Home and The Pea in the Mattress

I am in my local library chewing a plenty pack of fruit flavored gum, nervously wondering how I continue the process of writing this story.  I am blessed that friends and family are writing asking when the rest of the trip is going to come.  I love this and it makes me feel lucky. 

The bottom line is that I am brain blocked.  The creative juices are not flowing and I do not know when the writing flood gates will open again.  I have almost completed a recipe for a basic super moist cake that can be sweet or savory.  I have been practicing my Italian.  I have been enjoying the company of family and friends, but I am stymied by the resolution of the return to life details and the worries of getting my going to school ducks in a row.  Wish me luck everyone and hold out some more.  I promise I will continue.


I wrote an American friend living in Italy, telling her about my low to mid grade panic that the last six months will fade into a hazy dull memory and that the jacket covers of my Italian books will become dust covered and incomprehensible.  She assured me that Italy was like the pea in your mattress.  Italy is something if you need it, will keep you tossing and turning until you find your way back.  I believe her. 

Ho finito

I have layed to rest my clothing that will never be clean.  It  included a ritual of burning in a fire and drinking homemade wine.   I have loveingly place these beautiful boots in a plastic bag to be used again when I turn the soil in my own garden this summer, vowing to wear them until my toes come through the top or my heels come through the bottoms.  Now I am settling in for the finish.  Four days left much to my amazement.  I cannot lie, this period of my life has indeed represented one of the most magical of my life.  I am fortunate that I will be leaving behind some wonderful friends only to be reunited with wonderful friends and to see my family.  Even when I was swinging a broom handle like a gladiator swings his sword at terrible little biting dogs that I had the impulse to drown, I ask myself.  How did I get so lucky?  I laughed at the rediculousness of it  and thanked my lucky stars that even with teeth torn pants it was an absolute privledge to have shoveled crap, collect worms,  weeded crops, throw 700 kili of potatos in a tube, to run away from biting dogs, to be shit on while milking a cow.  I am a lucky woman. 

Stay tuned and patient I will finish writing the events that remain untold and hopeful start to publish recipes as well. For now I am going to pack in as much as I can then go home, sit in the yard stare at my feet for a day or two, reacquaint myself with my life and then get back to living. 

Love
Marianne

Randozza

                            I was up late the night before eating horse meat at a sidewalk bar-be-que with an Italian cowboy  so i started off slowly in the morning.  I walked to the train station through the fish market to practice my Italian and to take photographs.  I was amused again by the friendliness of all the men and awed by their knife skills.   I watched one man slice swordfish carpacio with a cleaver. His small fingers tight, knuckles stacked up straight above his finger tips as he held down the flesh in front of the huge blade.  With his other hand he guided the blade through the flesh, parting it well for lack of a better metaphor, room temperature butter.  The slice was thin like a shed tortoise shell.  I could see light through it when he held it up to the light for his customer.  it wowed me and he liked that.  His mouth did not move a bit but his eyes smiled back at me.  he is the one here with the black hat.


                             I wanted to travel to a town called Randozza.  It was one of the villages surrounding Mount Etna.  The day before whet my appetite.  I wanted granite rivers of rubble with the oasis of trees and rocks and to walk a town where people lived out their lives near the belly of fire.  It was going to take hours to get there.  More than one train was needed to arrive.  The first was the city train,  starting off above ground and finishing underground.  I read the track number on the board and headed to the underground walkway.  I took the last stairway to the platform and waited on the bench.  The train was going to arrive in ten minutes.  I was feeling proud and pleased having had a lovely leisurely walk and arriving just in time.  I was a little surprised there were no other passengers only to see that there was the train arriving on another track.  I broke all the rules running,  ignored the yellow line on the platform sprinted over it to crossed the empty train tracks below, climbed onto a raised platform hand over foot  or maybe it was foot over hand to a full platform of Italians looking at me sideways as they boarded the train.  None of this of course was done in time to make the train but there was one sympathizer who was climbing a staircase that I somehow missed.  She smiled a little and shook her head.  I whipped the rubble off of my palms and was reassured by her that the next train would be in a half hour.  She told me in English.  I felt like she knew I was from away.  I am pretty certain that an Italian woman may not have approached arrival in the same way as I had.

The next train station and the track was much easier to find and it had a waiting room.  The number of people there was significantly more.  People lined the platform with rolling suitcases and shopping baskets with wheels.  Families in their polished city clothes, man, woman and child groomed perfectly without a hair out of place.  i felt like I was waiting for the ferry to an island miles off the coast.  It seemed that everyone had made a holiday of coming to the city or were making a holiday of leaving it.

The rail line that traveled around the mountain was the old fashioned chugga chugga trains.  It tousled you back and forth at the start, clicked and crackled a little as it rolled, everyone's head swaying involuntarily from side to side and it blew a good steamy horn of warning for all those in automobiles waiting for it to pass.  It was almost two hours for me to arrive to the little town of Randazzo. With a sunless sky, the train chugged through small sleepy mountain towns that felt dirty and sad.  In between were desserts of lava flow, charcoal and light-less.  Every inch of outside was a patchwork quilt of gray.  Some colors hard and dark, others soft.  It all made me feel very sleepy and a little lonely.  Passengers greeted each other as they boarded.  Exchanged small talk, often not in a hurry to find a seat.  their familiarity with one another made me sense the feeling of being from away a little deeper. 

When I arrive in Randazzo it was completely vacant.    No one in the station, no one on the street.  I was imagining tumble weeds and spaghetti westerns.  There was absolutely no one.  Everything was shut down, silent. Not a single car went by, no one was walking, not one single window or door was without a shutter, there were no cats in the alleys.  I kept looking over my shoulder.  It felt a bit creepy.  For a little while I had the same nervous feeling I had when the lights in the basement where turned off before I finished going up the stairs when I was little, like something scary was going to grab my ankles and drag me some place dark and eat me. 

Almost the entire town was made from lava.  The buildings were charcoal gray, the houses were charcoal gray, the streets were charcoal gray, the sky was charcoal gray.   It made me wish I was yellow.  I enjoyed thinking about being yellow for a little while but I was fighting an urge to be lazy and that thought took over everything.  "I could never live here."  I said to myself out loud.  I had to force myself to walk every street and followed every brown tourist sign.  The entire time the only sign of life that I saw was purple cauliflower on the sidewalk.  The town was beautiful though.  Sad with all its greyness but architecturally beautiful.  The grid of streets were named after other cities or regions in Italy.  I found one named after Abruzzo.  This was a new seed for daydreaming about visiting there soon to see where my people are from.  I wondered all I could before the rain.

I was a little relieved when the rain came. I now had a good solid excuse to do nothing.  I headed back to the station to settle in for a two hour wait. Unlike the rest of the town, the station was a little brighter inside.  Paneled, stuccoed, and aspestus tiles, it  was a completely unremarkable Mussolini building.  It had utility but nothing about it was beautiful, not even attractive.  The walls were lined with bright red plastic chairs bolted down to black metal frames, one next to another.  I chose one exactly in the middle and settled in for the wait.  Other than the sound of my breathing and the pounding of the rain on the roof, the building was silent and empty. My brain felt like I had just been swimming for hours, blank and tranquil.  No thoughts were taking hold.  I was relaxed and patient.

The scrap of train wheels approached and a cloud of loud was entering the building.  Italian adolescents in transport from school filled every chair and sound  poured in like water into a jar, filling every inch of the room. The sudden sound felt confusing next to my tranquil time alone.  It was like being woken up suddenly from a sweet sleep.  I took out my camera and quietly photographed them.  They were now a chorus of whispers, speaking behind their raised hands and staring at me, pointing.  I slipped my camera back into my pocket feeling self conscious of their notice.  Three girls sat next to me and piled on one another for a group shot-one with their arm out holding the camera at a distance.  Across a group of boys did the same.  Another group held their phones the same way that I had held my camera and photographed me.  The three girls that were on my left now leaned toward me, a new group coming to sit on my right.  Soon standing in front of me was the remaining mixed dozen of teenage boys and girls.  I was completely surrounded on all sides with my body pressed against the plastic back of my chair.  Screaming and pointing standing so close that I wish I could swollow somethng that would make me small.  A small girl standing pressed her legs against mine moving them a little to the side, not giving me enough room to look down at the ground if I wanted.  She was the spokes person for the unruly gang.  Leaning down she fired questions at me, I could feel her breath on my skin.  In the seconds that she was consulting with her friends I was contemplating what a wonderful photo this would be if I could take out my camera and how completely unintimidating these little people were individully but as a group in such close proximity I was finding it hard to swallow and I was flushed red.  Honestly I found them hard to understand, the yelling, the dialect, the stubbornness of the interrogation made communicating difficult.

I asked first if I could take out a note book for writing.  They stepped back so I could lean down under my chair to get my bag.  As soon as the bag was on my lap, they stepped back in.   I was hoping that this would calm things some, perhaps lower the volume of everything.  It did not.  The leader wrote and all the rest spoke at the same speed and the same volume.  They scolded me telling me to cancel the picture.  When she asked a question, everyone waited for a skinny second for me to answer before spitting out more questions and demands.  I tried to write what I could but another would continue with a question.  When I spoke there was more quiet but never lasting.  I explained that I photographed people that were waiting.  It went on and on.  Then something happened, it may have been a sound outside, in the mind numbing loudness of their voices I missed it but it all stopped.  They were silent and like the bottle had been knocked over and the water was silently running out.  they filed out, leaving me again with the sound rain of the roof, the sound of my breath and the resonennce of my heart pounding in my head and my chest.  The ringing in my ears lasted for hours.  My hands shook,  I took my camera out of my pocket, looked at the picture, smiled knowing that there was a snowballs chance in hell that I was going to delete it.  I held down the the button to take a photo, observed the light, I slid my figertip over it, "I have got to cover this thing." I said out loud.  The words bounced in the empty room like a ball and fell silent on the floor.

Thanksgiving with Mountain Man

The plan was to meet the guide in the lobby at 8.  to tell you the truth at one point i had a lovely little flier that described him and his business partner with their names and the name of their business but along with my colorful and difficult to read maps and tickets stubs, it was lovingly placed in the recycling bin in an effort to lighten my load.  I think I might even have to make up a name for him as well because for the life of me I cannot remember it.  Lets call him Marco.  I think his name was a little more exotic and that is contributing to my lack of memory. 

He is sinewy, short and tranquil.  He spoke fast but moved his body as though he had only so much energy to spend, like he was holding out for when it was really time to spend.  His English is an exact translation from Italian.  he would say things like Have hunger you?  or WE make a stop here so i make a look for you.   he confessed that he learned most of his English trying to communicate with clients and from listening and singing Pink Floyd, the doors and the Beatle's songs.  Never in school.  Never from a book. He only did the school that he needed nothing more.  His first love was the mountain, his second love was his wife and family, third music.  I wish I remembered his exact pattern of speech so that you would maybe have the chance to enjoy it as I did.  I will pay more attention to these kinds of things now when I can.  I am not skilled enough as a writer to recreate the cadence of an italian accent influenced by rock and roll.  maybe some day with lots of practice.

We traveled from the hostel to the mountain in his Land Rover.  Generally I hate these kinds of vehicles.  But I will state here for all to see if he picked us up in a Hummer I would not have been mad.  After being where he brought us the use of this kind of vehicle is sound judgment.   If automobiles came with teeth, this one would have them.  They would be stained, maybe chipped a little but sharp and firmly planted in the gums.  Again i find myself in a car with an Italian that would under different circumstances be a white knuckle experience but here I am cool and calm, knowing that I am in very good care.  Streets here are incredibly small. Most of the streets in the center were basically built for horses pulling chariots and coaches.  They are narrow and very bumpy.   he drove this mountain beast like it was a tiny Smart Car, weaving in and out of traffic, making sharp turns left and right. High in my seat I glanced down at people's laps high, feeling like mountain man chariot could crush everyone else like a bug.    Our voyage in more traffic was story time Mountain man style.  I love story time.

He started trekking the mountain with his dad when he was an infant.  His dad would strap him on his front by using long pieces of fabric.  When he was a little bigger on his back until he was big enough to walk.  then as a toddler it was the combination of walking and riding on his fathers back.  At the age of ten, his father dropped him off on a Saturday morning with his back pack full of enough food for eight days.  The following Sunday his father picked him up near the town where they live on the mountain.  The route was decided on but not with  a map.  I asked him why he did not use a map.  "Well the mountain changes all the time.  One day you draw something, then next day it could be gone.  This is not any ordinary mountain. It has fire inside.  Any moment it could belch out rivers of molten rock in a stream strong enough to swallow homes, automobiles anything.  The biggest thing you can image can be covered with lava in seconds, completely erased, leaving behind ash, and red glowing rock.  A hotel here with 5 stories was completely destroyed by the last big eruption.    he made this trek alone for eight days completely by memory alone at ten years old.  I take a moment to think about all the ten year olds i know and frankly i would almost not trust them to get out a neighborhood let alone down a volcano. At the very least it is a fascinating, incredibly specific life experience that I feel lucky to have brushed up against.  Especially fortunate considering I am and Italian American raised in Philadelphia suburbs were nothing like this ever can happens.  For fun we just didn't climb volcanoes.  Another moment that I am tingly with WOW, how did I get here?


  Now Marco is 36 years old, already with almost 30 years of trekking experience.  Like his father, he became a guide at 18 years old. People seek out his guide service from all over the world.  this is not a fact that I learned from him but from others.  he did not boost this to us.  Now he treks with people for as long as a few weeks at a time, sometimes using a helicopter to be dropped off with his party of guests at a remote point, and then they climb down.  i feel like I am pretty brave and I have done some fun things  but i just don't know if I will ever do this.  (maybe my mom said PHEW and smiled with relief when she read this).

Marco has two children of his own and has carried on the same tradition.  During an overnight camping trip with his wife, four year old daughter and five year old son there was an eruption.  it was small and distant but the lava burst from the ground with a bang like a cannon.  His daughter was hysterical and his son shrill with excitement.  Too dark to climb down, they spent the night in a tent with a sobbing four year old.  After comforting her, she would fall to sleep only to wake with another bang and a new fit of crying.  His son was so excited he could not sleep.  I don't blame her.  I think I would have piddled and cried myself.  five years later, his daughter still has never wanted to return to the mountain, and he can't keep his son from wanting to be on it.  "it is that way.  You either need to be here or away from here.  It is in some peoples blood.  This mountain can become your mistress.  I have never forced my daughter to come back.  She should be where she is comfortable, but I am teaching my son everything I know like my dad did.  He wants this mountain.  He is almost ready to be left as I was."  continuing he said in his rock and roll italian accent. "Maybe I will die on this mountain.  I do not know. Everyday i do not know but everyday is as likely as the next.  We have science for the guessing but we don't know when or for how long or how big." the last big eruption scientists estimated would last for a few days,  it ended up erupting continuously for over a year.  When this happened Italians went up the mountain to light their cigarettes on the lava and to cook sausages.  "Cooking sausages is not a good idea.  The gas is poison.  Lighting cigarettes is fine." Shrugging his shoulders.  "You cannot stop them from doing it." 

We drove through a few mountain villages before ascending.  He pointed out one saying that he once had a family vacation house there but it got burned up by lava.  "We also lost a car to lava.  Well I lost a car to lava."  Much to my surprise did not ask any questions.  To tell you the truth I had to get accustom to his cadence in speech before i could get him to talk about something i thought he might really get excited about.

 It took us about 45 minutes to arrive.  if there were no cars it would have been about  20.  My ears popped like mad.  the accent was fast and direct.  The day was cold and overcast.  This was a surprise.  For the most part when I was in Catania the weather was well into the 60's during the day.  I left the hostel with my man sweater and frankly I was glad.  At the top of the mountain there was snow, in between was probably in the 30's  The road was pretty normal for a little while.  He spoke about the more recent eruptions and some of the lava science in preparation for our first stop.  He explained that the lava flows at different rates.  One flow form is rivers or streams or lava flows in explosions or mad burst of red hot lava into the sky then falling down to the ground forming lava rubble.  When the lava flows in rivers the surface cools faster than the lava inside.  the result are tunnels with a lava ceiling and a lava floor.  the tunnels are sometimes shallow, other times hundreds of feet deep.  He explained that many of the deaths and injuries are caused from unguided hikes on the mountain.  "People forget that this is not a mountain.  It is a volcano.  It is very different.  Things happen here that you can't write on a map.  If you don't know what you are looking at you could basically be walking along and then fall hundreds of feet into the mountain. Like being swallowed, never to be found again."  he stated.  it did not feel like he was trying to boost his sales.  It is an absolute truth that more information is needed to fare una passagata on Mt Etnea. 
Our first stop was one of the holes that could swallow you-a tunnel.  He handed us helmets with head lamps and explained that we should stay close to the opening.  the danger is that the tunnel could collapse.  "Do you still want to go in Marianne?"  he asked.  "Sure do."  Silly,silly man.  Why aren't you asking the fella.  I thought.  

I could stand when I was inside but Alan had to bend over a bit.  I do not think that he was more that 6 feet tall.  It was light less and seemed endless.    I proceeded away from the hole we entered in down the tunnel.  He grabbed my shoulder like a dad would a child about to walk over a ledge.  "There is always one in the group."   he said smiling,  explaining that he had not idea how long the tunnel was or if it would open into a larger one.  This tunnel was formed from a lava flow in the 1800's.  Later he promised he would try to take us to a different one that was formed in the more recent eruption and also take us to a place where lava from the 1800's and lava from the more recent eruption overlapped.  he reminded us to go to the castle in
Catania with the mote filled with lava.  It was from an explosion in the 16th century, I think.  The castle was unharmed but the lava flowed from the top of the mountain to the city.

When we ran out of road,  He switched his monster into gear and we were off.  This is were I would make a car noise if I were telling you in person.  It sounded like a hot rod, throaty growl of the motor climbed, bouncing us around like kernels of corn in an air popper before they pop.  I clenched my muscles to stop myself from being tossed around too much, but could not stop smiling.  .  "do you get sick in teh car.  this is where some people they have problems. Oh not you marianne", he said laughing, " How about you Alan.  You sick now.  We can go another way but you will miss somethings.  I will stop here in a few minutes so that I can make a look for you about the mountain."  We all agreed that we were just fine.   When I kept my mouth loose my top and bottom teeth slammed together.

 With my bouncing eye spy eyes i noticed a grave marker and a pile of rocks.  I asked for more information.  Apparently an Italian man lived on the mountain and during the second world war was a great help to American soldiers.  I think this man's name was Bruno.   this man spoke English.  "How did a guy from the mountain learn English to speak to Americans."  I asked.  "I don[t know maybe his mother was American."  I tried not to laugh but I knew my eyes were smiling.   Bruno told the Americans that he would like to see Catania.  he had lived his entire life on the mountain and never saw the city.  They agreed and took him with them.  On the way to the city they were in a crash.  Bruno was the only person that died.  The american returned his body to the mountain and he was buried where I saw the tomb stone. Poverino, died without ever seeing the city.  

As we continued Marco pointed out varying tree growth.  the reason there was a difference he explained was because where there were new trees there once were farms where people raised families and had farms with animals and grew vegetables.  "Now people don't want to do that work and they don't want to live on the mountain."  One point in time, less than a hundred years ago, hundreds of people lived and worked on the mountain.  Now people have migrated down to villages around the mountain and to larger cities.   As we proceeded we could see skeletons of walls dividing property as well as homes and barns.  He pointed out various types of trees and patterns of growth that are evidence that the land was once inhabited by a farmer.   What was amazing to see were thick veins of black lava and in the middle of it were islands of bright green grass with trees.  Often fruit trees.  When I was in Noto I ate Mt. Etnea apples and they were about the size of an apricot and the appleiest apple I have had in my life.

We climbed to the where the terrible souvenir shop is.  I skipped buying a lava charm but  had the best hot chocolate I have ever had in my life.  It was like warm chocolate puddling.  You could not drink it really you had to eat it with a spoon.  The milk and the chocolate were mixed together in a metal caraf and heated with a steamer.  I did not look up from my cup until every drop was finished.

anyway.  the wind blew cold and the snow was coming down like I was in New England.  "Can we go.  this snow gives me the willies."  I asked.  Alan was already in the truck.  he was from L. A. and had not interest in the cold.    This stop was brief.  Foul weather interrupted some of our plans.  If the sun was shining we were going to go further up to see a crater where an eruption had separated the mountain.  It was a little disappointing but we did get a good look at where lava had overlapped.   Marco told us to follow close behind and to only step were he was.  Don't wonder off and make your own path Marianne. This is very important."  "Maybe we will be swallowed?"  I asked.  Yes.  The ground was like gravel.  Large and small lava stones crunched under our feet.  After about five minutes we stopped.  he pointed out the different color of rock,  we were looking at lava from the 1800's.  He found a hole.  "Put your hand in there Marianne."  Excited and willing I did exactly was he told me to do.  "Unbelievable it like a sauna in there."  Thermal heat from a flow that is 200 years old is still putting out enough heat to make you sweat if your entire body was down in it."  he smiled, satisfied that he made his point and that I was the right puppet to demonstrate.  As Alan had his turn at blunging his fit under the surface I watched mountain man finger some rocks.  Finding two he seemed to like he place one in each of his hands.  I felt like a kid watching a magician.  "Marianne open your hands."  i pushed up the sleeved of my man sweater, opened my palms to the sky and let him plop two lava rocks into my hands.  wide eyed again I was amazed that one was as light as cork and the other as heavy as granite.  "You try Alan" I said.  He tried to take the stones from me with his index finger and thumb. "aw no Alan, you will be missing out if you do it that way." I said reaching for his hand and opening them up to the sky.  " ready." I asked.  Raising my hands to my head i plopped them into his hands.  "Wow." he sparkled a little bit for a moment.  "Why do you think this is like this?"   I bit my tongue trying not to blurt out the answer,  i wanted to give Alan a chance.  I was feeling like being female and also enthusiastic about these kinds of things was orienting the day in my direction.  Alan just cast his head down and said nothing.  It made me sad.  I knew the answer but let Marco explain.  The second lava flow pushed the lava that was under the surface up to the top creating heavier stones.  The lighter stones are from the more recent flow.  These stones were formed and cooled on the outside, on the surface where there was exposure to oxygen.  Now there is a mine what uses heavy equipment to dig into the ground for this heavy lava for paving and tiles.  In Catania the rock is not so solid because it was rock that was dug and cut my hand.  Now it is easier to go hundreds of meters deep and extract lava stone.  ding ding ding i would have been right but sometimes that is not important.

We visited the mine where they bring up the lava stone.  This was our last stop before leaving the mountain.  Marco continued story time.  he brought up the car loss again.  "In American when you tell someone you lost a car it means you can't find it.  I have a feeling here you mean something very different."  he smiled. "Well yes."   he had just passed his drivers test.  Fresh with the enthusiasm of driving freedom, he begged the keys to the car from his dad and went for a drive up the mountain with a friend.  They stayed passed dark to see the stars.  hearing an explosion close by, Marco and his friend hurried to start the car.  the lava arrived before he was able to move it.  Quickly he was in a the middle of a flow of hot lava.  The sudden rise in temperature blew out the windows of the car.  He and his friend climbed to the roof and jumped over the river flow onto grass.  They ran away from the lava to find a "safe" place to wait.  Feeling warm liquid drop from his finger tips he looked down at his hand and realized that he had sliced open his thumb from the tip to his wrist when the windows blew out.  He and his friend would wait the night on the mountain for the sun.  he raised his hand to show me the scar, raising his brow.  he needed almost 30 stitches in his hand.  "Holy cow."  I gasped at the map of white lines on his hand.  Shaking my head thinking about all the different moments that could have ended everything differently, jumping from the car and missing the grass, not putting your hand in front of his face when the glass burst,  not knowing the sound of an eruption close by.  I would be dead.  Period.

"oh Dio."  He said " I am so comfortable I almost took you two home with me.  I will take you home now."

I smiled with my feet on the dash board and looked down at the laps of the people in cars who had probably had a very ordinary day.

Catania: Secondo volta

It was about ten minutes to the hostel.  I stayed in the same place that I had stayed before.  I was not nervous about the check in and whether they let older people in.    I focused on my task of arriving.  This was a chore, a job, an event.  Something I had to psyc myself up for.  I was a woddling, sweaty mess, overburdened by the weight of my belongings.  Silently I inventoried my possessions , evaluating what next would make the cut list, estounded that it was still has heavy as a dead man on my back.  First thing to go is the man sweater I thought.  If a homeless man stopped me for a euro on the way to the hostel, more than likely I would have just handed it to him saying "This is all I have to offer sir, sorry" Then run so that he could not hand it back.  It did not happen. I walked with it in the crook of my sweaty arm.  Scratchy and damp, my annoyance with the man sweater started to mutate.  I hated it.  I hated that Christine thought it was a good idea.  I hated that I did not say no.  i tried to shove it under my stretched bungie cords but was needing frequently to stop and readjust.  I had to look backward before bending over to fix it for the fear that I would potentially knock someone over with my back pack.  "surely this is making my ass prettier.  now there is something to think about marianne.  Ah still an optimist.  This is good. This is very good."  I imaged my butt as hard as stone and picked up my pace a little.

Everyone walked like they were late in Catania, which surprised me, and they knew exactly where they were headed.  They always looked straight ahead, rarely making eye contact with a stranger.  My and my rolling case was walking in the pariphary of their vision.  My little rolling suitcase wobbled back and forth over the volcanic brick as I walked, I squeeze the hand to try to stabelize it, trying to keep an eye on the man sweater, making sure it did not touch the ground.  It is the same routine as the last visit, just day light, alone and not as long. Still fairly miserable.  I try to focus on the fact that nothing is up hill and that I am suffering with luggage in Sicily.  Technically a luxury problem.  All my friends at home are shlepping wood and getting there winter ducks in a row.  Basta Marianne.  Just get there and be happy.  Rock hard bottom or not, I was sweaty and out of breath needing to slows to a snails pace.  I parted all the on coming pedestrian traffic like a leaper.  Couples holding hands loosened their grip to part, one on the street, the other to my side, twisting with there backs to the buildings to make more room always looking forward, mothers picked up their small children moving widely away from me. 

For a moment I was proud that I had remembered a short cut away to the hostel from the main streets.  Unfortunately the ground was covered in detritus from the market that day and once you are on this path you had to stay there.  Wet piles vegatables, meat scraps, fish juice, inviting packs of abandoned dogs to eat and then release pooled in the cracks of the pavement.  Now my little wheels were starting to splash, creating a mist of this horrible concoction to dampen the bottom of my suitcase and the bottom of my pants.  I tried to avoid the deeper mirky puddles but avoiding wet entirely was complete impossible.  I leaned against thinking more about the wet like it was a door that the bad guy was trying to get through.  I did not what to think about it.  I was trying to find my optisim but unfortunately reminded myself that I was walking with all my possession in a puddle of crap, pee, and rubbish.  I just tried to image my brain was in a sand storm stopping what I was thinking and focusing just on arriving.

AT the hostel, I arrived with a grunt and a slam of the door.  I used my foot to lift my scummy bag over the door jam, into the lobby with more force than I intended causing it to smack face down on the floor.  Everyone in the lobby turned.   Red faced and shiny, I smiled and asked for a room, ignoring the attention.  the sweet girl with a simpathetic cock of her head replied.  "Si si, I remember you",  rounding the counter to help me.  "You can have a private room for a special price, it is only 7 euro more.  Would you like it.  It has a shower only shared with one other room and no one is in there?  the whole place to yourself."  Well I was exhausted so I would be snoring like a truck driver tonight.  I did not want thinking about that in the company of a stranger to keep me awake.   I splurged with a big "YES".

I walked mostly the first night after a shower and a nap and a little laundry. I had a few hours of day light before I had to meet kate and Alan at the elephant.  Arriving in Catania, take two, hopefully without puddle scum.  I went through my list with my guidebook first finding the city park.  I found clusters of men again and embracing lovers and photographed like a vouyer. I walked to find St. Agatha prison and snapped pictures like mad.  After dark I met kate and Alan.  I brought them to the famous place for a baseball size rice ball filled with cheese and meat breaded lightly then fried gently.  The crunchy outside easily giving way to a soft bite into the center of cheese warm goo.  Divine.  Then the best gellato in Catania. I had scoped it out earlier in the day and even was nice enough to test the quality so that they would not be disappointed.  Oh how I suffer.  Having remembered some from the last time and my trip on the tourist train, I took them to the outside things to see that I had seen.   It was pleasant.  It was not the same kind of friend satisfaction that I had felt in Palermo with Eleanor, Zoe and Chris or later in CAtania with Zoe and Chris but it was decent company.  Kate had spent the day on Mt. Etnea and after listening to her adventure, Allan and I wanted to also go.  I knew after this evening that i was going to need to be very careful with Alan.  I think he is probably one of those brilliant people that can't remember to tie his shoes and he has NO self esteem.  I am aware that I can be curt and i do not have a poker face.  I just knew that I might be able to make him piddle and that would be bad.  Alan was staying at the same place and I knew I would have to manage my time with him carefully.  Kate had an early day so we parted company.

Alan and I  headed back to the hostel to see if we could make arrangements with a guide for the following day.   We were greeted cheerfully by Alessandro, the man that checked me in the first time was at the desk.  I felt a little embarrassed about him knowing my age.  There is this nagging thought that i am too old to be doing what I am doing.  "Ciao Marianne I was happy to see your name on the book.  How have you been.  Tell me what you have been doing."  "First we must try to go the Mt. Etnea."  Alan looked at him, his eyes squinted, his mouth a little small.  the arrangements were made with one phone call with the guide.  After I started to tell him the readers digest version of my adventures.  Alan slipped away like he had interrupted something. 

Ciao Catania

 My arrival started with a proud moment.  I asked the bus driver to leave me at a stop close to the Elephant.  Perfectly upright with my pride, I wished the bus driver well and went to the luggage compartment to get my bags.  The luggage routine was the same wobbling overwhelming experience but now it is heightened by sliding gear attached to the exterior of my rolling bag.  the concept was going to work but the burden too great and nothing slippery.  When I hauled the rolling bag to the ground,  my bungies parted and some of my things slid to the ground.  I laughed at the ridiculousness of this situation, arriving on the bumpy sidewalk, my backpack half on bent over to gather my things, I nearly fell forward on my face.  This made me laugh even more.  I quickly sprung to my former perpendicular position and was greeted, surprisingly by this man.

"Dove lei viene da?  (Where did you come from?) He asked smiling.


"Il cielo" (heaven) I replied impulsively.  Maybe this guy did not see the bus?

"Lo so.  Lo so."  i know i know.

"Ah oh" I thought.  Well pretty quickly a business card was out of his wallet, his cell phone number was scribbled on it and he was emphatically stating.  "I always answer this one."  Ah it is your pussy line.  I thought.  Italian men sometimes have three phones;  one for work, one for their wives and family and a third for their mistress.  I learned this from an Italian man with three phones.  He was just a friend and I did not have any of his numbers, just for the record.   I was thinking I was probably given the third by the famished look in his eyes.   I am finally beginning to recognize the look of hunger, it is similar to just been slapped or a look of surprise, like something really dreamy just happened.  I don't mind it.  I do wonder what really gorgeous girls have to do here.  I think they don't make much eye contact, travel often in groups or are with very protective men.  He as a little hard to shake but still it was better being greeted by him than screaming women that were completely incomprehensable and very angry.
 
"What do you do here in Sicilia?"  he asked in italian.

"I work on farms and agriturismos."  I answered in italian.

"What do you do here in Catania?" 

"Well I would like to go to Mt. Etnea and I would like to see the church where St. Agatha was a prisoner.  I am not sure yet.   I am only here for a few days."

I take you.  I take you to many lovely places.  I know many people who have restaurants,  We will eat very good food and drink very good wine.  I am a journalist.  This is very  good.  i know a lot of people.   Do you like music?  You like jazz? I know where there is a place for beautiful music.

"Sure you do." I thought, smiling at the absurdity of all of this.  Sweat beads are fulling formed on my upperlip and my face is shiny with sweat and this guy is relentless.  I am understanding what he is saying which is very exciting.  I am speaking very slowly and he is understanding what I am saying.  I am assuming, maybe like Isabella my dog, I could say anything as long as it sounds sweet and I am smiling, she still always wags, as did he.  Remembering that someday down the road this will  no happen anymore, I stay patient.

"Okay I will call you after I get checked in."  I know this is a lie but I gave up believing in hell a long time ago.

"Where do you stay."

Crap. Okay try the keep smiling manuvuer than go for the diversion technique.

"I don't remember the name of it but I remember where it is."  Feeling clever.

"I will take you?, we go together."

"No no."  Oh I am so bad at this stuff.   "I have many things to do before I go to the hotel, especially if we will go be visiting more of Sicily than I thought.  He raised his brows and looked at my luggage.  I don't think he believed me but thank God he was satisfied with the idea that I would call him later that day. 

I never called.  Even if he was a foot taller and 15 years younger I still would not have called, but I was inspired by his confidence and his ability to try to believe in and pursue the unexpected when he thought it could potentially bring him intense pleasure.  Maybe I am a little like that too but in a very very very different way.

Syracusa: The Last Day

 We all had to be out by noon.  the baggage could stay but the bodies and the goods had to be out of the rooms and in the closet by noon.  for me this was no problem.  i tried a new formation for my belongings hoping that the combination of strapping on the outside again with soft things on the rolly luggage and then hard things like the computer and books and shoes in the backpack.  the difference-none.  the discomfort-huge.  Still a problem. I  made two trips down from my room steadying myself the best I could.  I wobbled from side to side a little when I placed my pack on my back.  I was disgusted.  The disks in my back felt like they were touching and my brain was rubbing up against the top of my skull.  I moped down the three flights of stairs anxious that I had arrived sweaty and already tired. 

I had a full two days of little interaction with people so when Alan and Kate asked me to meet them at the Elephant in Catania at 8 I said yes.   I was certain that I saw all that i could so  just wanted to have another short walk near the water.  I was planning on staying in the same hostel in Catania that I had so there were no worries or arrangements that needed to be made.  Max and I chatted briefly about my plans and his for the hostel.  Max was an attorney.  He had a practice in Catania was giving hostel ownership a go.  He seemed tired and overwhelmed.  He smiled a lot but when he spoke he was breatheless, like nervousness was claiming space inside like an rhinosorus on a bench.  I don't know how I ended up here, he said.  What I really want is to take a year off and just do some quiet work or spend a month not talking, just in a quiet place with monks or something."    I listened empathetically as he continued.  He talked money, the number of clients that he needed per month to make the bills, the pressure of a bank note, the costs and politics of renovations, the reliablity or unreliablity of help.  I could only think of how happy I was to be picking worms and shoveling shit to put around plants.  I felt so lucky that I was not in charge anymore.  I was so happy I was not working late staring at a computer screen hoping that the numbers would be flush that month.  Happy to not have dead lines staying late making things shiny and pretty for people when the rest of my family and friends were home and in bed. Happy to not be the interpreter of customers wants. Happy that when something was wrong someone else was being told.  Happy to wear rubber boots and holey t-shirts and jeans.  Happy to wear leather gloves and use a shovel or a zappa.  Happy to be the lovely assitant to wake the tractor beast and not in a dark basement melting metal and throwing it into a stinking hot flasks.  I was happy not to doing any of it.  "You could try WWOOFing.  Give it all up and sell everything, get a backpack and some rubber boots.  It is good for you I promise."  he smiled with sparkly eyes maybe because he agreed maybe because he thoguht I was completely out of my mind.  "My favorite thing though that keeps me going is meeting people like you.  You are from so far away and had I not owned this place we would have never met.  I love that the world comes to me a little here." 

I walked to the little city beach past the pier watched men fish and others walk small dogs.   I made my last stop for a sweet treat and said my good byes to Syracusa.  "Bye Bye dancing music selling man in the trailer on the sidewalk, bye bye ear sucking waiter, bye bye all you happy couples and your public displays of affection, bye bye light fluffy baked good, bye bye woolly mammoth,  bye bye fish guy in the big rubber boots, bye bye Caravaggio, bye bye all you well suited old men in hats, bye bye obedient horticulture.  See you again."  I thought as I walked. 

When I returned Max greeted me at the door.  "Remember Marianne to return here.  Remember that is I have an amazing cook and she will be happy to teach you what you want."  "Okay then I will."   A polite handshake and one kiss on each cheek sealed the deal.  I loaded up the goods on my torso and grabbed the handle to my luggage and was out the door.  I went first to a little bar to buy my bus ticket.  entering felt a little like moving a sofa, angling myself to clear the side, then switching my position a little to clear the back.  The rolling luggage last.  The waiter looked a little horrified, I actually looked down at my chest to see if any really personal  part of  me was hanging out of my shirt and then I checked my fly.  After finding that everything was still covered, I realized that it was probably just the usual what the hell is in there look.  I asked about a ticket and was told that I had to go to the bus station to buy it.  He explained the where and the bus line. I was pretty certain that I understood. 

It was all very easy to find.  I greeted the young man in the ticket booth in broad day light. "Buona Sera"  which means good evening.  "Buona Sera Signora, Prego."  "No NO  Buon Giorno."  "Ah uguale. Dove vai?"  (the same were do you go?)  "Catania"  "Catania? Quanto tempo"  (Catania for how long) Looking at my luggage.  Oh I am here for months but not just in Catania.  Dove sai?  Where are you from?  The United States.  Wahut dew yewe dew here?  He asked in English.  I answered in Italian.  "I work on farms and agritourismos in exchange for food and a room."        "W H A U T!" he said holding his mouth and spinning around in a chair.  "Ti piace? No per to get paid"  (you like, )  "Si si."  No me. Me no like this whork.  Americani always they whant to help."  "Eye lieke America and Americani."  He said patting my hand.