Something Fishy in Catania, Sicily OR Chuck Goes Too Far for Heart Healthy Fish Snack

When I travel in Europe, I live for the open air markets, which are different than the flea markets that we flock to in America, which mainly sell antiques.  The open air markets of Italy and France and most other European countries offer the fresh produce of the city--the meats, the cheeses, the fish, the vegetables, the fruits. 

That day--in Catania, the second largest city in Sicily and which happens to lie at the foot of Mt. Etna (a still very active volcano)--we arrived early in the morning at the open air market, eager to browse the stalls and mingle among the locals and the tourists.

Catania has an interesting history.  Situated between Messina and Syracuse it was destroyed by earthquakes twice--once in 1169 and then again in 1692.  The city also had to contend with volcanic eruptions from Mt. Etna--the most notable occurring in 1669.  The city is mostly paved in a black pavement, made from the lava, so it is difficult to forget the history as you walk around. 

The energy was intoxicating.  

And all would have gone well . . . but because we were rushing to get to the market, we neglected to give Chuck his usual snack, and in retrospect, that small event sparked a embarrassing incident.

For the Chuckster arrived hungry, his big stomach growling, and it is never a smart idea to bring a hungry cat to a place that has food--delicious food--around every corner.

Even so, who could have anticipated that a cat, even a rascal cat like Chuck, would take matters into his own hands and want to leap from the safety of my smart bag into a display of fish?

But let me begin at the beginning.

We arrived at an already crowded market. The stalls were open, their umbrellas a colorful sight.  Vendors had their wares on display.  People were milling about, making purchases. 

We minded our own business, as usual.  We wanted to browse only.  We decided to buy some bread and cheese and prosciutto for later on.  A small picnic for lunch.  So we wandered over and made our purchases, and Chuck barely whimpered. 

Our purchases did not include fish.  After all, we were tourists staying at a hotel.  We had no means of frying fish.

But still, as we passed the fish stalls, we saw octopus, snails, tiny clams, eels and rays, tuna, and were intrigued by what seemed to be thousands of sardines laying about, their silver skins gleaming--fresh.

     And we expected to smell fish.  Nothing.  That’s how fresh they were--brought in that morning from Mazara del Vallo, Italy’s largest fishing port or one of the smaller ports in Sciacca or Favignara and hauled in by the local fishermen.  

But the Chuckster, well, any cat has super sensory smell capability and from his perch, he caught a whiff of the sardines.  

Not that I blamed him, but I felt him stir.  For the first time.  Which should have been a warning sign.

It wasn’t because when you are in the open market, it is so easy to become distracted by the stirring of life there.  

So he jumped, out of my bag toward the open display case--landing on the small wooden table just to the left of the basket that held the sardines.  A very strategic jump which he must have calculated would put him near enough to begin his own private feasting on the fish.

“Chuck.”

Luckily, the owner, the proprietor, was on the other side of the stall, dealing with a customer who had placed a rather large order so he was up to this point oblivious to the jump.

I scooped up the rascal, who now smelled like sardines because his paws had landed in some kind of goop that the table was drenched in.

“You are in the biggest trouble.”

But he didn’t act like he was in trouble.  Nor did he act contrite.  He only meowed, disappointed that he’d lost the opportunity to snack down on a sardine. 

I swiveled away from the fish stall and began hurrying away from the market.  I didn’t want a Sicilian fish monger mad at me and my cat. 

“Yuck, Chuck.  You smell like fish.”

He looked insulted, but he had the good sense to say nothing.  He didn’t even meow.  

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Chuck Meows to Erupting Volcano

You can see Mt. Etna in the distance, before she blows, giving off smoke.

The “rascal cat” had plenty of reasons to want to visit Taormina, so when we flew from Rome to the tiny airport in Catania and began to make our way across the Sicilian countryside, Chuck sat in rapt attention, his nose pressed against the window of our car.

Taormina is one of the most popular European tourist destinations in the summer if you’re looking for good food, a beautiful landscape, and a busy nightlife.  The dramatic seascapes mingle with the shore, the antique stone buildings and cobblestone streets lend sheer elegance to the passeggiata--the Italian word for the nightly walk that Italians take. In Taormina, everyone gathers at dusk before the evening meal to parade down the center of town, past the upscale stores and restaurants, the gelaterias and the pizzerias. They talk and laugh, window shop and check out the competition.

The typical quaint streets of Taormina

Even when we arrived--at the start of November--there were still plenty of tourists crowding the streets. Luckily, in Sicily the days are still in the low seventies and although the nights chill down, you only need a sweater or jacket.

Quickly we developed a nightly routine.

We would leave our hotel and begin to descend the steps down to the center of town.  Nothing is flat in Taormina.  You either walk up or down.  We passed our favorite restaurant on the right and waved hello to Enzo who was the owner, chief cook, waiter, and with his Japanese wife, ran the entire operation.  His sign promised that they spoke almost every language under the sun--Spanish, French, German, Italian, English, and, of course, Japanese.  His food was "squisito."  On certain days, he’d heat the ovens and make pizza.

Enzo, in his kitchen busily preparing his dough

Most nights we stopped in to say hello.  Most days we’d eaten lunch there and sampled his salads and sandwiches, his pastas and soups.  His sausage rendered my husband speechless. He pretended not to notice Chuck and even brought a special little plate over.

The wall of Enzo's restaurant are filled with letters from his customers who rave about his food

After our visit with Enzo, we reached Corso Umberto, the main street of Taormina and had to decide to walk either right or left.  Both choices were good ones.  There were excellent gelaterias in either direction and eating gelato before dinner had become an obsession of mine.  Limone is my favorite flavor, but I’d begun to sample other flavors, especially since the custom here in Italy is to order more than one flavor--preferably two or three for a cone.

When we stopped, I ordered pistacchio, stracchiatella, and “crema” for me and a separate smaller gelato for Chuck. His favorite flavor? No, not chocolate, even though that is the number one flavor in Italy.  Chuck loved “crema,” which tastes a lot like heavy cream. No surprise because the kid loved snacks and was a gelato addict, too.  We found a quiet place to sit so he could inhale his gelato.

We continued up the main drag until we reached St. Catherine’s Church.

Outside St. Catherine's Church in Taormina

Earlier that day the church was all abuzz with a celebration which would be the equivalent to our Veteran’s Day.  There was a band and a procession down Corse Umberto ending with Mass at the church. But now all was quiet.

The procession and band marching toward the church

We reversed direction and walked up the street, admiring the beautiful coral pearls that were displayed in several high-end jewelry stores.  Finally, we make our way back to the hotel for dinner.
The night had been rather uneventful until someone made the suggestion that we ascend to the hotel roof for the view.  We’ve heard about this, but we’d never done it.

The center square in Taormina where musicians played

The roof extended the entire length of the hotel.  It was a beautiful night.  Very clear.  We spotted some stars . . . and . . . the full moon.  And because we were so high up and seemingly away from everything, it almost felt as if we could touch that moon.

Suddenly we heard an explosion.  Someone was setting off firecrackers in celebration of this memorial day?  We couldn’t be sure but they looked beautiful exploding in the dark sky.
And if that weren’t enough, my husband grabbed my arm and pointed in the direction of Mt. Etna.  We watched in awe as lava poured out of the top of Etna and cascaded down the mountain, which even though we learned later was a regular thing, it sure seemed special now.

“The night sky is putting on a show for us tonight,” I said to Chuck.

“We are so lucky to be in Sicily.  In Taormina,” Bob said.

            “Meow,” Chuck said finally.

The three of us continued to stare at the erupting volcano, the fireworks, and the full moon.

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Chuck Watches the Lava Flow

I should have known that when Chuck started watching the History Channel, we were all going to be in trouble.

Fast forward. We are in Sicily on the Taormina side, and if you know anything about Sicily, you know that they have an active volcano that seems to be forever erupting--Mt. Etna.

Now, relax, they tell me, because there is no chance of a full-fledged eruption like the one they had back in the 1600’s when the lava flowed down for thirteen years straight, reached all the way to the town of Catania, completely destroying it, and well . . . you can imagine the rest of the story.

These eruptions--which occur practically on a nightly basis--are baby eruptions. And, I have to admit, when we stayed at the Villa Diadora, we would go up to the rooftop at night and gaze over in the direction of Mt. Etna and watch the lava flowing down the mountain. Pretty cool sight.

But Chuckie wasn’t content to watch the lava from afar.

He wanted to see the lava close up.

And, yes, it was possible. But you needed to get to the top of the mountain.

Were we crazy??

First, we boarded a bus which could only take us so far. Then we hopped on a cable car, the kind people board who plan to go skiing, and up we went--higher and higher. Now, at this time, Chuckie had his eyes plastered shut, because if you read my blog faithfully, you know my rascal cat has some trouble with heights--does anyone remember the Eifle Tower incident?
Finally, we climbed into an all terrain vehicle which proceeded even further up the mountain.

When we arrived, we were assaulted by the terrible odor of rotten eggs.

But we weren’t there yet. Oh, no. We had to hike for another 25 minutes across what appeared to be a moon scape. We were hiking across a wind blown, freezing landscape, covered with lava which had hardened.

Finally, we reached the spot. A crack in the earth where we could peer down and see FLOWING LAVA INSIDE THE EARTH.

Now the earth beneath our feet was like black glass.

“Be careful,” they said to us in Italian. “If you fall, you will cut your hands.”

Ha. That was the least of our problems.

The crack in the earth was located on a precipice, which you had to climb to the top of in order to see anything.

When it was my turn to peer over and look down into the hole, there I was, camera in one hand, CAT peering over my shoulder, and one too casual Italian Mt. Etna worker grasping my other hand, as I leaned over and tried to snap a photo.

The heat from the hole was so intense, my make-up melted off my face.

The surface of the earth was like black glass.

The whiskers on Chuckie’s face were singed.

For one horrible moment, I imagined everything going wrong--dropping my camera into the pit, dropping my CAT into the pit, slipping into the pit MYSELF.

As I stumbled away from the cauldron, I slipped, of course, and my hands smacked against the black glass-like ground. Ouch. Blood ooozed out.

But this time I couldn’t blame the Chuckster.

Yeah, he had egged me on to see the flowing lava, but the sight of that red hot liquid mass flowing along, inside the earth, was breathtaking.

As we tramped back to the all terrain vehicle, Chuckie snuggled close to me, and I knew what he was trying to say--this trip had made up for that other one--where I had tried to ply the kid with a bit of culture--you know, the Vincent Van Gogh semi-tour/almost cemetery one.

Oh, yeah and even I had to admit--this was way cooler!