Sicily Solo: A Young Man's Three Month Solo Journey Through Sicily

By Mark Tougias

In the spring of 1993, with a pack on his back, a shoe-string budget and a young adventurers curiosity, author Mark Tougias sets out from his home in the U. S on a solo journey for the ancient and alluring island of Sicily. With no hotel reservations beyond his first few days, no deadlines, no tours and no groups, the author travels the island at his own pace and in his own style.

From the chaotic cities of Catania and Palermo, to the intimate mountain towns of Erica, Enna and Ragusa; and from the heights of Taormina to the subterranean world of the catacombs and many other towns in between, Tougias introduces us to an array of unforgettable characters and circumstances. With razor-sharp observations, an eye for the absurd in everyday life, and a prevailing sense of comedy, the author crafts a refreshing and honest account of his three-month odyssey.

Told with heart, affection and a sense of wonder, Sicily Solo is neither a guide book nor history book, rather it is a book about people in their own environments, the joys and frustrations of budget-solo travel, and the heart of the traveler.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 13, 2013
• ISBN: 9781475979626

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Copyright © 2013 by Mark Tougias.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This book is in no way intended to be used as a guide book. Much of the information may be outdated or inaccurate. The publisher and author do not assume, and hereby disclaim any liability for inaccurate information or descriptions.

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ISBN: 978-1-4759-7961-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-7962-6 (ebk)

iUniverse rev. date: 03/08/2013

CONTENTS

Foreword

Chapter One   Montreal 1993

Chapter Two   Catania

Chapter Three   Siracusa

Chapter Four   Noto

Chapter Five   Ragusa

Chapter Six   Agrigento

Chapter Seven   Caltanissetta

Chapter Eight   Return to Catania

Chapter Nine   Taormina

Chapter Ten   Lipari and Panarea

Chapter Eleven   Cefalù

Chapter Twelve   Palermo

Chapter Thirteen   In and Around Trapani

Chapter Fourteen   Selinunte

Chapter Fifteen   Return to Agrigento

Dedicated to all the good people of Sicily,

especially those who helped me along the way

and

In loving memory of my mother,

who encouraged me often to complete this book.

FOREWORD

The book you hold in your hand is a true account of my three-month journey throughout Sicily, as a young man, which began in the spring of 1993. Although I had previously traveled several times throughout southern Italy, I had only gazed upon the island from the shores of Reggio di Calabria located at the tip of Italy’s boot. I had been warned several times by friends both in Italy and at home in the U.S. not to go there, but these friends, of course, had never actually been there themselves. In fact, I knew of no one who had. In addition, information on Sicily was scarce at that time, and internet was unavailable if not non-existent. Nevertheless, the lure of Sicily and the questions I had about it eventually became too strong to resist. And so, when I had saved up enough travel money to survive on, I set off in the most economical fashion possible, for the great unknown. With the bare necessities squeezed into a small frameless backpack and an even smaller handbag, I boarded the train and crossed the U.S. border into Canada with the Montreal airport as my destination. This is where our story begins.

During my travels I kept notes and often scribbled full accounts of certain events into my notebook. Once at home, the notes and memories were organized into a somewhat finished, coherent story. In a three month journey however, much had to be edited out or was, in the end, simply not recalled. As time went on, and I had become sufficiently distracted by my life moving forward, my writings (now laying in a large box with notes, maps, photos and the like) became increasingly buried and pushed into the farthest reaches of attics, crawl spaces and closets where they sat for twenty years. In 2012, having shuffled this box around long enough, I made the firm decision to resurrect and complete the book. In doing so, I relived and enjoyed the journey once again.

It is important to keep in mind that the journey took place in 1993, as quite a few things in Sicily may have changed since then. At that time, there were few Americans wandering around Sicily. It was not a significant American destination and even in the most popular tourist hot spots Americans were rare. In fact, I remember meeting only one couple from the U.S. Also, in no way, is this book intended to be a guidebook for the traveler. As you will see, the book is more about people in their own environment—or in the case of this writer, out of his own environment—and the characters and simple stories encountered along the way. It is also about the joys and frustrations of travel.

I would also like to say, for your knowledge and enjoyment, that everything in the book is true as best as it could be recalled. The stories, events and the people are not fabricated (though the names of the people have been changed). Even the dialogues— most of which have been translated from the Italian—have been recalled as accurately as possible, though they may have been altered and edited slightly for coherency purposes. Come along with me then, for our first encounter with the ancient, beautiful and alluring island of Sicily. I hope you enjoy the journey.

Mark A. Tougias 2013

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CHAPTER ONE

MONTREAL 1993

The eighty-four year old great-grandmama sat squat and compact on the very edge of the airport waiting room chair. Had she placed her rear all the way to the back of the seat, her stubby legs, which were wrapped in white cloth like a mummy, would have extended straight out hovering parallel to the floor and at a right angle to her ball like body, thus prominently displaying swollen feet crammed painfully and perhaps permanently into uneventful black shoes. The excess of her feet oozed over the sides of her shoes like a muffin out of its paper cup. Were she to stand, her height would not have increased perceptively. Her hair, which was white but leaning strongly toward antique yellow, was tied up in a bun with an unknown stick of sorts running through it. Her front teeth were spaced like the black keys on a piano and almost the same color. The southern half of her face exploded into large mozzarella like rolls, which completely covered any hint of a neck, though it was there, somewhere, to be sure. Sitting next to her at the departure gate in the Montreal airport and being attracted to her complete old world Italian fashion, I ventured to strike up a conversation.

Are you going to Roma? I asked in my rudimentary Italian, knowing full well that is the only place she could be going.

"Si, si, Roma, Roma!" she replied, as if it were her battle cry, her voice being high pitched and raspy like an elf with laryngitis.

"Si, anche Io, me too. Do you live in Roma?" I questioned further.

No, Caserta, Caserta, bella Caserta. Vicino a Napoli.

I’ve heard of it. I’m going to Sicilia. I’m flying to Catania from Roma. I told her this, not because she cared or asked, but because I was testing the water, to see how she would respond, anxious to hear anything about Sicily. Though I had read all that I could get my hands on, it wasn’t very much and it had been completely impossible to talk with someone who had actually been there.

Ah Sicilia, bella Sicilia, bella, bella! her voice rising in volume as she spoke.

Oh yes, this was exactly what I wanted to hear. I smiled and nodded my head in approval and satisfaction. It felt wonderful to hear something good about the place where I was to spend the next three months of my life, traveling solo. For a few blessed moments I sat basking in my reassured satisfied calm. And then it came, like a sudden great storm from her semi-toothless mouth.

"Sicilia cattiva! Tutti Sicilia cattiva! All of Sicilia is bad, very bad! Attention please to your money! Mafiosi, thieves, murderers! They will take you in one swoop!" Great-grandmama’s hands waved, twisting this way and that, warding off the very evil she spoke of. I sat spellbound, my eyes widening and my spirits descending like a falling brick. I dashed a nervous glance toward the clock. Forty minutes until departure, which meant we would be boarding any minute now. Perhaps I was foolish thinking I could go to Sicily alone for three months without knowing a soul and with a pathetically small amount of money in my possession. I started to think over the situation but stopped myself short. No, don’t listen to her, I said to myself. Besides, she lives in Caserta, what does she know! There would be no thinking over anything—it was far too late for that.

"You don’t need two eyes in Sicilia—you will need four eyes! Two in front and two in back!" she gargled, her hands tapping the back of her head. I took the bait.

Do they have guns too? I asked with a look of poorly concealed concern.

"Si, si, guns, many guns! she answered back. Sicilia very bad, very bad!" her voice now falling from its crescendo, and, as if she too were fading, she turned her head away from me and stared into infinity. Whatever happened to bella Sicilia?

* * *

Well over the Atlantic, the airline dinner arrived along with our first bout of turbulence. My ginger ale splashed wildly into my chicken a la king and tossed garden salad. The mood on the plane, however, was good. Most of the passengers were Italian and we were, after all, heading for Roma. And while I was going to a strange and foreign land where I would need four eyes, they were going home. Add a little food and drink to the occasion, and we had ourselves quite a festa—a little Italy in the sky.

As the sleepless hours passed in the air, I had plenty of time to think. I wasn’t thrilled about the rather depressing picture great-grandmamma had painted of Sicily, but I wasn’t surprised either. I had heard it all before, just not so robustly. My desire to travel to Sicily had been years in the making. Having traveled extensively throughout southern Italy, Sicily had long been on the edge of my consciousness waiting patiently for me to turn my gaze and thoughts toward her. She had been a great mystery to me filling me with many questions that I could not answer without going there myself. And now, the time had come. It was that simple. There was no time for fear or apprehension at this point and besides, my excitement was far greater than any hesitant thoughts. In fact, the journey had already begun long before this day. The journey had begun at its conception.

Certainly in three months time I could have seen far more than just Sicily. After all, didn’t most Americans see most of Europe in ten days? But as for me, I wanted to become well acquainted with one place. As always, I desired to go beyond the surface, at least to the extent possible in a longer stay. I wanted the luxury to be able to stay in one town if I so desired. I had a plan of where I wanted to go and in what order, but this was a plan meant to be broken if need be. No hotels were booked save for the one in Catania upon my arrival. In this way, there were no deadlines—no places I had to be. In short, I wanted to be as free as possible. I was fortunate to have obtained the names of some contacts that were willing to host foreigners for a short period of time. It would be up to me if I wanted to call on them or not. I had never met or spoken with any of them before, nor did I even know if they would be home and available. It was a we shall see situation at best.

After all those hours confined in the sky, it felt good to land in Roma. The two hours spent in the waiting room passed quickly as I enjoyed watching the endless parade of foreigners pass by. And then it was on to Catania, by means of a small propeller plane. My excitement, curiosity and wonder knew no bounds, for I was about to lay my eyes upon the great mysterious island, up close and personal, for the first time.

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CHAPTER TWO

CATANIA

Flying over Sicily I pressed my face up against the window to see all that I could. It would be my only opportunity to view the island from the air and I didn’t want to miss a thing. There were mountains and hills, and in between, a few valleys, but nowhere could I see a town or any sign of habitation. Where were all the people? Didn’t anyone live here? Those were my thoughts—until we flew over Catania and landed with a sudden thud.

I exited the plane and took my first steps on Sicilian asphalt. I had finally arrived in Sicily’s second largest city. I walked across the runway towards the terminal, which to me looked more like a bus station. There was a distinct feeling of strangeness in the air, a strangeness that I was to discover, spread far beyond the airport environs. Welcome to Sicily, I said to myself, and taking a deep breath of uncertainty, I entered the terminal.

The task before me was simple enough: to retrieve my luggage, survive customs and find a bus to the center of town. There were two rooms in the terminal crammed with people and a connecting door between the rooms. The room that my luggage arrived in had a customs officer at the door. To facilitate the exiting process, I gathered my bags and passed through the connecting door into the other room and out into the lobby. Two out of three objectives had been accomplished in one swift action, and I was feeling confident. In the lobby I approached the information booth to inquire about a bus to the center, but the booth was empty. I headed for the check-in counters, but they were empty as well. Being it mid-day, siesta had taken its toll and left me without any official help. And so, boldly, I turned to the alternative.

"Mi scusi signora, can you tell me where I might find a bus to the center?" I politely asked a passing woman in my best Italian. It didn’t seem to be such a demanding question, but I was wrong. She dismissed me with a grunt and a slight wave of her hand. Perhaps I had called her signore, meaning sir, instead of signora meaning madam. I’m not sure. It was an easy enough mistake to make. Oh well, I thought, so I may have called her a man. There were worse things to be called I supposed, but nevertheless, I would have to be more careful next time around. I did not wish to be grunted at again. I quickly moved on to the next stranger.

"Mi scusi signora, (I believe I got it right this time) can you please tell me where I can find a bus to the city center?"

"Si, si, you must buy a ticket first from the machine and then take bus number ventiquattro outside the building, just in front here."

"Oh grazie, thank you very much, I said relieved to have some information. It seemed easy enough, buy ticket from machine and take bus number twenty four. I repeated it to myself, as I went in search of the machine. Buy ticket from the machine… buy ticket from the machine…" but where was this machine? There was no machine to be seen as I roamed the lobby from one end to another. Was I missing part of the equation here? Where could a ticket machine be hiding? The place, after all, was not so vast. I needed to ask someone else. There was an enormous woman sitting just outside the station eating some unidentifiable food.