to lead them to the top. It is still low season.

Sharing a path with them for a short while I was pleased to leave their noisy chatter behind.

The small island had several hikes I could do without a guide below the 400 meter mark. One path, leading to a lookout point, was abundant with wildflowers blooming in various hues of pink, purple, and yellow. The sea changed her mien with the light. And the chatter of birds punctuated the silence. I ran into few other hikers. It was only at the end when twenty people or so gathered for the view of Stromboli at sunset. Spurts of black smoke signaled an eruption.

(I’d noticed many signs throughout town indicating meeting points in case of a major eruption or tsunami, but I saw no evidence of emergency evacuation ships or means to head quickly for higher ground. My thought was, “We gather together and then what?” My inquiries led to one long-time resident shrugging her shoulders. Another gave a similar response.)

Walking back along an unlit path, I stopped, turned off my headlight and gazed up at the blanket of stars.

Hiking up to the crater en masse did not entice me, but I knew I’d regret not going.

The next evening, at 5pm, I was one of a hundred or so donning hiking gear and a hardhat. I borrowed a bamboo walking stick for the three hour ascent and two hour descent, packed water, a sandwich, snacks, headlamp, and warmer clothing-all required. Groups were limited to twenty. Fortunately, and surprisingly, my group enjoyed the silence and only spoke occasionally. The guide set a very slow pace reminding us that the ascent and descent were steep and conserving our energy was important.

The twenty we began with soon became seventeen. The hike, for some, was too difficult. One of the men I would see later in tears from dissappointment. His buddy had carried on.

It was a challenging hike, particularly the last section where the path was narrow and particularly steep. Fortunately my previous hikes had adequately prepared me. Arriving on top, looking down into the lava spewing crater with the sun setting into the sea was breathtaking. The natural fireworks with sound effects were spectacular. I did my best to downplay all this to the man who didn’t make it.

In the five days I spent on the “busy” side of the island, in the town of Stromboli, I took walks through the town and along the sea observing the various activities and view of Strombolicchio.

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GINOSTRA, Stromboli

I spent five days in Ginostra, the “primitive” side of the island. Where most people will tell you, “there is nothing to do.” There are no roads connecting the two towns. Only mules and small mechanized vehicles are used there. One gets to each side by boat or ferry.

Like Stromboli, most visit Ginostra for the day. I’d booked a small home with a large terrace with a view of the sea. Mimmo who lived next door invited me to pick lemons from his trees, mint from his garden and take water from his cistern-one of the few that remain. I headed over to Graziella and Enzo’s to buy fresh eggs. They were tiried after preparing pounds of tuna for consumption and sale. Graziella showed me her caper plant-heavily relied on in cooking, her garden, newly hatched chicks, goats, and told me tales of her beloved Rottweiler who dued a few years ago.

I spent time enjoying the tranquillity, reading, strolling, chatting with the residents and walking in the evening to see the sun set near the Sciara del Fuoco. I found plenty to do in Ginostra.

Side note:
When I left New York March 2017 for my odyssey, I’d thought it appropriate to bring Joyce’s Ulysses with me, a book I’d been wanting to read for years. For various reasons I chose Hugo’s Les Miserables and Darwin’s Voyage of the Beagle instead. And there on the shelf of my home in Ginostra was the book, Ulysses. Getting a chance to start this book was enticing, but I knew I’d never finish it in five days. I got up the nerve to ask the owner if I could buy/take it. The book in pristine condition, bought twenty plus years before, had no signs of being read. The owner graciously gave it to me free of charge. It’s a challenging read at times, but my serendipitous acquisition was clearly meant to be.

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PROLOGUE:  Arriving to Stromboli from Naples via Milazzo

I left Procida to spend another two nights in Naples. I had missed the tour of the Naples underground: a system of tunnels constructed roughly 2500 years ago, by the Greeks, to carry water and used for that purpose through the 1880’s. It was then closed, due to a cholera epidemic, emptied, and abandoned. Heavy bombings in WWII brought it new purpose. Lying 40 meters below the city and running for roughly 250 miles, it provided shelter for thousands of residents. Later it was used as a dumping site. Abandoned again for decades it was cleaned out and opened for visitors. Graffiti and some furniture from the war years remain.

 

 

28 April to 11 May

I took a boat directly from Capri to the Amalfi Coast(Positano) with the intention of continuing afterwards, due south to Sicily. But thoughts of both Herculaneum, in Ercolano(which I’ve mentioned briefly, and included a few photos of, in the previous post) and Procida, which I’d bypassed, nagged at me.

Although I’d visited Pompeii decades before, Herculaneum was said to be even more impressive- smaller, but exceeding the quality of its more famous counterpart. Pompeii’s greatest treasures were showcased in Naples’ National Museum, which I had already visited with great pleasure, but many of Herculaneum’s remained on-site. And Procida was a tiny island reportedly relatively untouched by tourists and time. The thought of having to back-track north was annoying, but missing either of them seemed more so. Thus, from Cetera I took a boat to Salerno, and from there a train north to Ercolano. 

Google maps indicated a bus stop, nearby the Ercolano train station, for a bus which would take me steps from where I had booked a room for two nights. After walking the wrong direction from the station, then retracing my steps, I found the bus stop and sought shade in the nearby entrance to an apartment building. A few minutes later a young woman came and sat down on the steps next to me. She was smoking a cigarette and having an argument with the person with whom she was speaking on the phone. Her free hand gestulated in rhythm with her words and the harshness of her voice and the cigarette smoke forced me back into the scorching sun.

Vans used as shared taxis drove by. The bus was already ten minutes behind schedule. I assumed it would arrive soon. After waiting another fifteen minutes, this young woman still in animated conversation, flagged a van down. I took the opportunity to ask if it was going to my intended bus stop as well. The driver said yes. Despite the little space available, the other passengers, all women, genially made room for me and my bags. The young woman took a seat in the far back and continued her rant. Her cigarette had been flung away upon entry.

It didn’t take long before one of the women asked where I was from. My travel attire sadly screams “tourist.” Another woman, who spoke some English, was delighted to use the words she knew. Despite my request, it was becoming clear that the driver was not going where I’d hoped. Discussion amongst the passengers and driver ensued to find the best compromise. Ten minutes later I was let off on a main street with directions in both English and Italian. The women wished me well and I thanked them for their kindness. The walk was further than I had hoped, given the heat, but manageable.

I was nearing the correct address when I heard my name being called. I looked up. There was a woman standing four flights up on a balcony. She buzzed me in and met me downstairs. There was no elevator and helped me carry my bags. She asked me if I was carrying a man in there. I sheepishly admitted to the bottle of divine olive oil, salt-direct from the Malta salt-pans I’d visited the month before, and the pepper mill with whole peppercorns-none of which I wanted to part with and stubbornly carried around, but not the books, creams, clothing, shoes, and other items that made up the bulk of the weight. She had posted an ad in TripAdvisor for a room in her apartment, walking distance to the archeological site. She called herself an expert in art history. It was an attractive offer for a short stay.

I barely had time to put my bags down, before Graziella, my host, was showing me the art work around her apartment and discussing in detail and at length, each artist whom she knew personally. She then handed me several books opened to the pages where I could see the articles she had written. After a polite perusal, I asked her where the bathroom was.

While on Capri I learned of both Procida and Ischia: two islands just off the coast of Naples. Procida being both nearer and smaller and Ischia, a haven for mostly German tourists seeking its natural spas. Procida, “relatively untouched by tourism and time” had greater appeal, but I’d been initially dissuaded from visiting it given its size and dense population. Having experienced the heavily trafficked, extremely narrow roads of Capri which I could avoid, I feared this island would offer no such refuge. Yet, it continued to intrigue me.

I took a packed commuter train from Ercolano back to Naples direct to the port for a hydrofoil to Procida.

I am happiest staying in places where I have privacy and quiet-although songbirds are welcome, a kitchen where I can prepare my meals, a place to read, write, sleep, and shower comfortably, walk at length, and have a view, preferably of the sea.

My home in Procida provided me with all of these. The dogs in residence, Mandarino and Pippo, inspired many smiles.

Procida, particularly in the area I was staying was remarkably peaceful, and not crowded as I had feared. I spent my days walking from one end of the island to the other- it takes about an hour and visiting the many places in between.

I ate pasta dishes that gave the word “pasta” an entirely new meaning.

I also spent a day exploring Ischia and visiting its stunning Argonese Castle with the unusual “nuns’ cemetery” (The women were placed on stone thrones with bowls to collect their body fluids as their bodies decomposed.) The views from the castle were spectacular as were the meandering paths bursting with flowers. The family who bought the castle some generations back still reside there. Ischia had its charm, but I was happy to return that evening to my home in Procida.

My eleven nights on Procida went by much too quickly.  But my perfect abode was already booked to some other lucky travelers.

19 to 30 April

The Amalfi Coast is only 50 kilometers long, but includes bustling cities, picturesque towns built vertically on hillsides with endless steps, and charming fishing villages. The serpentine, narrow road-yet another one-that runs along it offers spectacular views as do its many meandering walking paths. Orchards of lemon, orange, and nespole trees thrive. Boats of all sizes shuttle to and fro on the open waters. Fresh fish and local specialties satisfy palates.

I decided to stay four nights in Praiano, noted to be less touristy than its extremely popular neighbor, Positano.

The “Sentiero degli Dei (Walk of the Gods)” renowned for fantastic views of the coast, connects the towns of Praiano and Positano, and began steps from my front door. I prepared myself for the 1200 steps up from Praiano to its highest point, opting for a cooler day which I got, but with it, a dense fog. However, I hadn’t read about the 1400 steps down into Positano, which proved to be far more taxing than the ascent, nor the path I could have taken to avoid them. But I had no regrets. I passed through fruit orchards, listened to songbirds, admired the views when the clouds cleared, and soaked in the natural beauty of the region.

On another day I took a different, far less taxing, yet still beautiful walk (Path of the Lemons)- between the towns of Maiori and Minori. I imagine there was a time when residents frequently commuted by foot, but now, besides the residents who live along it, and the occasional donkeys, I mostly saw tourists.

Minori is a pretty town with old buildings, where Maiori lacks such charm. The explanation is a devastating flood and mudslide in the 1950’s which required the town to be virtually rebuilt.

I’ve been enjoying recalling the Italian I knew and engaging in conversations with the locals. Although I do not understand every word, I usually get the gist.

Praiano was a great base to explore other towns, including Ravello, where many authors and artists found inspiration:D.H Lawrence wrote Lady Chatterly’s Lover there. The Bloomsbury Group and Greta Garbo were fortunate guests within the exquisite gardens of Villa Cimbrone.

After Praiano, I stayed in the small fishing village of Cetara, known for its tuna fishing and a pasta sauce made from anchovies. I spent days watching the fishermen-something I never tire of- mending their nets and heading out to sea. These same men would gather to chat in groups, while their wives joined together to catch up on their days. The women interrupted their conversation to yell at their children, who were playing shoot-em-up with sticks(the boys), tag, hide-and-seek, riding back and forth on their bicycles, when they engaged in some mischief.

Distances between towns are short, but travel time can be long on the congested coastal road. Traffic comes to a stand when two buses maneuver around each other.

Small ferries from Cetera to the train in Salerno, were available. I took them to Paestum.

Paestum is an ancient site, I’d never heard of, dating back to Greek times: a great place to spend the day, despite the fierce Mediterranean sun.

I left Cetera for two nights in Ercolano, which I also knew nothing of. Its ancient city was destroyed by Mt. Vesuvius’ eruption within days of Pompeii. Because of unique circumstances, remnants of food and furnishings were discovered hundreds of years later intact.

Ercolano today is a working class city, with a number of impressive villas, largely unaffected by the tourists who come to see its remarkable ancient site.

Exploring the Amalfi Coast revealed much of its splendor, but undoubtedly not all.

15 to 19 April

I’d been somewhat hesitant to visit Capri. Afterall, this was a touristy island and notorious playground of the rich and famous with a wide array of high-end shopping options rather than somewhere low-key and off the beaten track-places I tend to gravitate towards. But its reknown beauty intrigued me.

I was pleasantly surprised when the ferry I took from Napoli(Naples), pulled in to a somewhat scruffy looking port where fishing boats were shuttling to and fro.

The only sign of glamor in Marina Grande (main harbor)-where I’d opted to rent an apartment-was the gleaming fleet of convertible taxis.

My home was a few steps from where the ferries docked. I quickly settled in to venture out again, aware of my short four-day stay.

The funicular generally used to climb up from the port to the town of Capri was out of order and small buses were used instead. These same buses brought locals and tourists throughout the island, including along a precipitous road, to the other main town, interestingly named, Anacapri.

Each ride was an adventure. The bus drivers navigated impossibly narrow, two-way serpentine roads where vehicles inched back and forth to make room for one another, miraculously avoiding to scrape anything as they skimmed by. What was equally impressive were the intrepid pedestrians who blithely shared these roads, often wearing head phones, casually entrusting drivers to avoid them. Miraculously this arrangement seemed to exhibit no casualties, at least while I was there. The drivers’ aplomb was noteworthy.

I, however, decided not to test my fate, nor the dexterity of the drivers. I took refuge inside the buses or walked down to the harbor from the town of Capri, using a seemingly endless staircase-one of many I would encounter.

Yes, there were tourists around the harbor-mostly here for day trips (the Blue Grotto is a major attraction), and high-end shops near the main piazza.

But the relaxed pace, kind locals, splendid walks around the island on virtually isolated pathways enchanted me-there was the occasional sidestepping from specially designed vehicles used for transporting goods:the pathways are equally narrow.

The sight of lemon and orange trees heavy with fruit, ancient ruins, stunning villas, fragrant blossoms, and gorgeous views of the landscape and turquoise sea were the primary and pleasant distractions.

I had booked a short stay thinking I would quickly tire of the artificial scene. It was bittersweet to discover I had been wrong.

11 to 15 April

Any time I asked for directions in Naples, a discussion among the locals would ensue. I would be ignored until a consensus was reached as to whose directions were the best. Thinking it might be easier to ask someone standing alone proved to be no different: the man enjoined an acquaintance passing by to confirm his directions. I loved Naples. I felt as if I’d been transported back in time: mom and pop shops were thriving, street life was vibrant, cell phones were less visible, laundry hung to dry from nearly every window. The lack of tourists was refreshing.

Naples seemed more unruly than Rome, but also more genuine.

The contrast between the nineteenth century shopping arcades and narrow ancient streets was striking.

The Capodimonte Museum and the National Archeological Museum collections were outstanding. The latter housed some of the finest treasures from Pompeii.

And Naples has the sea.

I spent the short time I was there wandering through neighborhoods, admiring treasures, thinking about Elena Ferrante, and enjoying a city I had visited many years ago that has seemingly improved with age.

4 to 11 April

My prior two attempts at loving Rome failed. The first was during a too fast whirlwind tour as a student and my second was during a particularly unpleasant slushy cold week in December, both many years ago. I was hoping for a different, pleasanter experience this time. I was not disappointed.

I strolled and dallied during warm days and under mostly blue skies from one breathtaking sight to the next.

There was quite a bit of dodging hordes of tourists, but the extraordinary history, buildings, and artwork made any moments of discomfort well worth it.

Doing my best to remember the Italian I had once known, I found the locals welcoming and kind: My first attempt at using a city bus and not knowing the procedure, resulted in a woman insisting on giving me one of her tickets without charge. Another woman, while I was seeking a metro station, walked with me, blocks out of her way, to insure I found it.

No day was complete without gelato and the pizza, made in sheets, cut with a scissor and weighed, was equally divine.

While in Rome, it was impossible to not think of “Roman Holiday” and “La Dolce Vita”.
I’ve witnessed the impact and power of the Catholic church throughout the world, but the display of the Vatican’s wealth is extraordinary.

I hope to return to Rome and see again Bernini’s, Michelangelo’s, and countless other artists’ exquisite creations, walk again on ancient sites, enjoy additional culinary pleasures and have more delightful impromptu encounters.

18 March to 3 April

I returned to NYC, after nearly a year of travel. Although the impetus had been to seek advice for a foot issue, I welcomed the opportunity to see the people I hold dear. Spending time with them was joyful as were visits to best-loved places and taking my favorite strolls.

I sought a place to stay near Prospect Park and although pickings were slim I did, after some time, find an aparatment on Eastern Parkway, steps from the park, across from The Brooklyn Library and Museum. It was at most a fifteen minute walk from where I had last lived, in Park Slope.

Yet, my own memories did not nudge me as much as the thoughts of my parents. My mom, although born in Manhattan had grown up in Brooklyn and as a young adult lived with her siblings on Eastern Parkway, not far from where I was staying. And it was here that my father came to court her, having been born and living himself not far away in Brownsville.

Brooklyn was where both my parents lived for decades, where I was born and began my schooling. While we lived walking distance from Coney Island, I was being introduced to the many wonders that I continue to cherish today.

For now, where I live is where I sleep. But when people ask me where I am from, I always say New York, however Brooklyn wilI always mean home to me.

1 to 18 March

I had been attracted to the fascinating history of Malta and thought of it as a good stepping stone to Italy and beyond. My plans did not work out as expected, but I began appreciating Malta, particularly the Island of Gozo, more and more each day. The Maltese language, which I had assumed was an Italian dialect, is rather an Arabic/Italian meld with a smattering of French and other influences. But the second official language is English having been a British colony for 150 years. The small island nation means the sea is always near, and although ebbing, local commercial fishing remains. Long walks and appreciation for continued traditions made my time in Malta most memorable.