Chuck is Lured in By the Curse of Messina, Sicily

       

         Curiosity drove Chuck, my rascal cat, and I to Messina, Sicily.

We heard stories. The city had a terrible history of destruction which spanned the centuries, and it was a tribute to this city that it was still standing.

On the bright side, this port city was known for its lemons, mandarin oranges, and olives -- all of which played an important part in Italian and Greek cuisine.  In fact, it was founded in 8th century B.C. by Greek colonists.

However, it was  seized in 288 B.C. by the Mamertines who went on to kill its men and take its women for their wives.  Years later, the city was free and became an ally of Rome, but this peace was short lived when the Messina harbor became the gateway for the Black Death to enter Europe.   

Yes, you heard me right!

In 1908 Messina was almost completely destroyed by an earthquake and a tsunami which killed over 60,000 people.  

Was this city under some kind of curse?

There was no denying our nerves were on edge. 

We decided it was best to be in and out of Messina in a day.  We wanted to see only two things.  

One - there was a Cathedral from the 12th century which held the remains of King Conrad, ruler of Germany and Sicily in the 13th century.  After the earthquake and after the fire (triggered by the Allied bombings from World War II) this church had to be almost completely rebuilt. Of course.  The original Norman structure of the Church was now only visible in the spsidal area only.  

We also wanted to see the bell tower which held one of  the largest astronomical clocks in the world.  The belfry mechanically animated statues, which illustrated civil and religious historical events, came alive every day at noon.  But that was only half of the amazing part.  In the background, the figures moved to the music of Ave Maria. 

Can you imagine?

For me, I hear that lovely music mostly sung at funerals.  

So, here we were, standing in the square, our eyes glued to the bell tower.  It was one minute before noon, and we waited for the spectacle to begin.  

All would have been purrfect if it weren’t for a certain street vendor.

Suddenly, the most delicious smell wafted by.

Chickpea fritters.  Street food.  An irresistible temptation for my now starving Chuck who hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast at the hotel.   

The almost largest astronomical clock didn’t matter anymore.

I thought I could trust Chuck to wait by my side, but he took off in the direction of the delicious aroma.  

I spotted the street vendor, dishing out his “fritella di ceci” to a few of his customers standing by. The fritters are made in the shape of squares, deep fried, hot to the touch, deliciously crunchy.  

“Chuck,” I shouted, “Wait.” I tried to grab him by the tail, but the belly boy was too quick for me.  He trotted off toward the vendor.

And what did he think he was going to do.  Meow for his fritter?

I raced after him, counting down the seconds in my head, knowing that my chasing after this recalcitrant cat while the lovely figures danced around the bell tower could be the ruin of the moment.  

I reached the vendor, just as Chuck came to a sudden halt next to him.

“Meow,” Chuck said.

The vendor guy, a nice Messina gentleman, smiled.  “Il suo gatto?” (Your cat?) he asked me.

“Il mio gatto affamato.” (My hungry cat.)

Then I heard it.  Ave Maria. 

My heart gave a little jump.  I was dealing with the vendor guy while my eyes should have been glued to the bell tower! 

The vendor handed me a fritter.

I reached into my smart bag for money to pay him.

He waved his hand aside.  “Mi piacciono i gatti.”  (I like cats. )

           “Grazie.”

I picked up Chuck and held him in my arms.  We ate the fritter together while the mechanical statues rotated around the bell tower while the beautiful Ave Maria drifted around us.  

“Messina isn’t so bad after all,” I said to Chuck.  Then I turned back to the vendor and held up what was left of the fritter.  “Squisito.”  Which in Italian means delicious. 

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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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Casa Cuseni-The Infamous Sicilian House Chuck Didn't Quite See

Just one of the stunning architectural displays in the gardens

 

          We climbed the steep incline of Via Leonardo da Vinci to see a house.

But not just any house.

Chuck, my rascal cat and world traveler, loves a good story and when I sat him down before we took off for Sicily, and told him that I wanted to visit a certain house, he tilted his whiskered face to one side and dared me to impress him. 

“Chuck, Casa Cuseni was left to Daphne Phelps’ aunt in 1948 by her uncle--British painter, Robert Kitson.  She lived in England, and she asked Daphne to travel to Taormina and sell the house for her, but when Daphne saw the house, she fell in love with it and decided instead to live there and open the house up as a Bed and Breakfast.”

“This happened, of course, after World War II, and Daphne needed the support of the local Mafia boss Don Ciccio, which she somehow managed to procur.  She also managed to attract the rich and famous from Europe and America, including Greta Garbo, Henry Faulkner, Tennessee Williams, Bertrand Russell, John Steinbeck, Leonard Bernstein, El Salvador Dali, Truman Capote, Oscar Wilde, Cary Grant, Gregory Peck and so many others as her guests for the next sixty years.  

“Her house, or rather villa, was originally constructed by her uncle of stone, marble, wood and terra cotta and then overlaid with a golden yellow stucco and became known as the most beautiful house in Taormina for a number of reasons. 

Casa Cuseni from the rear

         One was the dining room.  Her uncle commissioned Sir Frank Brangwyn to create the dining room, the furniture, and paint the frescoes on the walls.  

Casa Cuseni, a villa, is considered the most beautiful house in Taormina

“The house was also known for its gardens, fruit trees, and roses, and its views of Mt. Etna and the Ionian Sea.”

A peek at the gardens

Well, Chuck finally perked up when he heard the word garden.  

Can you imagine wandering through . . .

I’d read Daphne’s account of her life at Casa Cuseni called A House in Sicily--about her adventures running the villa and about her fast friendship with her housekeeper, Concetta.  Daphne had passed away in 1995 at the age of 94, and her house was closed for the moment, as plans were made to renovate and turn it into a museum or, perhaps, open it again as a Bed and Breakfast.  Nevertheless, I was determined to see this house.  

I’d contacted her publisher and eventually after many emails made arrangements to visit the house.  Initially Mimma, the daughter of Concetta, the woman who’d been Daphne’s housekeeper, agreed to give us a tour, but at the last moment she was called away and an older woman appeared to give us the tour instead.  

She spoke only a Sicilian dialect of Italian and it was difficult to communicate with her, so it took me awhile to realize that the woman who was walking us up and down the rows of the garden and pointing out the high points of the architecture of the villa was Concetta.  

Concetta walking amidst the rows of fresh produce that she grew

The famous sundial

        When I made the connection, I felt like I was in the presence of a rock star.  

“You,” I said to her in my best Italian. “You are Concetta.”

“Yes. I am Concetta.”

Concetta, smiling

“You have seen so much.  You must know so many stories.” And, of course, I was thinking of all the famous people who had come to the villa and stayed there.  All the famous people that Concetta had cooked for.  

She laughed.  “Yes. I could tell you many stories.” 

But she was too much of a lady to do so.  Instead she continued to show us around the magnficent garden and then she took us into the house for a tour.  

Interior shot, courtesy of www.casacuseni.org

      But that was then, and this was now.

The villa, originally slated to be reopened as a museum, had instead been reopened to the public as a Bed and Breakfast.  

Now we were back in Sicily, in Taormina, and this time we were traveling with Chuck.

“What do you say, Chuck?  Do you want to see Casa Cuseni? The gardens?”

So that explains why we were trekking up the steep incline, and I was both excited and a bit nervous.  I’ve learned from long experience that you can never go back.  I had such fond memories of Casa Cuseni and Concetta.

       Did I dare tempt fate?  What if Casa Cuseni had changed?  What if Concetta was no longer there?

And that’s when I decided.  

I didn’t turn that final corner.  I turned around and started back down the hill.  

       "Sorry, Chuck," I said.  "But I want my memories to stay as they are."

The lovely outside gate with a bell buzzer that I couldn't push

      

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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 Becomes Almost Mystical in Erice

Erice--spectacular views as we travel up the mountain

          Chuck, my rascal cat, and I have traveled the world together, but there have been few places as ancient and as mystical as Erice.  

Located in Sicily on top of a mountain, it has a Greek name.  And that is just one of the fascinating things about it!

Its ancient heritage includes Arab, Norman, Phoenician, and Saracen occupation.  And you can still see, after thousands of years, the city walls that were built to protect the city from invasion, and the two castles, which housed the noble families. 

Typical street view--the stones on the street, the narrow passageways

        Erice looks old, very old, as you wander through the cobblestone streets and pass under archways made of stone.

One of the two castles still standing in Erice

So, while we are in Sicily, on the Palermo side of the country--we relish the idea of trekking up the mountain--yes, Erice is located on the tippy top of a mountain--Mount Erice, of course, to see this ancient city which was well known throughout the Mediterranean area during the ancient age.

In fact, an important cult was celebrated there.  It was said that the animals chosen for sacrifice would voluntarily walk up to the altar to be killed.  That may sound a bit implausible until you come to Erice and feel the place.  It’s mystical, and that feeling that anything can happen begins the moment you begin to ascend the mountain.

I think Chuck, my rascal cat, feels it too.

His whiskered nose is plastered to the side of the window, straining to see out, as we follow the road.  

And this is when it begins to happen--In the early morning, the fog and mist act like a shroud and completely cover the land so it makes you feel as if the mountain is floating in air.  It’s a bit eerie, but beautiful.  The higher you climb, the more spectacular the views.  The entire countryside is at your feet, but you see everything through this cloud of mist.  

Once you reach the top of the mountain and before you reach the town, you travel past a forest of trees.  

The medieval forest that skirts the town of Erice

        To me, the forest represents the typical magical forest of every fairytale and ancient tale of lore.  The trees are ramrod straight.  The leaves are the greenest green.  And admission to the city requires a passing through under an ancient stone archway--a city gate--that was built centuries ago to protect the townspeople from invaders.  

The city gate--the magnificent archway that one must walk under

        To me, it feels like some kind of portal that whisks you from the present day to a time long past.  

And on the other side is Erice.  Because this place is so different, so old, so authentic in its look, it attracts a great many tourists.  Even Chuck seems to be enthralled.  He aches to hop out of my smart bag and sniff around.  Centuries of adventures await him.  

We are on our way to Chiesa Matrice (Mother Church) the medieval Catholic Church--14th Century--which stands as a testament to how long stone can endure.  

Chiesa Matrice (Mother Church) - 14th Century

        The bell tower with the bell that stands adjacent to the church.  We stand off in the distance and stare at the church.  

The Bell Tower

Most of the tourists, I suspect, are in the  main part of town--shopping, so this section is almost deserted.  But I love old buildings.  

Close-up of the bell 

        I’ve let Chuck out and he is moving about--sniffing and exploring. 

And then he’s gone.

I’m not sure how it happens.

I’ve poised to take a photo of the church and I’ve taken my gaze off of him for half a second.  

Has he wandered up the broad steps into the church?  Into the bell tower? Is he interested in the view?

I run over to the church to see if it is open and if he’s inside.

The door is open, of course, which means it’s one more possibility--he could have walked inside or not.  I scan the area again, hoping for a glimpse of him.

Nothing.

He must have wandered into the Church.

I am determined not to freak out.  Cats have a great sense of smell.  They can find their way back when they become bored with their exploration.  There is time yet.  

I am this close to entering the Church, determined even to try and appreciate the inside of the Church and imagine what life must have been like for the people so many hundreds of years ago . . . when out the belly boy prances.  Totally unaware that he’s caused any problem.  

I narrow my gaze and tilt my head.   My lips are definitely pursed.

He glances up at us but misses all the signals of disapproval.  

“Chuck,” I whisper.  “Get over here.  Now.”

Slowly, he sniffs his way over.

For one moment I’m actually jealous of his superior sniffing ability. The stories he must be reading--the hundreds of years of trials and tribulations that have been played out on these steps.  Near this church.  In this town.  He can sniff every one of them.

The "scene of the crime" where Chuckie suddenly appeared--prancing down the steps

And we’re not leaving Erice yet.  There’s a pasticceria that’s world renowned that I want to visit.  Run by an ex-nun.  Chuck has heard all about it.  Which is probably why he’s being so cooperative now. 

I’ll tell you more about what happens there . . . next week.  

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         Wild Point Island, my paranormal romance, is now available in mass market paperback and ebook formats at Amazon.com and BarnesandNoble.com