Winter in Sicily

Volcanoes, like fezzes, are cool. I have never met anyone who didn't think they weren't amazing and beautiful landmasses, yet capable of heartless mass destruction. And here we were in Sicily, driving up the side of a volcano in search of our final AirBnb, a house that was once an old winery. Google Maps mostly got us there through narrow, winding roads that fit 1.5 cars, and an old fashioned phone call that led us to the front door. Squeezing into the galley kitchen with our duffel bags, and into the dining area, I could tell Mark was smitten immediately. He saw the wood stove and fireplace, the lofted bedrooms, and the vestiges wine making equipment laying around, making it by far one of the most eclectic places we had ever booked. 

I, however, could feel the cold seeping through my Converse shoes and the cold seeping through the walls. A cold front had moved in, abolishing any thought of maintaining the cute winter look. Not a few hours after our host left, the snow started. Huddled by the fire, on went the hat, scarf, jacket, and any blanket I could get my hands on. The snow continued, but dinnertime was near, so Mark and I headed out on foot in search of an open grocery store and butcher. With luck, we managed to pick up a few items, including five liters of "butcher wine" to make dinner for the rest of the family. It snowed into the night. Now, technically in my book, 10 inches of freshly fallen snow in the early sun should have been a magical moment. But after shivering through the night in full-on winter gear and finding the courage to sit on a cold toilet seat, only to find the water pipes had frozen, I was nearly in panic mode. I would rather pee outside in a snowstorm than be "the one" who broke the toilet. Oh, and the 1.5 lane roads were impassible even with chains (which we were required by law to rent). Cabin fever came on quickly and no amount of butcher wine would take the edge off.

Luckily, the kids went ape-shit crazy for the snow and played in it for hours. They were joyful helpers when we had to melt the snow for drinking water and watching dishes, and  I practically had to drag them inside when the sun went down. On day three, the sun and plows did their job and we made a break for it, first attempting to drive up Mount Etna from the east side, but quickly ordered to turn around by the street plowers. Too much ice, they said, so instead, we drove to the southern end of the island: Agrigento for Greek ruins, Valley of the Temple, and a side trip to Scala dei Turchi (Turkish Stairs) a weird looking, sedimentary sea side rock face that I saw on Instagram once. 

The following day brought blue skies and a road trip to Syracuse where we visited a Greek theater that once held 15,000 spectators and the Ear of Dionysius, a crazy limestone cave once used for keeping prisoners. The acoustics in the cave allowed guards to eavesdrop on them without much effort. Hungry tummies brought us to the adorable and hip island of Ortygia. We ate at Fretelli Burgio, next to lively street market that would be a fishy sneak preview of Catania later in the week. David was mesmerized by the piles of octopus and squid, inky black staining the hands of the vendors. After eating buckets of gelato and suffering heartburn, our next plan of attack was to drive back north, towards Etna in search of an alternate route to the top. 

The evening began with slight frustrations over finding dinner. In Italy, no one eats earlier than 7:30pm, and many restaurants are closed on Mondays. It was 6pm and people were hungry.  Trying to be helpful, I found a place that opened at 7pm (they didn't really) with seemingly decent reviews (well, decent enough to be ranked #6 in an industrial, grayer part of town, so... not really) and with a Trip Advisor discount of 20% if we booked through them (nope). We went anyway. The kids and Mark ordered normal things like pizza margarita. I ordered what I thought was bean soup. It was chickpea fish soup. 

Now, I am no fish, nor soup hater. This combination however, was both funny and horrible. The soup looked like Dan Aykroyd's Bass-O-Matic slurry and tasted just as bad. To make matters worse, my mom followed my lead and was silently choking it down, afraid to be the complainer. For fear of going into hysteria, I couldn't look at my mom. I kept my head bowed, face buried in my scarf, when I dropped part of it in my soup. My laughter was silent and dripping with tears. Until it wasn't. The kids were worried I was upset but then I broke, exploding volumes of cackling laughter across the vacant, cold restaurant. Pretty soon we all were laughing too, including the staff who had no idea what was going on.

Mount Etna behind our AirBnb

Mount Etna and churches

Mount Etna and citrus

Ear of Dionysius, Agrigento

Photo credit : Margo

Scala dei Turchi. I was disappointed that I couldn't get any closer- it was fenced off.
Either the people of IG lied to me, or people trespass here all the time.
Map link here. Park on the SP68 or the "Terrazza sulla scala parking lot"next to the Beach Lounge.
 

Huddling by the fire

Purchasing our meat and butcher wine, and trying
mystery meat formed into congealed lard.

Standing on the ledge of our yard at sun set.

The first merry merry night in the converted winery.