TO HAVE seen Italy without having seen Sicily is not to have seen Italy at all, for Sicily is the clue to everything.” Goethe penned that in 1788, and I could not agree with him more. Although there was much more to see of Sicily— coastal Cefalù, Palermo, and a few interior villages were places I had a desire to explore—it was going to require a future visit to delve further into its charms. And so, to paraphrase Julius Caesar, veni, vidi, vamoose.
I suppose this is a downside to renting a home base when on holiday. My sense of frugality—which inexplicably seizes me at the most inopportune times—made me mindful that we were paying for hotel rooms (and lousy ones at that) as well as the rental of the trullo in Alberobello.
We checked out of the Hotel Hamilton in the morning, having availed ourselves of what passed for a continental breakfast (the less said about it the better), and made our way back to Messina.
We took the same route we had travelled the day before, mainly because it was the fastest route, but also because it had been so lovely that I did not mind revisiting it.
“We should stop very soon,” Mom said quietly about a half hour into our journey.
This was code for “I have to go to the bathroom. Badly.”
I pressed down on the accelerator pedal and kept my eyes open for an Autogrill.
Italy’s highways are strung with this bright, polished fast-service chain of restaurants. They have acres of freshly prepared food, and everything exudes deliciousness. The other nice thing about Autogrills is that almost all of them have accessible washrooms.
Ten minutes later, around Enna, I spotted an Autogrill. We slipped out of traffic and followed the exit lane into the spacious parking lot, right up to the front doors and into an empty handicapped parking space.
In the rearview mirror I saw a tour bus lumber into the parking lot.
“Andiamo! You better hurry!” I alerted Mom.
I jumped out of the car and ran around to the passenger side to yank her out, but she was so slow moving her arthritic legs into position that by the time she was out of the car and on her feet, the busload of more sprightly seniors—from Germany— had swarmed the Autogrill with the same goal—to find the washroom.
Mom hustled off to the ladies’ room, and I hung back to poke about in the Autogrill’s large gift area, where a mouthwatering variety of cheeses, chocolates, meat, pastas, sauces, oils, and wines were arranged as if it was about to be photographed for a food magazine.
Occasionally I craned my neck over the food displays to check on Mom, who I could see standing patiently, a grim look on her face, in a long queue for one of four cubicles.
She seemed OK, so I sauntered over to the bar and ordered a cappuccino.
The downside of Autogrills is their organization, or rather lack thereof. There are often a lot of staff behind the counter preparing food and laying it out attractively, but the whole operation seems to fall apart when a customer attempts to actually order something. I often found it safer just to order a cappuccino.
At the coffee bar, a gaggle of senior men from the German tour bus had gathered. If you want to witness “survival of the fittest” in action, or if ever you have reason to explain the concept to someone from another planet, then an Autogrill is the place to be when a coach tour rolls in. It is a ton of fun watching tourists and natives duke it out over who was first in line. Italy and Germany were about to square off, so I took my cappuccino to a table and settled in for the action.
To be fair, the Germans were at the coffee counter first, but they were milling about in such a fleshy mob of disarray that you could imagine Hitler spinning in his grave. The Italians, their home advantage notwithstanding, are amazingly unflustered when they tangle with opponents who hail from a country where a modicum of civil order is enshrined in the constitution. The intensity of this particular meet was heightened by the fact that it was ten o’clock in the morning, a time when both cultures were in a state of advanced caffeine withdrawal.
A German who had already placed his order at the bar threw the f irst volley by complaining about the gauche behavior of an Italian who was at his elbow and who had audaciously stridden up to the front of the loose queue to place his order.
Unbowed, the Italian returned a dismissive shrug and exchanged quick words with the barista. A few of the Italian’s countrymen moved closer to the bar to run interference. The Germans cried foul in a booming baritone, throwing the argumentative Italians momentarily off guard. Italians dislike loud voices unless they are their own.
A melee ensued, with the Italians predictably but entertainingly casting arrogant sneers at the Germans and making slow brushing movements on their sleeves, a gesture meant to dust off the trivial and provincial antics of the Germans. The Germans were ultimately edged out because of a lack of conversational Italian and, with rueful expressions on their faces, shuffled into a stout, straight line.
I drained the last of my cappuccino and proceeded to kill more time perusing the lavish assortment of Easter goodies, which included chocolate bunnies the size of young children. But what was taking Mom so long?
I wandered back to the ladies’ washroom. No one was there.
“Mom? . . . Mom?”
A small, sheepish voice finally came from behind one of the cubicle doors: “Yes?”
“Are you ok?” I asked tentatively.
The cubicle door creaked open slowly, just a crack.
“I’ve had a terrible accident,” she whimpered, her head bowed in shame.
“Oh dear,” I commiserated.
It appeared that the more continent and mobile of the German bus travellers had rushed in, hogged all the stalls, and left Mom to wait in line a very long time. By the time her turn came for a cubicle her defenses had fallen faster than her trousers.
“What can I do to help?” I asked softly.
“Can you bring me some fresh clothes from the car?”
She was miserable and embarrassed when we resumed our journey. She barely spoke.
“It must be awful to not have control over your body,” I offered.
“It is. It comes out of nowhere—the urge to go, I mean,” she said. She turned her head away from me. “Without any warning. I wish there was something I could do about it. This is why I don’t want to go out with anyone.”
She had had a couple of suitors since my dad’s death, but she had kept them at arm’s length. At first I thought she was being unduly prudish, but now I understood. For someone as fastidious as my mother in matters of appearance and social decorum, incontinence was the worst possible curse.
“Don’t worry,” I said perkily. “We’ll be back in our little trullo tonight. Let me know if you need to stop again.”
The sun came out when we turned north at Catania, but it did not brighten Mom’s spirits.
“Look!” I said, pointing enthusiastically. “Mount Etna!”
The volcano’s trademark smoky, wispy plume was etched ominously across the sky like a signature, but even mighty Etna could not alleviate Mom’s funk. I considered amusing her with a quip that she and Etna had something in common— they are both in a constant state of eruption—but then I thought better of it.
“Did you know that Etna is so big that its plume and lava flows can be seen from the International Space Station?” I said, trying to draw her into conversation. She responded with little more than “Hmm” and a slight smile.
And then, “Are those houses?”
“Why, yes they are,” I answered, rather perplexed myself by the sight: Etna, the largest and most unpredictable volcano in Europe, has a bourgeoning housing development creeping up its side, along with farms and vineyards.
“What sort of a marketing slogan do you suppose you’d need to get homebuyers clamoring for a piece of real estate like that?” I wondered aloud. “‘Go with the flow?’ ‘Bank on a boom market?’”
In fact, probably no slogan at all. Nothing better illustrates the diffident and fatalistic attitude of Sicilians than a subdivision making its way up the side of a volcano.
Etna erupted not long after we left the island, but an even bigger blast occurred several months later, in September 2007, with lava spewing thirteen hundred feet into the air before coursing thickly down its side like drool from a Saint Bernard. I have no idea how the housing development fared during the fireworks, but I did read that Sicily closed its airport for the day as a precaution, and farmers on the mountain leaned their hoes against the shed for a spell. Within twelve hours it was business as usual. No biggie.
IT WAS noon when we reached Messina. I dutifully followed the “Traghetti” signs to the ferry terminal, a route that led us down a wide, handsome street lined with lush green palms waving languidly and an assortment of yellow-and-white Baroque buildings.
The ferry terminal was very different from the one at which we had disembarked. For starters, there was a huge lineup of cars and people, and a festive quality pervaded the quay. People were stretched out on the front of their cars squeezing in a few minutes of sunbathing. Well-marked ticket kiosks with streamers looped along their canopies, as well as cafés and souvenir stalls, were all doing a brisk business. There wasn’t a truck in sight.
The biggest surprise was the fare: It was double what we had paid on the way over. It was suddenly clear that our maiden voyage to Sicily had been made by cargo boat.
Onboard this very modern ferry the atmosphere was genteel. It was kitted out with a two-storey car park, comfy padded seating in expansive lounge areas, bright, clean washrooms that didn’t require a sailor’s key to access, some shops, and a few cafés serving a wide selection of sandwiches and pasta. All these conveniences for a mere thirty-minute passage.
We barely had time to gobble down a panino and a drink before it was time to join the mad dash back to the ferry’s parking garage. We shuffled to the elevator and waited patiently for the lift while our fellow passengers scurried around us as if a fire alarm had been sounded.
Based on our speedy drive to Sicily down Calabria’s west coast, I assumed the return trip to Alberobello would be just as quick and we would be home by nightfall.
Everything went swimmingly until we drove off the ferry at Reggio di Calabria and I made a wrong turn. In Italy, wrong turns can undo you. Before I could figure out what had happened, we were plunged into a crowded, gritty, labyrinthine suburb with an air of desperation and poverty.
Mom pressed the button to raise the automatic windows, and I engaged the security locks on our doors. It took us a good half hour to find our way out. When we eventually rejoined the autostrada it was another quarter of an hour before it dawned on me that we were heading up the east coast of Italy instead of the west.
The eastern portion of the coastal highway—despite being called an autostrada—was a plodding two-lane road that forced us on a slow march through every single village— some of them prosperous and well-tended little places such as Pilossi, Brancaleone, and Locri, with cheerfully painted balconies and landscaped front gardens; all of them without any sign of a living soul.
In some parts of Calabria only thirty miles separate the east and the west coasts, but the differences between the two are substantial. The west is pastoral, majestic, and more sedate; the east has a scrubbier terrain but also a flashy resort-like feel. In the west you see olive trees and firs; in the east everyone has an orange or lemon tree in the front yard. The life seems more hard-won in the west, easier in the east.
Road construction and heavy truck traffic dogged our progress the entire way. We were forced to take detours that drew us into an interior land of wild dill, stone farmhouses, farmers threshing the fields, and sheep grazing on hillsides. It sounds idyllic, and under normal circumstances I would have found the journey pleasant, but with an incontinent and discontented passenger beside me it was torture. I could sense Mom’s longing for the familiar surroundings and the somewhat dull routine we had carved out for ourselves back at the trullo. I was anxious to get back, too, if only to relinquish the grind of driving all day. It felt like my ass had been permanently glued to the driver’s seat.
After four and a half hours of stop-and-go traffic, in which we covered less than a quarter of the distance we had done in the same amount of time a few days earlier, it became obvious that home was another day away. The sun began its quick dip to oblivion, and we resigned ourselves to a hotel for the night. We stopped in Catanzaro Marina and, finding no practical accommodation, surrendered the contents of our wallets for a small suite at the Hotel Palace.
May I ask a stupid question? Why do so many first-class hotels exude low-class attitude? Does it have something to do with making the guest feel grateful to be in this rarified atmosphere, or is it an acquired snobbism on the part of the hotelier who could just as easily be working at a Travelodge?
The front desk staff of the Hotel Palace regarded my mother and me the way most people would greet Martians, something you do not expect from an establishment that bills itself as “an international hotel.” The bartender refused to smile at me, despite my repeat business, which I conducted entirely in Italian, and the chambermaids averted their eyes.
The coup de grâce was our departure the following morning. After settling the bill of 218 euros (suite, small dinner, and big breakfast), I went to retrieve our car from the hotel’s parking lot across the street, only to discover that it was boxed in by two other cars. The hotel summoned its parking attendant, one of those older middle-aged men who believe that a pimp roll, a baseball cap, and a stained T-shirt will fool the ladies into thinking he’s thirty years younger. Well, perhaps very drunk ladies.
Sloppy Joe grumpily swaggered out to the parking lot and a few minutes later returned to the hotel lobby, made quick eye contact with me, and then skulked into a back room. No one said a word.
Several minutes passed until curiosity got the better of me. I walked outside to our car and saw that it was still somewhat blocked in—enough that I feared I would do damage to the surrounding cars if I tried to wriggle out of our spot.
I returned to the hotel’s front desk to ask for assistance, but I got only shrugged shoulders and indifference. No one offered so much as to carry our luggage out the front door. This is what passes for five-star service these days?
So, picture this, if you will: A harried, middle-aged woman fumbling with three unwieldy bags (well, four if you count my mother), and an old woman on the verge of an asthma attack, leaning heavily on her cane, and with what breath she has apologizing for not being physically able to help her ragged, middle-aged daughter.
“Look at this!” I finally screamed in the parking lot. “How the fuck am I supposed to get the car out of this spot?”
“Never mind,” said Mom. “Just get in the car and leave it to me. I’ll guide you out. Trust me.”
And didn’t she do just that. Good ol’ Gimpy.
As we exited the parking lot I flipped a finger at the Hotel Palace and gave Mom a high five with the other hand.
“Great work, Mom. You know, that was probably the finest example of teamwork that we have ever experienced.”
“No, there are others,” she smiled. “Your memory is short.”
We got lost going out of Catanzaro Marina, but a gas jockey—thank God for Agip gas stations—provided excellent directions that got us across the narrowest part of Italy and onto the Reggio di Calabria–Salerno a3. As soon as we hit the autostrada—and I have never been more pleased to see a superhighway—I unclenched my sphincter and floored the accelerator pedal.
Zipping past the rugged landscape with its panoramic vistas and tunnelled mountains—I loved the tunnels in Italy—I concluded that the west side of Italy’s southern end is more picturesque than the east.
Too bad it wasn’t as breezy a drive up the coast as it had been down. It seemed that Italy’s construction workers had decided that this particular Thursday was a perfect day to begin the work week. Amid this flurry of construction I couldn’t figure out the reason for all the half-finished villas we saw during the entire time we were in Italy. Some looked as if they hadn’t seen any action in several months.
May I just mention here that Italian work crews are a very smartly dressed lot? Rarely did we see anyone wearing jeans or mud-splattered T-shirts and boots. Most wore dark slacks (not dirty ones, either) and a polo shirt topped by a navy sweater. They all looked so presentable and clean—even those driving dump trucks and front-end loaders.
Here is another roadside observation for you: Road construction in Italy does not require the crew to rip up a six-mile radius to complete a project. There is a reverence for the land that you don’t encounter on North American work sites. Italians have road building down to an art—after all, they’ve been perfecting it for three thousand years—whereas North Americans have been building roads for maybe two hundred years and feel compelled to haul out every vestige of heavy equipment to construct a shuddering tangle of cloverleafs and turnpikes. Italy still uses its hands and tries not to disturb the land, while North America bulldozes the daylights out of everything in its path. I suppose North America is sort of like the short, chubby guy who owns the flashiest car: He has to make up for his shortcomings somehow.
The Italians have not, however, found a way to perfect traffic flow, and so, like anywhere else on the planet, dust-clogged construction zones and snarled traffic go hand in hand.
It was dark by the time our car crawled up the long driveway to our trullo. I turned off the ignition, said a silent prayer of thanks to the travel gods, and checked the odometer: We had covered nearly a thousand miles in four days.