Go ahead. Make fun of us. Call us “dumb American tourists.” Tell us we glamorize violence and that Hollywood holds WAY too much power over us.  Wring your hands and remind us for the 9,547th time that “Sicily” is not synonymous with “mafia.” Whatever. Say what you will. We still wanted our “Godfather” fix. So Sunday we headed to Savoca, the magical hilltop village featured in the Michael Corleone-Apollonia “thunderbolt” romance that ended with Apollonia getting blown to bits.

We had been warned: “Villages like that,” our landlord Pietro advised us in his best English. “Villages like that, you will see no one.  Empty streets. But everyone sees you.”

Strange faces keep people off the street, he said, using his hands to brush aside phantom curtains and peer out. Unless you are known, no one will talk to you, he said.

Sure enough, Savoca was quiet. Eerily quiet. Besides a couple of stray exceptions, we didn’t see anyone during the entire walk about town. Were the townsfolk so accustomed to blood fueds and vendettas that strangers — even us dopey American tourists – equal potential drive-by?  Did we look like a death squad? Were we targets of a death squad? Or was it all in my Americanized, overly violent, gangster-loving imagination?

The last choice makes most sense. And the storming sheets of cold, drenching rain and driving wind likely contributed to crowd control. But it still felt eerie — or was that wet? — all the same.

For “Godfather” fans: The street above is supposedly where the Michael-Apollonia wedding procession takes place. Below is Bar Vitello where Michael and his bodyguards’ question the proprietor “Vitelli” about a beautiful girl they saw in the valley. Vitelli denies angrily no such girl exists in the village then storms inside to yell – the Hollywood mechanization revealing the girl is his daughter.

Incidentally, the town’s nickname is “citta di arte” and is an artists’ colony. Even though everything — except a coffee stop – was closed on this storming Sunday evening, we were all charmed –Juliana charmed enough to investigate a cliff hugging house for sale. We all agreed we’d be back. We all agreed that it won’t be the same when we have to share Savoca with anyone else.

It’s a strange feeling, sleeping on a smoking volcano. Kind of like sleeping under a bubbling cauldron about to tip over on your stupid peaceful face. Don’t be fooled by the snow — here simmers a hot-blooded lady who throws lava when angered. My path took me across several such tantrums, including the one from the 1600′s that killed many and incinerated a good chunk of Catania. I also crossed bits of the 2001 flow, which had the good people of Nicolosi carrying an effigy of St. Agatha thru the streets for protection. It worked — or it may have something to do with the massive human effort to divert the flow.

But man, Etna was beautiful. It felt like I had the entire volcano to myself. Maybe I did; I didn’t see another soul for 24 hours. Then again, it was COLD. Snotcicle cold. Not typical tourist weather.

That said, nothing about my winter hike qualifies as extreme. I merely backpacked to a vacant cabin, about four miles into the wilds. Etna has “rifigios” scattered between 1,300 and 1,900 meters — rustic places where weary travelers can shelter. It was snowy and cold at 1,826 meters, so most of my little adventure was devoted to finding firewood, keeping warm and enjoying the quiet. 

That ended with a shot of adrenaline the next morning when I awoke to a blizzard. I didn’t know my legs could move that fast! I even forgoed my morning coffee for fear of getting lost (or losing the trail, falling into a lave crater, falling off a cliff, avalanches,  road closures, mudslides, pyscho killers etc., ). This does qualify as extreme — as only fear of death can come between me and my beloved morning coffee.

Still, there’s something quite refreshing about mortal fear. While most –okay, all — of my fears were completely irrational, the blizzard still buzzed this thrill-seeker in a way that a problem-free trip never could. Thus I found myself happily belting out show tunes and Christmas carols as I hot-foooted out of there. The winners: “Walking in a Winter Wonderland” (which it was) and “Singing in the Rain” (which it also was — at a lower altitude). A good adventure, shot and sweet. And it ended well with a warm kiss from my boyfriend, who roared up the road to save me from a 10-mile walk in the rain.

(Nov.6) I milked a sheep. This was hard. Coaxing milk out of a sheep teat is not like pouring a Guinness. You have to yank the teat down and twist really hard. For those with breasts, this is really difficult to do. Even though teats are not at all like breasts (more like sausage-links-meets-Nicolas-Cage’s face) there’s still pain to consider. Or (yeesh) karma. It’s also difficult to aim the milk into the bucket. I, for example, hit the man HOLDING the bucket. I also witnessed (and tasted) the miracle of fresh ricotta cheese. My one kilo (about 2.2. pounds) was gone in less than a week.  

(Nov.11) Visited a movie set called “Taormina.” Real people live here but I’m convinced they’re actors here to sell tourists on the “Italy Is Heaven” concept. Must admit — this place is pretty close. Moreover, they sell chocolate soup with spicy hot pepper. 

(Nov.14) Met Guicy (pronounced “Juicy”), an Italian woman paired up with me through the “Amici” program. Her boyfriend’s name is Fabio. Guicy and Fabio are common names here but saying them still gives me a bodice-ripping thrill. Guicy is wonderful, kisses me on both cheeks and signs all her text messages “kiss, Guicy.”

(Nov.15) Was told I have “wheels” and a “gun” but no “hands.” Had my first flag football team practice. Very much a novice.  Can now explain what a “down” is without laughing. The game is Friday and I want to WIN!!

( Nov. 12) Remember those old-school headache commercials? The harried housewife rubs her temples while children scream in the background; the business man sets his head in hands after the big meeting, the construction guy puts down his jackhammer and reaches for a bottle of (insert medicide here) while a big loud booming voice (irony?) urges us to suffer no longer. I have the perfect setting if they ever bring those commercials back,plus the perfect voice-over tagline: “Sicily: Bad Place for a Headache.” On a normal day, the intense Sicilian sensory experience is wondrous. With a headache, it’s torture. The sun shines mercilessly, construction pounds at all hours, horns blare and people’s good-natured yelling spears the ears.  My migraines come with a (bonus!) sensitive stomach, so the smells of exhaust fumes, food and garbage twist my guys to rigatoni.  I’m availing myself of the free language lessons for immigrants in Catania, and my Italian teacher (a big man whose voice rattles plaster) corrected my pronunciation til I thought my head was going to explode, spattering murderous thoughts all over the classroom.

(Nov. 18) I developed a taste for olive oil. Great. Once you develop a palate for something, the good (cheap) old days are gone. Take wine. My first wine was likely Boone’s Farm or Mad Dog 20/20. It was pert, fruity and it gave the underage drinker exactly what she came for! It even came in a variety of flavors, so you could color-coordinate with what you might later barf on your shoes. Cost: three bottles for $5. Why didn’t I stop there? Sigh. If I can buy even ONE bottle for $5 these days, I’d juggle corkscrews. These days, it’s olive oil. After years of merrily buying whatever was on sale at the supermarket, I’ve developed a taste for it. I’ve learned how it’s made. I’ve learned to discriminate between olives groves in certain soils. I’ve savored olive oil, fresh-pressed that day, drizzled on a homemade crust of bread still warm from the oven. I bought a five-liter jug of it. It’s all downhill from here.

The road to Mt. Etna is paved with rocks. You see this as you head cloudward towards the end of the road — for cars, at least. The drive means passing fields of thick black lava, the scars from the 2001 eruption. That was the last time lava flowed down the mountain to Nicolosi, the cute mountain town where I live. Not sure if it’s true, but I anecdotally heard that townsfolk pulled together to divert the destructive river, funneling the lava elsewhere and saving the town from a cindery fate.