Before we left this morning, I asked Fausta where she found the old tiles she used above the sinks in the bathrooms. “Go to Caltagirone. It’s one of the big ceramics centers of Sicily.” Well, that’s saying something, as decorative tiles define Sicily.
We cross a bridge decorated with tiles, a good intro to the ceramics-mad town. There are ceramics shops everywhere in the old centro. We’re both stunned when the street ends in a wide sweep of 142 steps up to the church—steps with tile risers of blue, yellow, and white designs of waves, horses, acanthus leaves, birds, arabesques. Small shops line the way. In several, women are painting designs on the formed clay. I buy a tile clock in one, a spoon rest in another, a small bowl. That’s it. We have carry-on luggage. These I can slide between my clothes but if there’s more, we have a problem. We’d have to check, a practice Ed forbids. No checked luggage, he wants carved on his tombstone.
We don’t find anything old that we could ship back for the bathroom we are planning to add at Bramasole. Fausta must have bought them all. But I do see a great sun-yellow and blue tile to put under a pot that might ooze moisture onto a table. “I’ll put it in my handbag. Really, promise.”
We dutifully visit the ceramics museum and the Duomo, but I admit, my mind is singularly focused on the old tile. We have a quick vegetable crepe lunch in a bar and keep walking. Although the centro is mono-themed, a few Baroque buildings catch our eyes. Quite a few others look dreary and neglected. All the color goes into the ceramics. Gilda will like her spoon rest, and my daughter the little bowl. I’ll think of Sicily when the tile clock ticks in the kitchen. The steps were amazing to see. Wonder if, as I’ve seen in Portugal in such places, anyone does penance by walking up to the top on their knees.
BY MID-AFTERNOON, WE are back at Baglio Occhipinti. We both are craving a calm few hours to read and rest in our quiet haven. Then dinner again, under the good care of Sebastiano. Tonight, the first fire of fall in the big room. Suddenly, the season is turning. We have a glass of prosecco and look through the books on the coffee table. One is on Mafia cooking. Can only imagine that it’s quite good. Design books from London. Travel guides left by guests.
We’re only three tables tonight and we keep to ourselves. Little bites of eggplant parmigiana, big plates of pasta with ragù, then lamb and chicory. Proud to drink SP68, Arianna’s awarded wine (tre bicchiere, three glasses, the top distinction in Gambero Rosso), a mix of frappato and nero d’Avola. The wine, named for the road the vineyard is on, tastes quite at home with Sebastiano’s refined and simple food. At this place, everything fits everything else.
The two young New York lawyers are dining somewhere up the coast. We toast them and all adventurous travelers. It would be lovely to sprawl on the sofas and read by the fire. The place is not quite that informal, so we sit upright and enjoy a thumb-size glass of Marsala.
THIS WEEK WE’VE stayed in three places. We didn’t really need to, as the distances we’ve covered are not extensive. If you check Marzamemi, Scicli, and Vittoria on a map, one base works if you’re willing to drive a bit. I loved all the places we stayed. Now, after one more stop, we get to see Catania.