Sorry, couldn't resist. I may be getting a little disoriented. I'm trying to get my Sicilian entries knocked out before I go back to the grind tomorrow.
NOTE 1: Yeah, the grind. Yoga, language exchange, and one class. Sometimes wine club. Got it. I suck. There's something to be said for no longer having that sinking feeling as Sunday evening rolls around; that knot in the pit of my stomach reminding me that the next 5 (or so) days of my life, 12 (or so) hours of each day would not, in fact, belong to me at all. Those days when someone else had custody and I had visitation; visitation with someone whose mind, soul, & spirit was literally sucked dry by traffic, meetings, cubicles, fluorescent lights, stale air, fragile egos, careerists, and Power Point. Didn't matter how much I loved the job and most of the people. There came a point where I lost myself in the bullshit and couldn't see a way out. Oh, then, my favorite part of the morning: seeing how long before the inevitable first e-mail from some jackass would elicit a "What the fuck?!" Multiple occurrences of the latter before 9AM, chronic muscle spasms in the neck, coupled by increased desires to have people "removed" from my daily existence were all clues I needed a change. Hence, back to my current grind. And what a fanfuckingtastic grind it is!
Also, back to Sicily. Whew - I need a picture break:
Awful, I know. A regular AMAT bus ticket for Euro 1,20 on the 806 (departing every 20 minutes or so from Piazza Politeama or Sturzo in the center of Palermo) and you're here. Mondello.
Of course the first place I went was here:
The word is Stracciatella, which is kind of like chocolate-chip. Sicilians take great pride in their gelato, and the fact they take time to eat this for breakfast impresses me to no end. I understand not all gelati are created equal and am starting to seek out favorite types, textures, flavors; this gelato was not it. I kept waiting for the flavor, but it never really came through. So I kept eating it anyway, hopeful. Plus, I am that girl that doesn't waste food. (I could almost hear my late grandmother throughout the trip, "God bless that kid, she eats.")
Remember this from Part 1: Nocciola. Hazelnut. Creamy. Smooth. Yet still light - and if one can say structure and body (oh wait, I just did) for gelato, this was it. Notice the visible difference in texture, and it really is that light tan in color (lighter than my long-lost tan M&Ms). And oh, holy, mother of crap, the flavor. Antica Gelateria Lucchese, near the Vucciria market in Piazza San Dominico make their gelato, brioche, everything in house, and they are proud of it. Oh, and they've been doing it since 1937. Love these guys! And love gelato that makes love to a brioche like this. Damn.
Eyes are burning. It's 2AM, so say the churchbells - one more picture break, and back to Mondello:
Mondello is not only just the beach for the Palermitans (people from Palermo - learned that word the first day from the Palermitans in the store where I bought my sunglasses), but a fishing village swimming (whew - tired - get it? swimming?) with seafood restaurants and a popular place for - here it comes again - Palermitans to dine in summer months. It was also a popular place for a lot of school kids to hang out, it seemed all day, as in when are they actually in school? I walked past stands full of fresh fish, some still swimming in little tubs, so I knew lunch was going to be great.
But first I had to walk off that Stracciatella. I walked for about an hour down the beach, turned right on Viale Principessa Giovanna. Large villas, some elaborate with lush, well-cared-for gardens. I was literally walking away from the water, and following the sound of a weed whacker - something I hadn't heard in 7 months. In the distance was Monte Pelligrino. My thoughts: So THIS is where the rich people live. Huh, I'll bet they even have clothes dryers. Although, if I had a garden like this to hang out my gutchies without worrying about dropping them onto the roofs - or tourists - below, and warm sunny days, I wouldn't want (and still don't!) use a clothes dryer in the first place, would I? But I'll bet they still have them. Ooh, an outdoor shower! Rich people central. Wonder what their "grind" is like?
NOTE 3: When I lived on Park Farm in Adderbury, England I became addicted to that "sunny" smell of towels dried in clean, country air. Don't think my association in the springs would be down with my plan to go back to that - being I'm in one of those new neighborhoods where my back yard is on the intersection of several streets. Maybe someday ... I'll check the CC&R's, just in case.
I stood in the shadow of Monte Pelligrino wondering if there's a hiking trail up that sucker. You can see the roads. Very cool.
What's not cool is the fact it's nearly 2:30 in the morning, some loud American morons are yelling on my street (again), and I'm nauseated from too much time in front of the computer. I'll pick this up tomorrow with more photos, and mouthwatering lunch at Trattoria Simpaty! Ol' girl needs sleep. And ear plugs.
[Five hours of sleep, an Ashtanga Yoga class, and a long, hot, waterfall shower later...]
I'm back. Eyes were still burning when I woke up this morning, but eye drops, a liter of H20, 5 Sun Salutations into my day, I was back on track. Am totally blissed out. Thinking I'll spend the day in yoga pants, nod a lot, acknowledge what you're telling me. Doesn't mean I'm on board with whatever you're telling me, just acknowledging your voice. Namaste. Enjoy it while you can.
Back to Mondello, if only in my dreams...
Lunch was at a place that has gotten very bad reviews for service, but great reviews for seafood. Honestly, I saw why. The server finally warmed up to me when I asked him about the wine while waiting for my Calimaretti Fritti. I looked at the glass (having just wiped his finger prints off; apparently holding a wine glass by the stem is just too hard) and asked again the type of grapes. He replied again, "Inzolia." Then stubborn me, "Hmm. Io penso che Chardonnay in questo vino." Ahhh, I wasn't a total moron (midterm scores aside). "Brava!" he exclaimed loud enough for the next table to turn and stare. "E Inzolia e Chardonnay. Somellier?" I laughed, shook my head, "No. Sto imperando." I'm learning. I thought, if only I could have done THAT on my Wines of the World midterm.
NOTE 2: The stem or the plate, people; don't grip the wine glass like it's a Bud Light. You people in hospitality services should know better. Just sayin' - and nodding in acknowledgment of your voice. Namaste.
I noticed that he started serving customers their glasses of wine by the stem, passing my table, winking, an occasional, "Brava" or other wine comment. Magari. If only I were that good. But he was much more attentive. And I was enjoying my Inzolia-Chard with this:
Calimaretti Fritti: Baby squids fried in a light, slightly savory batter. I ate the whole herd, school, gaggle, whatever it is squids travel in.
Then I remembered Taormina Roberto's recommendation for Spaghetti con Ricci: made with sea urchins (ricci di mare), salt, pepper, olive oil, parsely. Buono!
I let Signor Fingerprints talk me into trying their Cassata, even after I told him I thought Cassata was way too sweet, but theirs was actually pretty good. Not as sweet as the one I had at Trattoria ai Normanni. Sitting by the water in the Mediterranean sun until I felt my arms burning, sipping my brava wine, eating the freshest cuisine di sea creatures, and not wanting to be anywhere else was the best way to spend my last day in Sicily.
FLASHBACK ALERT: There's just something about the Mediterranean. I loved Malta in 1993 and was just as enchanted my last day in Tel Aviv over a glass of Golan Heights Syrah and a perfect not too soggy, not too crusty egg plant and goat cheese sandwich 2008. Wine, food, sun, the sea, in regions with colorful history thousands of years in the making. Lively cities with true grit, ancient structures, some still in rubble from wars decades ago; influenced by so many cultures, conquests, pungent aromas, spice, the most fully-flavored foods that mean business - yet unadulterated pleasure in an unglamorous, hedonistic realm. Magic stuff here, yet replete with sobering reality. The server in Tel Aviv (who did not finger my wine glass) even taught me how to say, "Perfect" in Hebrew, "Metzuyan." (And I thought peekUPpa was hard...). Perfetto.
I returned to Palermo late afternoon, cruised La Vucciria for brioche, oranges, and dried mango for the trip home. Sunset found me (no shit) in a wine bar on Via Alloro with a Cataratto, and a copy of La Repubblica delle Donne magazine. The magazine fell open, oddly enough, to an article about up-and-coming art, food, and other social and cultural trends and expansions attracting young people to Jaffa, near Tel Aviv - a place I look forward to wandering again.
Friday I took the train back to Florence, gawking out the window at gorgeous beaches, hanging my head over the ship rail like a dog, face to the wind, and alternating brain cells between Sudoku and Luigi, and more verb conjugations. Happy girl.
Ciao, bella sicilia. Spero ritornare subito!
Now, back to wine school I go.
NOTE 1: Yeah, the grind. Yoga, language exchange, and one class. Sometimes wine club. Got it. I suck. There's something to be said for no longer having that sinking feeling as Sunday evening rolls around; that knot in the pit of my stomach reminding me that the next 5 (or so) days of my life, 12 (or so) hours of each day would not, in fact, belong to me at all. Those days when someone else had custody and I had visitation; visitation with someone whose mind, soul, & spirit was literally sucked dry by traffic, meetings, cubicles, fluorescent lights, stale air, fragile egos, careerists, and Power Point. Didn't matter how much I loved the job and most of the people. There came a point where I lost myself in the bullshit and couldn't see a way out. Oh, then, my favorite part of the morning: seeing how long before the inevitable first e-mail from some jackass would elicit a "What the fuck?!" Multiple occurrences of the latter before 9AM, chronic muscle spasms in the neck, coupled by increased desires to have people "removed" from my daily existence were all clues I needed a change. Hence, back to my current grind. And what a fanfuckingtastic grind it is!
Also, back to Sicily. Whew - I need a picture break:
Of course the first place I went was here:
The word is Stracciatella, which is kind of like chocolate-chip. Sicilians take great pride in their gelato, and the fact they take time to eat this for breakfast impresses me to no end. I understand not all gelati are created equal and am starting to seek out favorite types, textures, flavors; this gelato was not it. I kept waiting for the flavor, but it never really came through. So I kept eating it anyway, hopeful. Plus, I am that girl that doesn't waste food. (I could almost hear my late grandmother throughout the trip, "God bless that kid, she eats.")
Remember this from Part 1: Nocciola. Hazelnut. Creamy. Smooth. Yet still light - and if one can say structure and body (oh wait, I just did) for gelato, this was it. Notice the visible difference in texture, and it really is that light tan in color (lighter than my long-lost tan M&Ms). And oh, holy, mother of crap, the flavor. Antica Gelateria Lucchese, near the Vucciria market in Piazza San Dominico make their gelato, brioche, everything in house, and they are proud of it. Oh, and they've been doing it since 1937. Love these guys! And love gelato that makes love to a brioche like this. Damn.
Eyes are burning. It's 2AM, so say the churchbells - one more picture break, and back to Mondello:
Mondello is not only just the beach for the Palermitans (people from Palermo - learned that word the first day from the Palermitans in the store where I bought my sunglasses), but a fishing village swimming (whew - tired - get it? swimming?) with seafood restaurants and a popular place for - here it comes again - Palermitans to dine in summer months. It was also a popular place for a lot of school kids to hang out, it seemed all day, as in when are they actually in school? I walked past stands full of fresh fish, some still swimming in little tubs, so I knew lunch was going to be great.
But first I had to walk off that Stracciatella. I walked for about an hour down the beach, turned right on Viale Principessa Giovanna. Large villas, some elaborate with lush, well-cared-for gardens. I was literally walking away from the water, and following the sound of a weed whacker - something I hadn't heard in 7 months. In the distance was Monte Pelligrino. My thoughts: So THIS is where the rich people live. Huh, I'll bet they even have clothes dryers. Although, if I had a garden like this to hang out my gutchies without worrying about dropping them onto the roofs - or tourists - below, and warm sunny days, I wouldn't want (and still don't!) use a clothes dryer in the first place, would I? But I'll bet they still have them. Ooh, an outdoor shower! Rich people central. Wonder what their "grind" is like?
NOTE 3: When I lived on Park Farm in Adderbury, England I became addicted to that "sunny" smell of towels dried in clean, country air. Don't think my association in the springs would be down with my plan to go back to that - being I'm in one of those new neighborhoods where my back yard is on the intersection of several streets. Maybe someday ... I'll check the CC&R's, just in case.
I stood in the shadow of Monte Pelligrino wondering if there's a hiking trail up that sucker. You can see the roads. Very cool.
What's not cool is the fact it's nearly 2:30 in the morning, some loud American morons are yelling on my street (again), and I'm nauseated from too much time in front of the computer. I'll pick this up tomorrow with more photos, and mouthwatering lunch at Trattoria Simpaty! Ol' girl needs sleep. And ear plugs.
[Five hours of sleep, an Ashtanga Yoga class, and a long, hot, waterfall shower later...]
I'm back. Eyes were still burning when I woke up this morning, but eye drops, a liter of H20, 5 Sun Salutations into my day, I was back on track. Am totally blissed out. Thinking I'll spend the day in yoga pants, nod a lot, acknowledge what you're telling me. Doesn't mean I'm on board with whatever you're telling me, just acknowledging your voice. Namaste. Enjoy it while you can.
Back to Mondello, if only in my dreams...
Lunch was at a place that has gotten very bad reviews for service, but great reviews for seafood. Honestly, I saw why. The server finally warmed up to me when I asked him about the wine while waiting for my Calimaretti Fritti. I looked at the glass (having just wiped his finger prints off; apparently holding a wine glass by the stem is just too hard) and asked again the type of grapes. He replied again, "Inzolia." Then stubborn me, "Hmm. Io penso che Chardonnay in questo vino." Ahhh, I wasn't a total moron (midterm scores aside). "Brava!" he exclaimed loud enough for the next table to turn and stare. "E Inzolia e Chardonnay. Somellier?" I laughed, shook my head, "No. Sto imperando." I'm learning. I thought, if only I could have done THAT on my Wines of the World midterm.
NOTE 2: The stem or the plate, people; don't grip the wine glass like it's a Bud Light. You people in hospitality services should know better. Just sayin' - and nodding in acknowledgment of your voice. Namaste.
I noticed that he started serving customers their glasses of wine by the stem, passing my table, winking, an occasional, "Brava" or other wine comment. Magari. If only I were that good. But he was much more attentive. And I was enjoying my Inzolia-Chard with this:
Calimaretti Fritti: Baby squids fried in a light, slightly savory batter. I ate the whole herd, school, gaggle, whatever it is squids travel in.
Then I remembered Taormina Roberto's recommendation for Spaghetti con Ricci: made with sea urchins (ricci di mare), salt, pepper, olive oil, parsely. Buono!
I let Signor Fingerprints talk me into trying their Cassata, even after I told him I thought Cassata was way too sweet, but theirs was actually pretty good. Not as sweet as the one I had at Trattoria ai Normanni. Sitting by the water in the Mediterranean sun until I felt my arms burning, sipping my brava wine, eating the freshest cuisine di sea creatures, and not wanting to be anywhere else was the best way to spend my last day in Sicily.
FLASHBACK ALERT: There's just something about the Mediterranean. I loved Malta in 1993 and was just as enchanted my last day in Tel Aviv over a glass of Golan Heights Syrah and a perfect not too soggy, not too crusty egg plant and goat cheese sandwich 2008. Wine, food, sun, the sea, in regions with colorful history thousands of years in the making. Lively cities with true grit, ancient structures, some still in rubble from wars decades ago; influenced by so many cultures, conquests, pungent aromas, spice, the most fully-flavored foods that mean business - yet unadulterated pleasure in an unglamorous, hedonistic realm. Magic stuff here, yet replete with sobering reality. The server in Tel Aviv (who did not finger my wine glass) even taught me how to say, "Perfect" in Hebrew, "Metzuyan." (And I thought peekUPpa was hard...). Perfetto.
I returned to Palermo late afternoon, cruised La Vucciria for brioche, oranges, and dried mango for the trip home. Sunset found me (no shit) in a wine bar on Via Alloro with a Cataratto, and a copy of La Repubblica delle Donne magazine. The magazine fell open, oddly enough, to an article about up-and-coming art, food, and other social and cultural trends and expansions attracting young people to Jaffa, near Tel Aviv - a place I look forward to wandering again.
Friday I took the train back to Florence, gawking out the window at gorgeous beaches, hanging my head over the ship rail like a dog, face to the wind, and alternating brain cells between Sudoku and Luigi, and more verb conjugations. Happy girl.
Ciao, bella sicilia. Spero ritornare subito!
Now, back to wine school I go.
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All entries are strictly observations from my point of view. This blog is not intended as professional commentary on travel, wine, food, or any other subjects I discuss - it is for entertainment, an online journal, for my friends, family, and anyone interested in my stories or journey in general.
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