“So tell me… you and your young man — one bed or two?” said the fiesty 80-something Italian villager. He approached as I photographed the twlight mountains, houses, and rising moon in front of his abode on the hill. “Well this is a funny thing! I never come outside at night. First time I do I find a beautiful woman. What brought you here?”
The vista from the old man’s front yard…
I tried to dodge the bed question by feigning non-comprehension.
When a blood sucking insect is lodged in your leg, life ain’t pretty. Not quite thirty hours had passed in our little airbnb cottage before an ominous, “Honey? Could you look at something for me?” floated up the stairs to the kitchen.
The road leading from “home.”
Getting the next year of our lives organized was the bright side of wwoofing at an agriturismo in Tuscany. More on the results later. The not-so-bright side? Agriturismos are rural properties whose livelihood comes either partly or mostly from hosting paying guests. It’s a no-brainer that wwoofers help with the most pressing projects. It’s also a no-brainer that the most pressing projects at an agriturismo have to do with customers (i.e. cleaning) more often than farming. Since we wwoof to learn about farming (many do it as a cheap way to travel), we tend to stick to real farms. Exception made; lesson learned.
How did this wwoof spot draw us in?
Random observations in the midst of a Italian summer:
Not only in Europe, but across Asia one very good marketing scheme has been slipping into my subconscious. Although the brand name differs, the logo doesn’t. My eyes light up each time I see the red and white “ice cream!” swirl heart.
Constantine’s Arch – seen from the Colosseum. Built for him by the Roman Senate to say, “Hey, thanks for kicking Maxentius’ ass for us.”
Arguably, if it weren’t for one man’s bizarre dreams, most of the western world might still be worshiping Pagan and Roman gods.
Where it all began…
One afternoon, in a trailer-house-cum-classroom outside Sunflower Elementary, a thick and commanding woman named Ms. Swenson gave a lesson to a small group of ten year olds. She spoke of Pompeii — an ancient city consumed so quickly by a volcanic eruption that bodies were frozen mid-stride. From that moment, I — a present student – began dreaming of one day going to gawk at all these bodies turned to stone, frozen snapshots of ancient life.
Well, either Ms. Swenson was wrong or my ten-year-old brain made a great leap from fact to fiction. Obviously burning hot lava can’t freeze anything. The real story?
Sure, Europe has lots in common with the rest of the Western world. But it’s the quintessential things that will live on in my memory. Like:
Someday I’ll learn the words so next time I can sing along. [Stirring the curds for some of the most amazing cheese ever!]
Domenico sings Italian love songs as he works. Loudly. Passionately. He began milking sheep about forty years ago. He’s from Sardinia (Italian island) , where his ancestors started milking sheep centuries ago. He is still using the same method: capture a sheep, hold it in place with your knees, bend forward to obtain clear view of udder, milk sheep, immediately make cheese with milk collected. Repeat in the afternoon.
Milking a sheep isn’t easy. One might imagine an udder as a giant balloon full of milk. Squeeze the spout (teat) and milk comes out, eh? If only it worked like that.
What the Italians consider breakfast. This was our sustenance for our first day of Italian hitching.
Our flight from Germany landed us as far from mainland Italy as one can get without the need for a very, very long boat ride. While we’d hitched happily and successfully through the Czech Republic and Germany, online sources said Italians aren’t so keen on picking up strangers. Each article noted that the mafia should be of no concern to tourists, but I thought it uncanny that it bore mentioning each time. While my funny bone suspected writers on the subject were potentially full of baloney, we didn’t have the energy to take our chances. And so, a bus delivered us from Trapani to Palermo to Messina where we overnighted in an overpriced hovel and dined with the Couchsurfing hosts mentioned in the last post.
In the morning, however, we dredged up our courage and confidence.
Sicily not quite fully pictured. Trapani is on the far NW coast.
Imagine you meet a woman who is 250 years old. No lie — a walking, breathing, functioning, anomalous miracle. Think about what that would be like. Two hundred and fifty. She was alive during the war of 1812. Heck, she was born in the late 17th century. She may now have an iPhone, but she was 75 the year the telegraph was invented. Wouldn’t you be blown away? If yes, you can begin to understand how Sicily feels to me.
Sicily — Mediterranean Island being kicked by the boot that is Italy — is: like a gut punch that doesn’t hurt. Like a slap that doesn’t sting.
Hungry for more? More time? More money? More health? More wholeness?
Hungry for less? Less rushing? Less pressure? Less stress? Less fractured attention?
Please come on in! I’ve been collecting wins and losses for a few decades (and counting). I hope sharing them helps you on your adventure through your one wild and precious life.
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