Sorry to say, we were IN Sicily but I didn’t see all that much because the truth is, Sicily, (okay, maybe not ALL of Sicily, but Catania for sure), is the dog shit capital of the world. Literally. Look up from the sidewalk, only at your peril. And, do NOT wear flip flops. There is so much dog crap on the sidewalks of Catania, if you look up for one eensy step, I’ll put it this way, (in case you are eating breakfast in another time zone)…this is a mistake that you will make only ONCE.
Other than that small criticism, Sicily was great. Not, “wish you were here” great, but…super food, nice people, Roman ruins and cathedrals aplenty, and of course, the Italian table wines are great and cheap. But, yes, there’s a good reason why everybody you know has been to Florence, Rome, Venice and Tuscany and you can’t produce knowledge of a single soul who has visited Sicily. (I could be wrong. Or, perhaps they are all still cleaning their shoes. You just haven’t heard their report yet.)
So, why (you have a right to know) were WE there? This is a story that has to do with bicycles and red sauce and Pablo’s romantic, ancient memories from a previous trip some forty years ago with an Italian beauty during his mis-spent youth. It also loosely involves the search for the best pizza in the world and that bastard, Anthony Bourdain (which is really a story about Naples). (Naples gets its own postcard. Next up.)
Regarding the bicycle portion of the story, sometimes P decides that he wants to do something, (however ill-advised), and God Damn It, we are going to do it! Bicycling in Sicily was one of those things. It was a significant learning experience. What I learned from riding a bike in Catania, Italy: l) Round-a-bouts are made for cars, not bicycles. 2) “Fuck you, asshole!” means the same thing in every country in the world. A universal parcel of language. It needs no translation. 3) American women (of a certain age) should not ride bicycles in foreign countries. It makes the locals very nervous to see granny wearing black spandex and a helmet pedaling like crazy down the main avenue of town. I have learned these lessons and I shall apply them in all future travel. (Unless P decides we have to do it in Edinburgh, coming up in a week or so. Wish me luck.)
The story about the girl and the red sauce is like every story you’ve ever heard about a boy in love with a beautiful girl who had long black hair and Italian roots and relatives who made “the best, the heartiest, the most delicioso red sauce in the entire universe”. The truth is, the girl is now a gray haired AARP recipient in Garden Grove, California, the relatives, long dead, are remembered with a fondness and an accuracy that only mythological relatives are offered, and the legendary red sauce, when ordered in a Sicilian trattoria, is a disappointing “light red”, heavy on the olive oil and garlic and light on the tomatoes. But, whatever. In the case of memories involving old lovers and previous dinner fare both, perhaps one should pay heed to old Thomas Wolfe. (You really can’t EVER go “home” again. Or, in this case, back to Sicily.)
I think Tom also advised to mind your step (at least in Catania)
