Folegandros!

Images: SL in Folegandros, Frankie Surveying his Realm; Folegandros Cliffs; Kim and Mair; Dmitri Pa\laying the Travelcaster; Outdside the Melissa Taverna
Folegandros
Anyone trying to improve their writing should have to tour the Greek islands as we are doing. Your credibility begins to unravel as you use the words “beautiful”, “spectacular”, “gorgeous” again and again.
Folegandros, named for Prince Folegandros, the son of King Midas, is a tiny island in the Cyclades, not far from Santorini. Thirty two square miles and 667 inhabitants. The town we are in, Chora, allows no motor vehicles other than the occasional delivery mini-truck or scooter laden with roosters or live sheep tied to the carrier on the back – (seriously!).
You look down the cliffs, dotted with yellow, orange, purple and red to the pastels painting the sea, and watch the waves crashing endlessly against the steep rock. You realize there is a uniqueness to Folegandros, and start to understand that it is the multi-hued mountainsides rising in each direction, then plunging into the beautiful Aegean Sea. (Damn! I wasn't going to use that word again - “beautiful” - not “Aegean”).
Our adventures here started even before we left Santorini. As we waited for the ferry, we sat in a cafe next to two young Americans who were enjoying a beer before leaving for Folegandros. When I questioned why they got a free bowl of peanuts with their beer and we didn't, Kim said, “It's because Mair has such great breasts.” Then, looking at SL, she said, “No, that can't be it, because you've got a great rack, too!”
Then Mair started to talk about guitars, and the rest was pre-ordained – we made plans to hook up in Folegandros for a night of guitar, song, ouzo, wine and possibly even some food.
We checked into our hotel and I assembled the “Travelcaster” - my guitar. I sat outside and played a bit. Music is the universal magnet. We soon had Dimitri, an employee of the hotel and a student of the guitar, and several young guests of the hotel singing along. Mair, Kim, Dimitri, SL and I did several renditions of old favourites, and Dimitri demanded an encore of “Oh Etna”, my new song, which has become a NEW favourite for him.
The next night we went to another baptism, where Gianni, the restaurant owner, invited us in as his guests and kept us well supplied with wine as we listened to the violin, bouzouki, and singers. We are invited back tonight on the provision that I bring Travelcaster, and that accept ouzo and fresh fish in return!

Santorini Hike

Images: The Sides of the Cauldron; The Cliff Face We Came Down; JL on the Goat Path; SL on the Path; SL With the Church Below her Left Shoulder

Santorini is a volcanic caldera.
Imagine a mass of very thick, very hot porridge bubbling away in a huge cauldron on your stove, with bits of steam punching through boils on the top. Then imagine that the whole thing blows up in the middle, layering hot porridge everywhere around the sides. Then, your sprinkler system goes off and fills everything with water, instantly cooling it all down to a hardened mass, filled with water in the middle. Santorini. Caldera – cauldron.
Approximately 3600 years ago – not exactly sure of the month – this all took place, but not in your kitchen or mine. It occurred in the Aegean Sea and was one of the biggest volcanic eruptions in earth's history, called the Minoan Eruption because it was said to wipe out the Minoan civilization, one of the most advanced of its time. It is also one of the reasons that Santorini is said to actually be the lost island of Atlantis.
Our hotel is in the village of Akrotiri, where excavations in 1967 have discovered a level of civilization that has astonished the world, including hot and cold plumbing systems using geothermic heating from the volcano.
Today, we hiked down the side of the porridge pot, the caldera.
There are no warning signs, no barriers. We descended a goat path that ran from Akrotiri to the sea, a distance of over 1000 vertical feet. To be honest, there were times when we wondered when we would consider ourselves too old for this kind of challenge, and there were times when we wondered what we would do if I got hurt. SL might love me, but I am not sure if she could carry me. (She swears she has been carrying me for 38 years.)
The pictures tell the story of the incredible beauty of the scenery, but the sharpness of the descent gets lost unless you are actually there slipping on loose volcanic rice krispies, 18 inches away from a drop of 1000 feet.
As we neared the end of the descent, a tiny white church appeared out of the rock, beautiful against the frozen black magma.
When we finally reached the beach, we discovered that what our map casually referred to “rocks that you go over along the beach”, were actually hills of huge piles of rubble that we had to climb up and back down. At the end of the hike along the beach, we reached another path. Remember the 1000 foot descent? It's 1000 feet back up, too.
We were exhausted, happy and feeling quite proud of ourselves as we sat later that evening and surveyed the daunting but beautiful landscape that we had successfully challenged.

Santorini Start

Images: Santorini From the Ferry: Dancers!; Santorini Sunset; SL as the Sun Goes Down

I did not want to come to Santorini – let me clarify, I did not want to come back to Santorini.
SL and I came here in Oct 2008, on a cruise for our 35th anniversary. We were here one day, as we and 2000 other passengers waited for the cable car to lift us to Fira, the capital, to jostle along cheek to jowl, through the packed streets to see yet another tourist souvenir shop offering a Spongebob T-Shirt with a picture of Santorini on the back.
This time we did not land at Fira, we landed at Athinios, but even before we got off the ferry the magic had set in.
If Sicily is beautiful, and Paros charming, Santorini is enchanting. As we sailed into the port we looked up to the slices of layer-cake cliffs with multi-coloured striations from magma cooling at different times and temperatures. They were coated with a confectionery topping of tiny white houses hanging on precariously by the stickiness of their icing sugar bases. At night, these houses become Christmas icicle lights twinkling on the sofitt and fascia of the cliff.
Santorini honours “Saint Irene”, but before it was Santorini, it was Kalliste; “The most beautiful one.
We rented a little convertible and drove from Athinios to the ancient city of Akrotiri. After settling in to our hotel, the Kalimera ("Good day" in Greek), we walked into the local town, hearing loud music and what sounded like gunshots all the way in.
Turns out that there was a christening happening that night, and the whole town was invited. There was live music – a bousouki player and a violinist, and the loudest firecrackers you have ever heard. These were not the milquetoast bubble gum pops we have now in Canada; but REAL ordnance – remember Cherry Bombs and Garbage Cans? (and it was 6 and 7 year olds lighting them...)
SL and I watched respectfully from a distance as the party wore on. We were entranced. Anyone was allowed to get up and sing. The musicians did their best to accompany them and to keep straight faces. (I thought of the Beautiful Klaude and me, or "John and JB", playing along with someone who loves to sing, but...) SL and stayed for about 40 minutes, and finally tore ourselves away for our first sunset in Santorini, enchanted.

The Storm

Images: The Rain!; SL at Dinner with Sunset.

Thursday's plans were scotched by the fates.
We got on the bike, fully intending to head to Antiparos, the small sister island with deep caves to explore. The caves are full of stalagmites and stalagtites, one of which is estimated to be 45 million years old. As we headed out of Parikia, the skies darkened and we thought we would head back to the hotel to see what developed. I sneered at the tiny raindrops, and poked fun at the paucity of water coming from the skies.
We decided to walk to the town to do our shopping while we waited for the spitting to end.
… and then it came. Brilliant flashes of lightning accompanied by crashes of ear-splitting thunder. The rain poured from the skies. We took shelter under a small canopy and waited for it to pass. It got worse.
Now you have to remember that Paros is an island, a small island where everything slopes down to the sea. The rivulets from the mountain paths became small streams on the hillside roads, which rushed down to become raging rivers in the streets before pouring into the sea.
Realizing that this was not getting better, and if, in fact, it got worse, we were going to have a real problem walking back to the hotel, we set off to return. The muddy water swirled around our ankles and crept up our legs, but eventually we returned, exhausted, like drowned rats to our room to dry out.
We did not venture far that night to dinner, as I was essentially barefoot in my beach shoes. Craving comfort food, SL had spaghetti carbonara, and I had the house special of pork in white wine sauce. The bonus to the whole day was that we were treated to a beautiful sunset before retiring early to bed.

Paros!

Images: Marco Polo - the First of Many Jersey Tiger Moths to Come in Butterfly Valley; SL at Beach with Naxos in the Background; SL in Lefkes: Lefkes.

We woke to the crisp, clean scent, of a Greek island scrubbed clean by yesterday's storm. The whole island had been splashed with green, giving the hills an emerald haze that shone in the morning sun.
To make up for yesterday's aborted travels, we decided to circumnavigate the island, starting out with the Valley of the Butterflies.
The Valley of the Butterflies, or “Petaloudes”, is so named because every year, millions of Jersey Tiger Moths descend on the valley and literally coat the leaves of the trees with their camouflaged wings. It was too early to see the migration, but we did manage to see the beautiful foliage, and Marco Polo the Moth. - (I called him this because he was the leader or vanguard of the millions to come!)
We then hopped back on the bike to drive the coastline, eventually stopping for lunch in a beautiful taverna overlooking the bay between Paros and Naxos.
Our drive took us to Lefkes, the highest village on Paros, and it seemed to be frozen in a time long past, with narrow cobblestone paths painted white between the blue and white houses, overrun with bougainvillea.
That night, we had our final dinner in Paros, each trying the whole sea-bass. We also braved our first glass of ouzo! It really wasn't as bad as I remembered it – the licorice taste was not as strong as I thought it would be. Truth be told, I don't remember a whole hell of a lot about the last time I had ouzo, except that it was more than just one..........
Tomorrow we say goodbye to Paros and get on the ferry to Santorini.

Greek Beginnings - Paros

Images: View for our Hotel Irene Balcony - Paros; Paros Port; SL with 8-legged Friends in Naoussa; SL and JLK in Naoussa; Seaview from Naoussa Portal

I write this sitting on the beach looking at the bay outside our window in Paros, a cold beer in an ice-cold glass in front of me, trying to quantify, or at least qualify, the difference between being in Sicily and now being on a Greek island.
Last year, I wrote in the blog that Greece seemed simpler, slower, more timeless. This is still true, but it's more than that. SL is enraptured by the island. We both have difficulty believing that we are really here. Everyone drives more slowly, car horns toot hello, rather than just Hell!
It is true that this is the shoulder season, with tavernas and ouzerias just gearing up for the influx of tourists to come shortly, but it FEELs slower.
Our hotel window opens to a balcony that overlooks the bay, and in the distance, the port. We far enough away from town to avoid the noise, but close enough for a stroll to a beach bar or any number of restaurants. Each establishment wants to give you a little something for nothing, a bonus gift to encourage your continued patronage. Sometimes it is a free dessert, unasked for, selected by your waiter. Sometimes, like last night, it is another half-carafe of red wine, which we did NOT need, and we guiltily poured our glasses back into the metal jug, hoping our ingratitude went unnoticed.
As the shops are eager for customers, I was able to rent a 250CC scooter for $12.50 per day (Regularly $45.00). A 250 is a big bike here – most people drive 50 or 125 CC. Today we took it across the island to Naoussa, a postcard-pretty harbour town with tiny, narrow little streets paved with white cobblestones. We wandered through the maze of courtyards and alleys, and would sometimes just stop to stare as if we had both heard a silent signal telling us we couldn't leave this particular view until we had paid it the attention it deserved.
We ate lunch at a taverna with our table 8 feet from the shore. We shared a Greek salad and fried calamares. Our waiter brought us bread fresh from the stone oven, with two dips. One was olive oil, balsamic vinegar and oregano, and the other was a paste of sundried tomatoes, garlic and parsley. As we sipped our ice-cold drinks, we wondered whether we really needed anything else, but when the calamares arrived, we were glad we had ordered with our hearts, not our heads.
We both agreed that they were the best we have had yet. With a fresh lemon squeezed over them, and a pinch of salt, there was not a scrap of food left when we had finished.
When I asked for the bill, a mystery dessert arrived, a frozen yogurt dish with candied fruit, drizzled with honey.
Tomorrow, we take the bike on a short ferry ride to the sister-island Antiparos, and its ancient caves

Bum Bum?? - This Post is for Mia and Kingston

Image: Soap for Dishes or for Your "Bum Bum"?????

Mia and Kingston, you're going to say "What the Heck??"

I was in the store in Italy and wanted to buy some soap for washing dishes.
The store lady gave me this soap, and I asked her if it was for the bath because it said, “Bum bum”!!
Look at the picture! She just laughed at your Papa!

Farewell Sicilia! May 14

Images: World Championship Motocross!; Our "Street" in Pantalemi; SL on our Balcony; Views on our Last Drive in in Sicily.

Farewell Sicilia! Sabato May 14
Incredibly, Our two weeks in Sicily have come to an end.
We have walked on the surface of the moon courtesy of Etna, with the charcoal popcorn crunching beneath our feet like the crackle of Rice Krispies. We gazed into her craters. We learned to make macaroni pasta with Mama Rosario. We ate the best pizza in the valley. We hiked mountains. We actually finished an Italian Sunday lunch. We conquered the phone system, and hooked up with the Internet. We learned how to shop. We washed our laundry and hung it in the Sicilian sun to dry, hoping it didn't sail embarrassingly into a farmers field on the sinewy Sirocco wind. We awoke to the sound of orange pickers, and feel asleep to the smell of lemons, jasmine, orange blossoms, and roses.
Last night we went to people-watch at a “bar” in Francovilla. Unbeknownst to us, Francovilla was hosting the 2011 World Championship Moto Cross the next day, so the town was full of competitors from all over the world, as well as thousands of motorcycle enthusiasts come to spectate. SL had a Campari and soda, and I had a Birra Moretti. Our bill? $2.70.
We sat for an hour and watched the hundreds of motorcyclists mingle (sometimes less than amicably) with the locals. It was fascinating. Pete Judge and Brian Layfield would have loved it - bikes of every description imaginable. Today, we took the long drive to Novara di Sicilia. Long drives in the Sicilian countryside are what SL loves to do best. I love to make SL happy, so we set off today for another drive.
It is not that I do not enjoy driving, and I love the scenery, but the challenges inherent in navigating the narrow mountain roads sometimes take priority over soaking in the beautiful countryside. Today, we did it right. We slowed down and stopped often, sometimes just to sit at the edge of the roadway, overlooking mountainsides embroidered with the stitches of the terracing that embraced olive groves or vineyards. Cotton balls of sheep dotted the hills, and of course, Etna presided over all. We wandered through ancient villages that looked like they had not changed in hundreds of years. We found a bar and had a gellato.
I have probably said this about other lands, but SL and I were standing with our arms around each other, and I said, “I think this may be the most beautiful country in the world.”
I have finished “Oh Etna”, my tribute to our volcano. Tonight I sang it for the last time in Sicily and recorded it to send to JB, Sandy, and Klaude, who has challenged me to write a song for every two weeks I am away. Tonight I take my guitar apart and fold it into my suitcase.
We are truly sad to be leaving Sicily.
Oh, Etna, I know you've seen a lot.
Some things make you blue and some things made you hot.
It's sunny in Sicilia, but soon I'm going back,
So tomorrow when I look at you, please don't you be wearing black.

May 8 Domenica Pranza

Images: Sunset in Pantalemi; Olive Tree after our Huge Pranza!; View from our House - Pantalemi; Looking Down from our House to the Gorge Below

Sunday, May 8 – our first day in our new appartamento, Pantalemi.
Domenica, is the day of the big Sicilian lunch, and we had already decided that we needed to do this at least once. It's also Mother's Day (Festa di Mama), so we decided to call the kids in Canada.
We called SM (Sweet Melissa) first, but unfortunately just got her voicemail, so we told her how much we loved her, and that everything was OK.
We then tried Geoff and Joce, and got Jocelyn on the first try.
We had a good chat with all, including Kingston and Mia, who informed me that her new soccer uniform was pink... “Fuschia actually!” It was bittersweet.
Then we were off for our Domenica pranza.
We were informed at the door to the Paradise Restaurant that they were full, and indeed, the place was packed. We asked if we could sit outside and the doorman agreed, much to the dismay of the overworked waitress, who let loose with a string of invective aimed at him or anyone in the line of fire which I think, can be summarized as, “As if I don't have enough to do without you agreeing to add yet another table outside, where I have to walk even farther, and it's Festa di Mama, but nooooo, I have to work, and your father sits inside, drinking vino and laughing with his friends and flirting with all the other bella donnas...” I mean, that may not be word for word, but I think that was the general gist of it.
As she set our table (I think I already mentioned it was outside), I tried to bond with her, sympathizing how hard she was working with so many customers, “Molto clienti! Lavora dura, signorna” - to which she replied with the Italian equivalent of - “Ya think??!”
She brought us red wine and a two litre bottle of spring water – the only two things she ever asked us if we wanted. Then it began:
Plates just began appearing:
Stuffed artichokes, fried cheese, fried zucchini, roasted eggplant and peppers, fresh ricotta, provolone with sweet relish, prosciutto, cauliflower with anchovies, stuffed eggplant roll, and homemade bread. That, faithful bloggees, was just the antipasti!
Then the meal began with plates of lasagna, macaroni with tuna in tomato sauce, and spinach/ricotta ravioli.
So far, we had been there about two hours, with plate after plate magically appearing. The weather was beautiful, the scenery was breathtaking, the house wine soft and fruity, and every new course just as delicious as the one before it. It occurred to us that we had never taken so long over any meal in any restaurant before, let alone lunch!
As we sat back to let the meal settle, our waitress appeared with roasted lamb shank in a tomato, garlic, olive oil and spinach sauce with roast potatoes on the side.
Dessert announced the end of the marathon with skewers of fresh fruit and pastries filled with cream and sprinkled with confectioner's sugar. We had been eating for over three hours.
We went home and slept.

Monday May 9 Cooking Lesson

Images: SL with Rosario, our Chef and Teacher; JL with Rosario; JL at the Pasta Pot; Finally - Dinner!

Monday May 9 – Cooking Lesson
When we first moved to Pantalemi, we made the drive to Agriturismo San Marco to make un prenatazione for a cooking lesson in Sicilian cuisine the next Monday with Mama Rosario. Tonight we returned to find we were the only ones in the class!
We met Mama Rosario in her cuchina and she proceeded to regale us with stories of her restaurant and family. That fact that we did not understand a word she said made no difference, and in fact, when it counted, we understood enough to not get expelled from cooking class.
The first thing we did – (Kingston and Mia, what is the first thing we always have to do when baking with Papa?) - is wash our hands, and then proceeded to make macaroni pasta. I have never done this, nor seen it done before.
After adding a bit of water to our very hard flour - “durham zero zero” - was all that Rosario would say, we were supposed to work the dough with our hands, and then knead it till it was workable. Rosario then broke off pieces about the size of gnocchi, prompting me to ask whether we were making gnocchi, which spawned a lecture about how she had already told me we were making macaroni, and that gnocchi was made with potato flour. Trying to redeem myself, I asked if the dough we had made could be used for all kinds of pasta, even spaghetti, and Mama Rosario let me in on her secret. She buys her spaghetti at the supermarket.
We were then supposed to roll the gnocchi-sized pieces of dough into little round thin strips. These strips were then rolled around a thin wooden stick – no thicker than the wire of a clothes hanger to form a small tube, which was then slid off the stick and voila! (That's actually French). Macaroni!
One of us got the hang of this much easier than the other, but I consoled SL by telling her not to feel bad, that it wasn't a race, and no one was counting. (I made 32 while she made 17).
We went on to make carponata; eggplant, red pepper, tomato, celery, spring onion; stuffed green peppers; stuffed zucchini; a potato dish with fennel and basil; eggplant topped with bread crumbs, olive oil, and pecorino cheese; and frittatas made with bread soaked in water, crumbled into a dish with two eggs, parsley, scallions, pecorino, and fried in olive oil.
When Rosario told us to sit down and “mangia, mangia!”, she continued and made lamb, risotto and salad.
The night ended with canoli and a liqueur called canelli – which is a very sweet cinnamon-based liqueur – ice-cold and delicious.
We had the pleasure of meeting Rosario's son and granddaughter, both of whom were delightful. They spoke to us in rapid Italian which to our surprise we mostly understood, unless they were NOT repeatedly telling me how kind, intelligent, fascinating and charming I was.

Last Night in Montesole

Images: Singing to Etna!; SL on our New Balcony in Pantalemi; Orange Grove from our Window; SL Getting our Drinking water from the Fountain

Today we followed Daniel to look at a new place – an apartment - “Villa Pantalemi” near the Gore Alcantara. Things here don't really seem to have addresses, they are just “near” something.
There was nothing wrong with our mountain house, and I loved to wake up each morning and look at Etna to see what she was wearing. The mountain road, however, made any trip at least a 40 minute affair, sometimes longer at night in the fog. The road simply crumbled away in places, with a thousand foot drop to the rocks below, so it was not a relaxing drive in the country.
This did not deter SL from continuing her still on-going commentary of, “Oh, look at that beautiful valley”, or “Oh, see the castles up on the top of the cliff!”, and no, I didn't actually take the time to see them as I was making a 317 degree turn on the dirt-track of a road the width of a sidewalk with a water-truck trying to pass me.
Daniel actually showed us two places and we chose Pantalemi, a bright, airy appartamento, overlooking a stream that rushes through the gorge below. You could say the view was “gorgeous” - sorry. The bonus is that we can get to the main road in 2 minutes.
We remembered to ask Daniel where the best pizza was, and he explained that this honour changed from year to year, similar to a nightclub being anointed by the in-crowd as the place to go in a large city. This year's winner, by acclamation, is Il Due Campari, in Motta Camastra, exactly 3 km from Pantalemi. (Remember that it was 4 km just to get down the mountain from our old place!)
The pizza was everything that was promised – paper-thin crust, fresh tomato sauce, mozzarella, eggs, olives, artichokes, porcini mushrooms. Washed down with a carafe of vino rosso della casa, it made the perfect end to our week in the mountains.
We made the drive up to our mountain house for the last time, to get ready for the move the next day.
As we got ready for bed, I went out to sing goodnight to Etna with my new song, “Oh, Etna”. I think she approved. A dog barked somewhere on the mountainside.

The Gorge - May 11

Images: Orange Pickers at Dawn outside Pantalemi; SL at "Gole Alcantara" - the Gorge: JL and SL at Gorge: More Gorge.

You would think that we have had enough of tiny, twisting mountain roads, but on Tuesday, we decided to take the road up to the hilltop village of Motta Camastra, to eat at the Pizzeria Panoramica. Although this road was wider than the one to our previous mountain home, it was even steeper.
Twenty minutes of this brought us to the top of the mountain, where a tiny village perched, clinging to the cliff. The restaurant did indeed have a panoramic view, but it was closed.
No matter how hard we try, we really can't figure out the hours of business here. We understand that the stores are all generally open in the morning till one in the afternoon, closed till four or five, and then open again till seven or eight- later for the restaurants, as Sicilians don't seem to start dinner till after nine at night. Our journey to Castigione de Sicilia to get our phone working, however, met with a town still sleeping at 11:00 in the morning. It was explained to us that Monday was the day AFTER Sunday, so of course, things are closed in the morning. We intended to wait till the phone store opened that afternoon, but were told it would not open as the owner had gone to Catania. Wednesday afternoon? Everything closed.
The “Internet Point” said it would open at one, so I arrived there at one, to find it was closing in fifteen minutes. We drove to another pizzeria, to find it open, but no pizza “Pizza solo sera.” Pizza is only at night.
Today we visited the Gole Alcantara – the Gorge. The rock formations looked like strips of playdough, with the water rushing through the narrow chasm below. Very beautiful.
SL and I made our way down, then back up, the 206 stone steps to the bottom of the canyon. John Harasym and I laugh at such a test, as we have conquered the 330 steps in Dundurn.
Tonight I made a meal pasta with a sauce made from everything we had in the fridge. Steak, sausage, garlic, butter, olive oil, onions, carrots, capers, tomatoes and tomato sauce. It was actually quite delicious.
It was a good thing that we had decided to stay in, as the wind rose to a howl that continued all night, knocking over our metal patio furniture, and screaming to get in every window and door. SL and I were awake most of the night, and I finally had to get up and try to plug each little crevice with paper towel to stop the banging as the banshees tried to get at us.
We awoke to the full-throated conversation of the orange pickers right outside our window. It seems that Sicilians do not converse – they shout. What on earth they could be talking about with such fervor is beyond me. I mean, Fantasy Football is still months away!
Today, Etna!

Etna

Images: All images taken on the slopes of Mt. Etna, Sicily

May 12 Etna
My love affair with Mount Etna continues. I do not know what it is, but she fascinates me more than any other landscape we have seen. She doesn't rise up, she towers, she broods, she surveys and rules all that she sees. The mood of the people is set by her. Today, we went to pay a foot and a homage to her majesty.
You have to understand that Etna is a living, active volcano. You can see the plumes of steam and sulfur dioxide rising hundreds of metres into the air. She spews rocks. One shattered the windshield of a jetliner flying thousands of feet above. She erupted in 2002, and in spectacular fashion in 1992, with rivers of orange rock running down her flanks. She gushed hot molten rock at the rate of thirty cubic yards per second. That is five dumptruck loads per second. Five miles from its source, the magma was still moving down at a rate of a foot and a half per hour and only stopped when its temperature dropped to 1,000 degrees. By that time the molten river was 20 feet high and a hundred feet across.
So today we drove up Etna, 10,824 feet above sea level. It was 26 degrees C when we started up, and we sang out the numbers on our car thermometer as we climbed like the countdown to New Year's. Twenty-six, twenty-five, twenty-four, twenty-three; each km would slice another degree off.
As our little diesel car climbed, the scenery changed. The hills became grey moonscapes dotted with waves crested green. Huge blackened cinder boulders had been strewn everywhere by an angry, giant hand.
After 30 minutes of driving almost straight up, we crested a hill to find what looked like a frontier town on Mars. Everything was covered in grey/black volcanic ash, with very little vegetation to be seen. The thermometer read 10 degrees. Craters rose around us like fallen soufflés. Sightlines stretched to the sea, with all the Sicilian towns in between dotting the carpet of green that rolled to the water's edge.
We climbed a crater and looked down. There were no fences, and no warnings. Sicilians seem to think that a precipice with a drop of thousands of feet to the rocky valley below inspires its own cautionary message. I think they are right.
On the way down, we spotted a family (a “skulk?”, A “coven?” Barbara Lubert will know!) of foxes who had no problem at all with us photographing them.
Further on down, about 16 km from the top, we encountered an intrepid group of 50-somethings bicycling up Etna. Their 21-speed bikes were in first gear. I burst out laughing at the expression on the faces of some of them that could only be interpreted as “Who the Hell thought that this was going to be fun?” They still had 16 km to go. Straight up. Only Brian Layfield or John Harasym could possibly enjoy that.
On our return we stopped at a pasticceria to get some bread and dessert. Once inside we were accosted by a loud voice saying, “Hey where are you guys from??”
Seems that two New Yorkers had repatriated to Sicily, where their parents were from, and opened a bakery. Joseph and Anthony DiPasquale, of “My Way” (think Blue Eyes) Pasticceria were a breath of fresh air, and we spent about 30 minutes chatting about their adventures and ours while Anthony made us fresh cannoli.
They also told us that Etna had erupted last night and put on a beautiful show of fireworks in the evening. Had we stayed in our mountain home, we would have seen it.....