Victoria Falls

Vic Falls

@Three Monkeys Restaurant

Victoria Falls is a darn good waterfall. Majestic, huge, and loud, we joined the masses of other tourists to walk the Zimbabwe side of the park, enjoying views that accompanied the constant, cool spray, massive rainbows, and thousands of gallons of voracious water plummeting into the gorge below. Historic records indicate March is when the levels should be so high you can't see your hand beyond the mist, and the back-spray should be seen even from the town of Vic Falls. For March 2019, the water level was neither too high nor too low and the legendary Devil's Pool contained many thrill seekers hopefully avoiding a gruesome death, which we could see across the way. (On the Zambia side, you can pay extra money to ford the part of the river and rest in a natural pool that sits directly at the edge of the falls.) When the 13 minute helicopter rides weren't thumping over head, we could hear the water crashing into the bottom from the hotel pool. 

From Namibia, many people prefer to arrive by plane because it takes less than two hours to fly. The drive from Windhoek takes roughly 15.5 hours, not including border crossing wait times. For us though, we had been desperate to visit the northern stretch of Namibiawhich is vastly different from anywhere else in the country, so we filled up the car and made our way to the town of Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe, over 3 days. The route included 4 border crossing stops (exit Namibia, enter Botswana, exit Botswana, enter Zimbabwe), 4, national parks, 4 gas stops, and stopping for countless animals crossing the road, including elephants.

We stayed in the town of Vic Falls for two nights, which was more than enough time to see the tiny city, the falls, and engage in few other activities. One of the activities we signed up for was a Zambezi River sunset cruise. Though we did see some wildlife and enjoyed a pretty sunset, I regretted that decision because the theme for the evening was getting drunk people even drunker on a pontoon boat. It was a painfully boring slog with nothing to see but a few hippo nostrils and a distant giraffe, combined with creeps harassing Margo about her red hair. 

On another venture, we took the kids to a crocodile farm and snake exhibit while we waited for lunchtime. Despite the fact that dozens of crocodiles were divided into three-foot high cement wall enclosures with a pathetic amount of fetid pond water, most of which were farmed to make leather goods, the park wasn't too shabby. Well, their lion enclosure was depressing and small. But the kids held one year old crocodiles and we watched a feeding where the guide dangled chicken meat over the wall with a stick. Crocodiles would jump out the water, snapping their jaws shut with impressive finality. Unfortunately, it was during the feeding that Mark's camera hood bumped the wall, sending it into the murky water forever. "Not getting that back" was all he could say in the matter.

The best part was the snake exhibit. We saw something like thirty different snakes in glass cages, including some good ol' american copperheads and diamond backs. We saw black and green mambas, boomslangs, and every other famous south African serpent. To their utter delight, the kids got to hold one of the tame ones. I couldn't tell you which one because I could only focus on the fact that the snake kept trying to crawl into David's armpit.

We ate mediocre food at expensive restaurants that preferred to take USD or Rand instead fo the local currency. We drank at The River Brewery Company which had decent beer, and attempted a self-proclaimed "nanobrewery" that only had warm beer and tired people leaning against the bar eating pap, mahangu porridge. Otherwise, we drank 5 USD Zambezi Lager or water that cost the same (tap water in Vic Falls is perfectly safe, but unless you clarify tap water, we learned, they'll hand you a pricy bottle of Bon Aqua.) 

Though we could have structured our time differently and integrated more activities in our schedule such as bungee jumping, zip lining, or taking a helicopter ride, we were content with walking the path in the park. Deets did wistfully ask if he could be put in an alligator cage and see the gators underwater at a different croc farm, but once we pointed out the stink from the previous one, he agreed it might not be the best thing to do. 

Before we knew it, the two days were up and we faced driving the 1,441 km home. There would be a grand finale though - in four day's time, after the kids patiently dealt with our "just one more game drive" pleas (which they disliked), and bird viewing cruises (which they loved), we'd get a chance to see a pangolin at the Rare and Endangered Species Trust located outside Outjo, Namibia...

Squacco Heron

On the highway through Victoria Falls National Park.

Zimbabwean stink bug.

Booze cruise with 100% pure Zambezi lager.

Nano-brewery: smaller than a microbrewery
and without crafted beer of any sort.

Northern Namibia Road Trip

During the school term break, Mark and I took the kids on a massive road trip from Windhoek to Victoria Falls. Our intentions were simple: to get a feel for the tropical version of Namibia, and to see a big-ass, famous waterfall. It would take us 1,441 km (895 mi) of tar road, from thirsty landscapes, to farms, to river rich jungle. We'd drive through 4x4 restricted park reserves, and float on pontoons in hippo and croc infested waters, and forced to stand still whilst watching the most beautiful sunsets I have ever seen. There's always going to be "one more thing" we want to see, and though we still have about 6 months left at post, it was also the trip meant to prepare us for the long goodbye, as we frequently make in the Foreign Service.

From Windhoek to Otiwarongo, the Namibian landscape ranges rises and falls along the Khomas Hochland Plateau, and melts into the Central-Western Plains. Distant mountains and hills on either side of the highway contrast the monotonous blur of thorny trees, shrubs, and grasses. There are miles of barb-wired fences separating the properties and sometimes we can see the sequestered game such as springbok, wildebeest, or kudu, or escape artists dangerously skirting the berm next to the tar 2-lane road. Hundreds of warthogs also dot the berm as they eat leaning on their elbows, and rumps in the air. It's the B1 highway, where supposedly everyone follows the posted speed limit of 120kph (75mph). It's the most traveled road for anyone headed north or south, so after the 2nd, 3rd, and 4th time driving it, it's kind of boring. 

After the 2.5 hours to Otjiwarongo, the B1 splits into northwest and northeast directions. We split right, headed to Otavi, one point of the isosceles "Triangle" with Tsumeb (B1) and Grootfontein off the B8. It's a triangle of expansive green farms, mineral mining, and the gateway to the Otavi Mountains which you notice almost immediately. The uncharacteristically green mountains are notched by dramatic cliffs and stratified brown-orange rock formations. Among the spread of peaks is Ghaub Cave with its underwater lake, and ancient rock carvings. It's deep, dark, and dangerous, a perfect experience for hard core spelunkers. Maybe it would be another trip for another time (NO. WAY.)

For outer-space lovers, The Triangle is also home to the Hoba Meteorite, a giant slab of metallic rock that was excavated in 1920 after a farmer's plow scraped the top of it. An estimated 66 tons, it looks like a big piece of burned lasagna (from its iron content) from a distance. Up close, the shine of nickel and cobalt is evident from the hundreds of slice marks it has suffered from vandals. Though a quick 10 minute visit is all that is required to see Hoba, it's an excellent detour from the B8 (about 30 extra kilometers). 

The northeastern tour continues through Grootfontein (2.5 hours from Otjiwarongo) a town that seems nice with its strip mall and jacaranda lined streets. Once topped off with gas, the remaining 2.5 hours worth of driving to Rundu would prove to be physically painful from all of the sitting, but also the most interesting visually. The fences and expanses of farmland disappear, replaced by expanses of makalani palm, baobabs, and marula trees, and small plots of corn or mahangu in between. Tiny homes are constructed of local materials such as clay, wood, or grass, without obvious signs of indoor plumbing and electricity. Cone shaped, thatched roofing sit atop the homes that sleep up to four people. 

Pedestrians are also seen in abundance as they make their way to/from home, work, or school. Many carry plastic containers, likely headed to the nearest well, others with multiple bags filled from visits to the city. With decent timing in the morning or afternoon, hordes of children are seen out and about on the roadsides, usually wearing smart, matching school uniforms. Brightly colored dresses and skirts for the girls, shorts and button down shirts for the boys. The kids are either barefoot, or wearing white socks with black shoes though everyone else seem to wear flip flops. As usual, the wee ones linger behind the older children who make their way home, but it is evident that they all look out for each other, and few are seen playing in the road. Goats and cattle, however, cross the road in a fashion leisurely enough to force drivers to a complete stop. 

The B8 has roadside vendors selling hand-carved wooden and soapstone animals. The sell miniature and large canoes, locally called mokoros, and decorative mobiles. There's also pottery of various sizes and uses. Most often seen are bundles of wood for sale. Further north and northeast, the bundles of wood turn into bundles of dried reeds and grass that were harvested from the many rivers that  contain actual water (in addition to crocs and hippos). The reeds are frequently used to make fencing or shade, whereas the grass can be weaved into mats. Bargaining for these various items is expected, and often draws enthusiastic participation, especially if the shopper is clearly from out of town or has no idea "how it's done." Once a price is proposed, the sellers shout back to their cohorts in their mother tongue. If accepted, the seller and whatever children are hanging around give head nods, and the transaction is completed. 

After you hit Rundu, the B8 turns east for about 634 km (394 mi) to the Botswana border. It's mostly a straight line that is dotted with people, homes, and farm life, but at the same time, passes through unfenced national parks, Bwabwata and Chobe, which flow into Angola and Botswana.  The former has three core areas that offer 4x4 trails along the Okavango River called the Mahango Core Area, Buffalo Core Area, and Kwando Core. All three are worth exploring either by personal vehicle or organized game drive if staying at a nearby lodge. While you might not get as many wildlife sightings as Etosha, the lush greenery, water, and solitude more than make up for it. These factors make for more interesting photos. 

Our big hope was to see the last of the Big Five, the cape buffalo. We were also hoping to get lucky and see cats or wild dogs, but neither happened. However, while driving in through thick orange sand on our way to a delta plain, we were surrounded by more elephants than I have ever seen in my life. We checked off nearly every bird in our bird book, and saw families of vervet monkeys, Windhoek's equivalent of baboons in this neck of the woods. A few antelope species were new to us too, including tsessebe and reedbuck. Each with distinct markings, but all with the classic deer-in-the-headlights stare. 

We drove and saw animals until we were numb in our butts and brains. Looking back week later, I would definitely do it again.

 Round trip from Windhoek to Victoria Falls was about the same as driving
one way from Denver to Washington DC. 

Investigating Hoba Meteorite after a hefty rain.

Caution: wild dogs on the B8

Cattle and farmers on the Okavango River.

Fog at sunrise on the Okavango River.

1 of 100,000 pachyderms in the Bwabwata National Park, off the B8.

Minding our manners off the Kwando River.

What fairytales are made of.

Maybe it was the double gin & tonic, but the (unfiltered) sunsets here
 bring about many emotions.

Day lily.

Voldemort, who?
Credit: Mark

HP in the Forbidden Forest.

Swallow tailed bee eater.

Observing their territory.

Claiming their territory.

White fronted bee eaters on the Kwando River.

Water monitor on the Okavango. 

Pied Kingfisher
Credit: Mark

African fish eagle
Credit: Mark

Vervet family
Credit: Mark

Woodland kingfisher

Evening mokoro ride.

Weekend animal fix

My daughter on the Okapuka game drive today: "Please wake me up if you spot a lion or a leopard or a cheetah." She promptly passed out in my lap, followed by her girlfriend who had slept at our house the night before. They left drool spots on my jeans and slept through a 4x4 trip through the bush.  If that doesn't count as a mom-win, I don't know what does. On this afternoon excursion, I learned a few things such as, crocodiles embedded tongues, making it seem like they don't have one at all. They also eat exclusively underwater but come up for air to take another bite. The sound of springbok femur bone breaking in half is gross and very loud. Warthogs don't usually kill by using their tusks, but rather by biting their prey and shaking the hell out of it and playing tug-o-war with a goal to disembowel. Our guide told this to three young children who sat in the truck while he idly fed the demanding warthogs handfuls of food pellets. 

Springbok sushi.

Coming up for air.

Breaking the springbok's leg bone.

Margo: I know ostrich don't have teeth
 because an ostrich bit me once. 

Twins, super normal in giraffe world.

\

The never tired girls.

A Thursday Evening Observation of True Love (Trew Wuv)

Last night, while Mark worked out on his bike trainer, I attempted an all-in-one crafting kit meant for kids 8 years and older. I was supposed to make a yarn covered unicorn, but the end product looked more like a hastily bandaged horse with compound fractures because its cardboard legs folded in, under my not so delicate hands.  I spent so much time squinting, trying to peel back the microscopic pieces of double sided tape, that I started seeing spots. So, I didn't think much when I saw a spot dart across the floor. Disgusted with my pile of horse and waning vision, I packed up and started to close up the house for bedtime.

I shut the front door and saw the spot again. This time, I was certain I wasn't seeing things, that a creature had made its way underneath the dresser in the foyer. In this part of the world, I figured it was likely a wall spider. They are huge, flat spiders with bodies that sometimes grow the size of a quarter. They are also wicked fast, which makes me think their legs are more easily ripped off, especially if they make a fast wrong turn. There is a 7-legged wall spider in my bedroom that either has lived for 2.5 years, or its progenies keep losing their legs. Luckily they don't cause much harm. 

Anyway, the spot moved into direct light, revealing itself to be an ordinary mouse, which is kind of disappointing considering all the other things it could be. It ran into the office where I shut the door, as if that would keep it from escaping. I went to get Mark who had just finished his workout. We both know full well that under no circumstances could I handle being in the same room as any creature (snakes, mice, spiders, birds) that has the capability to liquidize its bones and squeeze into tiny cracks or jump on my face. So he took on his heroic role without question. 

Sighing, he picked up my foam roller and walked to the office: in bike shorts that clung and shined with sweat and his cycling shoes. Nothing more, nothing less. In my book, this is true love: dealing with rodents, when he'd rather be doing anything else. Like, taking a shower, or plucking ear hair.

Mark rolled his eyes when I fearfully asked if he might try to kill the mouse using my foam roller. Instead of telling me no, he told me not to worry about it and I closed the door. The next thirty seconds were cartoon sounds of him sliding in his shoes, moving furniture, and opening the sliding door in an attempt to motivate the rodent to make an easy exit. Fortunately or unfortunately, Mark moved a bookcase to the center of the room causing a child's two-foot walking stick to fall down, effectively braining the mouse mid-stride. It died instantly, thank goodness. 

"The trajectory of blood splatter is impressive, you should take a look," he said enthusiastically, handing me back the foam roller, which he had used to block off the main door. I used to take pride in my ability to withstand blood and guts, but the hibernating nurse in me refused to engage. I stood there, all angsty and a little nauseous. Unceremoniously, the mouse was scooped up in a Spar grocery bag, and the crime scene was wiped clean before Mark retired to the shower. The admiration, love, and respect I have for my hero in spandex knows no bounds. 

Windhoek Cactus and the Cactus Lady Who Hates Them

In recent months, Gunhild Voights, also known as The Cactus Lady, had been trying to contact anyone and everyone in local government, NGOs, and any organization to spread the worrisome word of cactus plants taking over the city. Comliments to her perseverance, she tracked down the deputy political/economics officer at the embassy who agreed to take a tour of the city with Gunhild. The officer asked me to join her and I agreed, despite the fact that it was blazes hot and I had just sat down to eat my lunch. I am a sucker for human interest stories. 

We walked out of the embassy to meet her, a tall, thin woman in her 70's with hair so white it hurt my eyes. She was pacing back and forth across the entrance, surveilling the building and worrying the local guards on duty.  She seemed to be talking to herself, rapidly pointing out all of the embassy plants that were considered invasive: wonderbloom trees; all of the cactus planted in the barricades; the trees that bear yellow, bell shaped flowers. It was only then that she introduced herself to me and my colleague. 

Gunhild walked us to her white, 1988 VW van with dual sliding doors where her husband, Friedhelm, a man with a fantastically long beard and thick glasses, waited. The engine chugged to life and he rolled up his window, though I am not sure why. The van had no air conditioning and at mid-day it was 95F and only getting hotter. Gunhild barked orders in German to take a left at the next intersection, as if he had no idea where we were headed. With several more directions given, five minutes later we arrived at the Legal Assistance Center, where our tour would begin. The weathered woman, wearing hiking sandals and pants, she all but ran up the hill, my colleague and I chasing after her in not-so-sensible work shoes and skirts.

A born and raised Namibian, Gunhild is Windhoek’s default cactus expert. She raised her family working as a goldsmith but when she noticed the spread of cactus taking over her children’s playground where she herself had once played as a child, she had an ominously sad feeling. Appeals to the city didn’t work, so she and her husband took matters into their own hands, removing massive piles of tangled, prickly plants one by one. The work was hard and onerous, but worth it. The first project quickly transformed into a mission: all over the city, underneath the brush and hiding in plain sight are cactus plants, proliferating right under everyone’s noses.

Sure, some of the cacti are beautiful. Most of them in Windhoek, however, are unpalatable masses that spread and grow quickly in the dry climate. None of them native either (except for one) to the entirety of the continent, let alone Namibia. Of the 2,000 different types of species found worldwide, 23 of them have been identified within the city, according to Helmuth Zimmermann, an environmental scientist from Pretoria. He came here to do surveillance with Gunhild in 2017. 

The conditions are favorable here, being as dry and hot as it is, so the cacti grow quickly and aggressively. Within the city there are tons of trails amongst the rocky hills, shaded by mostly native trees such as the camelthorn, acacia, and shepherd's tree.  Most of paths have been rendered useless due to the overgrowth of cactus. (That, and because of people constantly getting robbed in the bushes, but that is besides the point). In the outskirts of the city, however, cacti have started creeping up on land used for livestock, taking over essential space normally reserved for grasses and bushes needed or food. Cattle and wildlife can't wander the spaces with ease either.

Gunhild created Cactus Clean Up Namibia, a grassroots organization that exists solely based on donations. When she and Friedhelm have funds, they hire day labors to assist them with the manual removal of cactus patches throughout the city. The laborers earn lunch, water, and a small stipend of N$140.  The labor is brutal too. Blistering sunshine, hot temperatures, minimal shade and water, and these pokey little SOBs. They make for a long 8 hour day, raking out the shallow roots and tossing literally thousands of plant corpses (which equals thousands of pounds worth) into construction bins. There is so much undergrowth that the laborers usually fill up an 8,000 liter bin in a single day. 

Australia, which has banned cacti growth, battles their invasion by charging hefty fines for non-removal, using pesticide sprays, and introducing caterpillars to eat the flowers and plants. The potential contamination of Windhoek’s aquifer makes the use of pesticides problematic and not desirable. Introducing cochineal insects such as the Cactoblastis caterpillar (yes that is the official name) would be a logical and safer method, but the expense is prohibitive at this time.

The Cactus Lady wants to spread awareness, knowledge, and motivation to the community and to team up and attack the problem to good old sweat and tears. Recently she did receive a piece of good news: the Ministry of Agriculture, Water and Forestry sent her a letter concurring that cacti are indeed a problem that must be addressed. They agreed to not plant any more cactus on municipal land. It’s a small victories in life, but she's still got a long way to go. 

In the van, we toured several more spots of the city including the future site of the new embassy compound, where construction and landscaping crews are dismantling the current house on the property, chasing off black mambas, and navigating their way through unkempt terrain of- wait for it: jungles of ugly, unfriendly cacti. Hopefully Gunhild's timing will work in the favor of landscape planning and nary a cactus will be found in five or six year's time when they finally open. 

Once you see it, you can't unsee it.
On the plus side, my friend says cacti roots
are incredible for composting purposes. Grind them up and plant
with drought-resistant saplings and BOOM: enviro-plant-power.
Tip credit goes to: Zeke's Dog's Dad

Gunhild in front of one (of four) giant piles of
cacti they cut down over the festive season, about 4 week's worth.

DIE Cacti!

The flyer she hands out

10 Hours in Rome

After a heartbreaking departure from my mom and dad at the airport, we headed to our separate gates. They were bound for Zurich, New Jersey, and Denver. We were bound for Rome, Johannesburg, and Windhoek. Before the big 10 hour flight, we had a big 10 hour layover in Rome. Mark had been talking up the history to David, who got to choose where we would go. First stop: the Colosseum with everyone and their mother, and their mother's mother. And hundreds of tour guides, tours, and military police too. The two hour line to buy tickets landed us in the shady side of the Colosseum where we froze and I managed to lose my hop on, hop off ticket with the Big Red Bus. One of the touts gave my children "free stuff" and when we refused to pay them money, he grabbed me in protest. Perhaps it was during this that I lost our 85 Euro family pass, perhaps not. Either way, it sucked when I realized it happened at all. 

Onward in the line, we crept until we finally reached the ticket office. Onward in the line, we crept to the bathrooms too. FINALLY, we hustled up the stairs to enjoy the glory of the Colosseum. It was just as awesome as the last time we saw it. The tales of re-enacted water battles, and people fighting animals in the center ring enthralled David's imagination. When Mark asked him what animal he would be willing to fight he said "a ferret."

The Forum line was too long for any one of us to care about enduring, so after navigating a smug and unhelpful Big Red Bus representative about our lost ticket (yes the brochure and website does say if you lose your ticket, too bad so sad), we called customer service to troubleshoot and immediately got onto the next bus with a fresh ticket. Thank goodness. 

We hopped off at The Vatican stop, David's second pick. Mark talked to the kids about the complexity and power of religion, and he and I pined to be the ones climbing up Saint Peter's. We did know that a visit there means an early arrival and long lines, and our time was extremely limited, but it didn't make it any easier to walk away from one of the most beautiful, sacred buildings in the world. A brief and pricey lunch, followed by gelato, a visit to the Pantheon, a bottle of wine, and another gelato stop, Trevi Fountain, and a jaunt through the Basilica of St. Mary of the Angels and the Martyrs did take most of the disappointment away.

With that, our ten hours in Rome were over. We took the train back to the airport and said goodbye to stifling-cold-Rome-unless-you're-in-direct-sun, hello to uncomfortably-hot-Africa-still-wearing-wool-socks-but-can't-unlock-my-bag-to-get-sandals. 

Three weeks with my amazing, adventurous, and entertaining family was great. I miss my mom and dad so much. But man, it's wonderful to be home.

Pistachio.

The Vatican 

Pantheon 

Trevi fountain on a light day

Sunset view from Basilica of St. Mary of the Angels and the Martyrs.
Credit: Mark

Sicily and Mount Etna

After the fish soup debacle at Novocento Restaurant, Mark banned me from making future decisions on where to eat. Fine by me, I said. On following morning, we were blessed with blue skies and clearer roads. After canvasing the opposite side of Mount Etna on previous day, we were determined and more confident we could get there. Our first attempt was up the east side again, which is considered the most beautiful with pitch black rock lava against the snow, and canopies of trees that still held onto the vestiges of autumn. Icy conditions forced us to bail about 3km from the base of the volcano. Our rental car just couldn't do it, and the crap chains we had to rent with it snapped the moment Mark put them on. Discretion was the better part of valor so we attempted the southwest side and ascended easily to the base. 

We paid two million dollars (120 Euro for four people) for a gondola ride up. Many people freely hike from the bottom, but we didn't have an extra 4 hours to do so. Our hike began 3/4 of the way to the top, and it still took us about 2 frigid hours to make progress. Margo led the entire way, speeding up the mountain, leaving me to "tie up loose ends in the rear" re: gasping for air and lamenting my lack of endurance. The trail was nothing but a steep climb of crumbly lava rock and snow. Halfway up, what we thought was a cyclone of swirling snow ended up being volcanic air vent blowing out sulphur steam and heating up our boots. Further up, we hiked around extinct volcanic cones with the kids recalling anecdotes of watermelons getting tossed into active volcanoes and evaporating into thin air. (Mark had introduced them to the Bad Science podcast, which discusses the scientific accuracy of movies. They were obsessed and have been listening to it since).

Cold weather finally beat us into submission, so we rode the gondola back down and hopped into the car to drive the entire circumference of Mount Etna. This included a necessary lunch stop in a town called Bronte. Our travel book had little information on the town, which was very unfortunate. While it was still a snug, 1.5 lane one-way town with tons of people, there was a lot more we would have enjoyed to see, especially in terms of pistachio farming. Forced to make a rash decision on lunch, I chose another Trip Advisor recommendation: Pepe Rosa. With handmade pasta and Sicilian craft beer, my reputation was somewhat recovered and we ate like kings. 

The western and northern side of Mount Etna is lesser travelled, but no less marvelous. In fact, it was what Mark and I both thought the entirety of Sicily would look like: terraced farms selling citrus, wine, and strawberries; rolling green hills spotted with tiny villages, and distant northern mountains which on the other side led to the sea. The pace was slower up here, greener, and sweeter. It was also where all the kick-ass wineries are. I took advantage and booked us a lunch reservation at the Gambino Vini Winery the next day. For 30 Euros a person, we ate and drank 100% locally grown products until there was no room left. We walked away fat, happy, and with a few extra bottles to take home (Petto Dragone, an aromatic red wine made from the Nerello Mascalese grape. They are exclusively grown on Mount Etna.) They aren't the South African prices we enjoy paying in Namibia, but after drinking hangover heavy butcher wine, we were more than prepared to pay for higher quality. We adored everything about that place, including our sommelier, Hanna from Poland. She was just right kind of awesome.

Only a couple of days left, so the following morning, we took off to Noto in the southeastern region in search of three things: gelato, craft beer, and an abandoned city. We got two out of three. Cafe Costanzo reportedly has best (and weird) gelato in Italy. David confirmed this when he first ordered gelato containing spring onion, and was convinced to try the cinnamon-almond instead. The original Noto was abandoned in 1693 after an earthquake hit it. We were free to roam the castle which was built high on a hill, and without much in the way of fences or supervision. In fact we were the only ones there save two farm dogs. I thought Noto was lame and lacking in vitality. Mark however loved it.

The craft beer visit was not as lucrative. At Pepe Rosa, Mark and I found a saison made by Yblon. Their FB and website seemed to indicate easy location and visitation, but all for naught. We couldn't find the damn place among the rows of industrial warehouses. We drove back beer-less, but made up for it by drinking Chimay at a fabulous pizzeria (Al Pino) in our neighborhood.  

Before we knew it, the trip was nearly over one day left to be spent in Catania, an historic port city on the east coast. David most looked forward to walking through the famous fish market, which we did in repeating loops, watching vendors scream and sell some of the most beautiful Mediterranean fish. Most of the crustaceans and squids were still alive, and the millions dead fish eyes stared back in wonder. We weren't the only ones enjoying the spectacle. In fact, locals love hanging out here. Rows of old Sicilian men clad in black wool and grey hats stood above the market, watching over the rails. 

Once the busyness died down, we explored the rest Catania and shopped at Siculamente, a hipster's dream come true. Their designs contain famous Sicilian colloquialisms, some of it pithy, some with extreme levels of innuendo. Mark bought a bicycle hoodie that translates to "you bought it, now ride it." That sort of thing. Despite a few other fun t-shirt finds, Mark wasn't really feeling the Catania vibe, whereas I liked it better than Noto. Even with seeing a naughty young couple doing it in the middle of the park. And now I can't unsee it. 

We packed in a few more miles of walking the streets, taking in souvenir shops, huge churches, and  countless statues as sort of a last minute prep for our 10 hour layover in Rome the following day. 

Break dancing in front of Noto's Duomo.

Trekking to the crest.

Finished.

Mount Etna

Le Pescheria