Fog adds drama. Fog adds mystery. Fog brings about questions like “Am I going to trip on the cobblestones and break my face?” Our brains knew Erice was there — our feet were attached to something — then again, the medieval city was not there. Thick, pea soup fog obscured everything. We’d see a sign saying “castle,” and look at each other confused.  It’s a dense fog when you lose a 700-year old castle. We’d hear chittering voices yet see nothing until we’d have a near collision with groups of tourists in the street. People held tight to each other — the limited sight distance was freaky enough, but the fog also dropped a slick coat of break-your-face sauce on the cobblestones. It was a surprisingly pleasant way to see — and not see — the city. Funny, as we and everyone else had made the trip for the view. 

Erice, pronounced “Air-eee-chay,” is on top of a big mountain that shares its name. On a clear day, you can supposedly see forever — or at least pretty darn far. From Erice’s 750 meter perch, most folks see the nearby cities of Trapani and Marsala, miles of pink coastline and the islands offshore. This is the view climbing up to Erice BEFORE we popped into the cloud:

Erice is also known for its cute medieval architecture and its cult history of Venus worship. Venus, the Roman goddess of love, gathered devotees for over 2,300 years, inspiring the construction of countless temples, the slaughter of countless animals and Botticelli’s famous “The Birth of Venus.” The painting, in turn, inspired one of humanity’s age-old questions: “How would I look on the half-shell?” The Birth of Venus was also the birth of the body-image issue. 

But Erice’s locals didn’t worship a cookie-cutter Barbie-doll Venus — theirs is home-grown. Temples honor “Venus Erycina,” named for them and representing their vision of love — a vision free of Sandra Bullock and romantic comedy nonsense. The people of Erice apparently were pragmatists (living on a mountain will do that)  and were rather isolated from social norms. Their Venus is thus the embodiment of “impure love” and the patron saint of prostitutes. She was so popular that the animals  walked up to her altar and waited to be sacrificed in her name, according to Roman writer Claudius Aelianus (ca. 175–ca. 235), known as Aelian (and Wikipedia).

 There was indeed something magical about this Erice — from what I could see. And the native animals were unnaturally friendly. One wild kitty ran right up to me and plopped into my lap. I almost tucked it into my camera bag –free souvenir! — but opted against it. A cat from an isolated town known for impure love wouldn’t last too long in our neighborhood.

Before we left, my friends who had been to Erice before pressed me to return, assuring me that if I did I would see – figuratively and literally — why people fall in love with Erice. But even with the fog, I’d felt the town’s charms and the power of Venus. If I’m getting on the half shell, I want some fog, the thicker the better!