To Bribe or Not To Bribe

 For so many travelers, if their bucket list includes Italy, it usually means looking at something old, ancient. Even when you're trying to discover how Italians live today in 2024, their lives are still intwined in the past--old historic buildings and statues and left over temples from when the Greeks invaded. 

Today we decide, just the three of us, to stay in the tiny town, south of Puzzuoli on the coast of Italy, called Baiae. In the day--and I mean many moons ago--Baiae was the getaway vacation spot for the rich and famous of Rome. They would pack up and stay in their luxurious villas, which they built near the sea. (We already visited one such villa, Villa Ambulatio.) It sounds like a good idea. After all, I live in a state which celebrates its shore towns and beaches.

Unfortunately, by the 1500's Baiae was abandoned and then covered by water from the nearby shallow waters of the bay. It seems the water level rose ever so slowly due to volcanic vents that were in the area. Today, if you are a fan of snorkeling or riding in a glass bottom boat, you can see some of those remains, captive in the bay. They call it the city under water. 

The ruins are one reason for visiting Baiae. The other reason is to get a glimpse of modern Italy. Because Baiae fronts a bay, the water views are stunning. There is a promenade you can walk along and feel the cool bay breezes:

We also catch a glimpse of that infamous mountain that rose up in one day because of the unsettled ground near Puzzuoli. 

In the center of the town, there is sign for an ancient temple, which once stood there. In reality, it wasn't a temple but an open market. But I love how modern Italy built itself around the old.

Even today open markets are extremely popular in many small Italian towns. There is usually one day a week where the market is open--selling everything you can think of--local produce, meats, cheeses, to clothes, shoes, and household goods:

I remember years ago staying with my girlfriend's sister in Rosignavo Salvo (near Pisa) and visiting an open market in their town. Often the cost of clothing is prohibitive in the usual brick and mortar stores, so Italians believe they can get a better deal buying their clothes this way. I remember stepping into the back of a large pickup truck, which acted as a dressing room, to try on something I wanted to buy. 

I can't resist this time either. Theo follows along, sniffing every stall we visit, remarkably well behaved, watching the people as they pick up and inspect item after item, deciding whether to buy it or not. 

"Stay right here near me, okay?"

Theo glances up and it's hard to tell if he's listening or has any intention of doing what I ask. 

"I mean it."

He meows, which I interpret as he will control himself.

I spot a lovely blue tablecloth with a large sunflower on it. Can I use this? It's not wrinkle free, and I will dread ironing it every time it comes out of the dryer. Should I take it? As a memento? 

"Where's Theo?" Dan is not a shopper, but he's been hovering around a nearby table filled with Italian snacks. (Which means neither one of us has been keeping an eye on Theo.)

"He was here a moment ago, and I warned him to stay put . . ."

Famous last words. Haven't we learned by now that watching Theo is a 24 hour job. Get interested in your surroundings, get distracted for a millisecond and the kid seems to disappear into thin air.

"There he is." Dan points to the next stall selling more snacks. Of course. Theo blew me off, sauntered over to investigate--his nose going 240, sniffing the aromatic smells of Italian delicacies. 

"Theo." There is a sharpness to my voice. 

He doesn't budge.

"Theo."

"He hasn't done anything wrong," Dan reminds me.

"I know. He's being a cat."

Dan, my daily hero, leaves to rescue Theo. This isn't always so easy. He can be as slippery as an eel when he doesn't want to be picked up. I see him easily sidestep Dan. Dan, undeterred, kneels down and launches an argument.

I decide against buying the tablecloth. The next thing I know I'm holding Theo captive.

"Well?"

"We reached a compromise."

"You bribed him."

 Dan shrugs but leaves to buy some food. For Theo. There's chicken cooking on a grill. And some cheese. 

"You're a real gangster," I concede, then thank our lucky stars there's always good food to eat in glorious Italy.

 

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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