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 In Sicily - Becomes Sicilian Style Tuna Fish

The hotel where we stayed which was once a tuna factory

          After a short respite at home, Sicily beckoned.
       When you think of Sicily, especially if you are a “fan” of the Godfather movies or if you watched the recent phenomena on HBO--The Sopranos--you may equate Sicily and the capital city--Palermo--with the Mafia, and it’s true that Sicily has a long and not so pretty record of Mafia involvement, partially owing (I think) to its poor economy over the years and the desperation of the people to survive.
        Or, perhaps, when you think of Sicily you think of the fancy resort-like cities of Taormina on the eastern side where thousands of visitors flock for the sun and shopping and food.
        But the “rascal cat” and I wanted to see another side of Sicily. We’d heard that Sicily was also the home of ancient villages and caves and medieval towns and bell towers and salt roads and windmills. (No, we didn’t expect to veer off course and somehow land in Holland.)
        We decided to spend our first few nights outside of Palermo in a hotel located in a former tuna factory in Piazza Bonagia. Yes, you heard me correctly. We’re talking about a factory that dated back to the 1600‘s, located on the water, of course.

View of the water from the rooftop

         Better than that, John Marie, a tuna fisherman for many years, was going to explain how tuna fishing worked and how the fishermen who caught the fish--even up to now--use the oh so ancient technniques of his ancestors.

John Marie, a tuna fisherman wearing stripes, explaining the ancient ways

         I was excited because I knew that fishermen in other countries used ultra-modern techniques, but not the Sicilians.       They’ve stuck to their old ways and using an intricate system of nets and levels, they’ve managed to not only lure but trap and then kill the tuna, enough tuna for them to sell and make a living off of.
John Marie, who only spoke a Sicilian dialect of Italian, explained the process through an interpreter.

An old anchor from a tuna boat

        During May and June the fishermen use dense nets to capture the bluefin tuna in a process called “mattanza” which means “to kill.” The key to the process being successful is organization and technique. A series of nets are lowered into the ocean. The tuna are captured in successive nets which are reduced in size and raised to the surface. The fish are speared and killed. This technique requires the effort of many fishermen working cooperatively together.

One of the boats used in tuna fishing

         The fish struggle for survival, but they are no match for the fishermen’s spears. That’s the reason why the word “mattanza” also means “massacre.”
        And where was Chuck during this entire lecture? Squirreled away in my smart bag, but listening intently. Anything concerning food, especially fish, has his rapt attention. Quickly, he got the concept that the place we were staying in USED TO BE A TUNA FACTORY.
       Darn it.
       Key operative word--USED TO BE.
       Now, however, he was enthralled with the notion of how the nets caught the fish. While the other people ascended the narrow stairs to the rooftop to see the view of the water, we stayed behind because Chuck insisted on seeing the nets more closely.

John Marie on the rooftop, answering questions

       He hopped out when the coast was clear and sniffed the nets.
      And then it happened.
      Without warning, he jumped up and into the nets themselves.

A "model" to illustrate the intricate nets used to capture the tuna and CHUCK

      Whatever possessed him to do that?
       Immediately, his weight pulled the netting inward and he was completely encased inside, trapped.
       He panicked, of course, and began flailing around.
       If you know anything about cats, they like their paws on solid ground. The more he tried to get his paws down on the net, the more it swayed this way and that, and the more he struggled, and then he began to whimper.
       Of course, we tried to come to the rescue, but he was in such a panicked state that he wouldn’t be still for even a moment, and it became impossible to extricate him from the net.
       To make it worse, any minute people were going to begin coming back down from the rooftop.
      “We need organization and technique,” I whispered.
      Bob nodded. “You grab the net and open it up. I’ll grab the cat.”
      I grabbed the net.
      He grabbed the cat.
      Chuck was rescued.
      In the nick of time.
      Ten seconds later everyone began descending the stairs from the rooftop, and that was our clue to go up on the roof--just to readjust ourselves. The view was magnificent.

The view

The view of our hotel from the roof

        And if you’re wondering if the nets were damaged during the incident--no--those nets are incredibly strong. It’s conceivable Chuck could have been caught in them forever!
        The poor kid--a Sicilian style tuna fish!

To read more about Chuck and his adventures, log onto www.katelutter.com 

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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!