I’ve always wanted to go to Sicily, so we went for a long weekend. I expected the crazy drivers, who had no use for the rules of the road, creating lanes, as needed, or using the sidewalks if necessary; the beautiful weather, the amazing food, people with total disrespect for queues and timetables. But, I didn’t expect a trip to Mount Etna.
Our excursion started in a very Sicilian way. A woman slipped in the shower and broke her leg. Her husband decided it was best to give us their pre-paid front row seats. To be clear we had nothing to do with the incident and were not near the couple at the time of the ‘slip’; we have witnesses to prove it. However, we accepted the invitation to join the group of 12 to see the erupting volcano.
Our translator, Mauro (pronounced tomorrow without the “to”), greeted us with a cheerful ‘Bon vinutu’ (welcome) and our guide Santino (pronounced San-teen-o) welcomed us with a kiss followed by a lot of Sicilian, which I’ll assume meant ‘good work getting the seats’.
Mauro explained that Santino, who spoke only Sicilian was, like Mount Etna, big with a tendency to explode. We were treated to a charming, energetic man in his mid 60s full of stories and so expressive, I felt like I could translate his Sicilian by sight alone.
Santino shared stories of four generations as we slowly climbed the ash and ice covered roads of Etna. Mauro begged him to breathe and allow for the English translation. Which only made Santino laugh and pat him on the head like a pet goat.
Santino is from Linguaglossa (pronounced Lin-gu-a-glow-sa said best with your right hand making some Italian-type gesture). He said, “We build homes feet from danger because the ash is fertile soil. But Mother Etna will take our homes from time to time. That is the price we pay to live in the most beautiful place in the world. We understand. This is our way of life. We will build again.” He told story after story of lava flows and rebirth and all with a backdrop of Etna’s smoldering caldrons erupting.
Too soon, it was lunch and we stopped at Santino’s home, where his son Salvo took us for donkey rides through their vineyard, while he required silence and total attention, so we could learn his philosophy. These were the vines of his great, great grandfather who also used donkeys to harvest, in the same way they do today. Even Jesus used donkeys. Why is it this way? Because donkeys are slower, they take their time and this reminds us to savor every moment of life.
When the donkey philosophy lesson was over, Salvo told us the men in his family are great lovers and the donkeys played an important role. I waited patiently to see where this was going.
He showed the men in our group how to carry the women off the donkey and whisk them away to lunch. Great fun for me, as my husband is strong and I’ve lost weight. Not so great for the heavy set woman on the next donkey, and her aging husband who was more likely to break his back than inspire their romance.
My romance faded quickly when I reached the barn and saw soup. The chilly mountain air made chickpea soup a wondrous concoction. The next course was fresh and flavorful too. Salad with a sausage, meat patty, and a pork rib, that all tasted as if they were freshly butchered and prepared that morning. Maybe it was the pitchers of their wine or the volcanic air but everything was magnificent.
As we ate, Santino’s wife, Sarafina, broke into song. “Il sole mio….” by the chorus, Mauro joined in and by the second verse they started dancing too. One song led to another while we moved onto the tangerine as the dessert they were out of control throwing things and falling down laughing. All too soon, it was time for a tiny cup of espresso and our departure. We kissed our hosts arrivederchi (bye) and returned to our hotel
I was so full; I couldn’t eat for the rest of the day and why would I want to? Sicily had surprised me. I had expected to see congested cities, smoking, crazy traffic but I didn’t expect to meet people that welcomed me like I was family. We left with a few bottles of wine, a few added pounds thanks to Sarafina, and memories of people as warm as Mother Etna.
