This is a salt flat outside of Trapani, Sicily. Seawater is pumped into plotted “fields” and trapped until all of the water evaporates, leaving sea salt behind. 

The island of Sicily is home to 5 million people — and 1.5 million sheep. The two worlds converge on congested roads with sheep always hogging the right-of-way. 

10 Ways You Know You’re in a Sheep jam (as opposed to a traffic jam)

1. You’re looking at bums — not a bum-pers. And they’re poopy.

2. Instead of brake lights and turn signals, “trampling”  indicates direction of travel. 

3. Power to direct traffic cedes from stoplights and peace officers to three-legged dogs and dirty men with sticks.

4. You’re the only one in traffic with an opposable thumb. 

5. The born-out-of frustration suggestion to “hoof it” is taken literally. 

6. Smells of exhaust and gasoline are replaced by the gamey aroma of dirty sweaters.

7. Everyone involved in the jam is screaming for their mothers: “MAAAAAAAAAH!” 

8. Half the population is visibly horny.

9. You might get fleeced.

10. In sheep jams there are less carhorns and…More cowbell!

Hmmmm…what to do when the sky turns an apocalyptic shade of yellow? Run around pretending you’re a brain-eating zombie of course! We had a good time in the pee fog. The yellow hue hails from the Sahara Desert as the fog is constituted of suspended sand particles blowing across the Med. We had a couple of yellow dust days in Japan as well, though no where near the amount Korea gets from that damn Mongolia. Breathing in pee dust is not recommended but it puts a new spin on the phrase, “eat my dust” — which you can’t help doing if you’re roaming the streets being brain-eating zombies.

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.

After two weeks of stateside holiday revelry, we returned to Sicily Sunday to start the work week. Since then, I’ve felt out of touch and out of sorts. Italian words I’ve learned at least twice already crawled to my lips, if at all. The signs and the words on the signs seemed unfamiliar and unfriendly. Roads too.  But a moment  this morning zapped me back into place, reconnecting me with my new home.

I got moving early to get to the base, work out and be fresh and pretty for the 8 a.m. bus that would take me to Catania…and my first organized Italian language class.  All proceeded according to plan and I was out on the road, ready to flag down the bus before the 8 o’clock bell.

I waited. And waited. And waited. No bus. This in itself is not unusual. I bank on the bus being at least 10 to 20 minutes late. But traffic was acting strangely. Drivers stuck their hands out the window and waggled their fingers at me — the chastising “no” gesture. This was different. Was it my blue jeans? The cold weather? I pondered the possibilities while I waited. And waited a little longer. Then boom, EPIPHANY! I called Michael on the phone.

“Hello honey? Is today an Italian holiday?”

“There’s nothing on the calendar. But let me check and get back to you.”

The phone rings again. It’s Michael, sounding amazed.

“Today is an Italian holiday — tomorrow too. The epinanny or something.”

“The epiphany!”

I had my answer like a bolt from heaven! Italy had its epiphany and I had mine.  No buses equals no language class. And I was utterly charmed by those chastising fingers delivering their Christian message: “Stand at the bus stop all day, honey, the bus ain’t coming.”

FYI: I googled “Epiphany” to find out more about it and I’m so glad I did.  In Italy, the Epiphany (the day that Jesus revealed himself as God in the human form) is celebrated in tandem with the arrival of La Befana — a Santa-Claus-like witch who brings candy and presents to good kids; coal to the bad ones. (This being Italy, the coal is sweet and delicious, called “carbone dolce”).  

But unlike St. Nick, the kiddies leave La Befana a glass of wine, not milk.  Plus, she cleans up after herself! Ever the scrupulous housekeeper, la Befana sweeps the floors on her way out with the broom that provides her transport. And, unlike media-darling Kris Kringle, la Befana will wallop you with her broomstick if you attempt to see her.

There are Christan legends about la Befana, but scholars believe that she is older, stemming from the Roman Goddess Strina who traditionally brought gifts at this time of year. Romans celebrate by becoming “singing hags” for the day. And there’s a feast too!

I love this country.

They call it the “death of an artichoke.” That’s how it translates. But death is a good thing here in Sicily… especially if you lust after artichokes. Death — in this case — means perfection, and the most perfect way to prepare an artichoke is to roast it over hot coals. Fire it up like a unrepentant sinner. Like this:

It begins with fresh artichokes, which are now starting to flood the local markets. A glorious sign the other day: “25 artichokes, 6 Euro.” Roughly, that’s 40 cents for about 15 minutes of bliss (the time it takes me to tear through an artichoke). Artichoke season roughly runs from November to April; I was warned when I arrived to not let my lust get the best of me as early artichokes are imported or pumped full of steroids. But these days, the chokes are looking mighty purty.(Course they looked good to me in October too)

I attended a cooking class devoted to the artichoke yesterday. Our class was held at “The Lucky Woman” or “La Donna Fortunata” as the building was formerly owned by a woman who survived a mule kick while she was still en utero — but that’s another story. Anyhow, we started with fresh artichokes, prying them open with our fingers, and sprinkling salt inside. We chopped up some garlic and parsley and stuffed them into the top and between the leaves. Douse with a hearty slog of olive oil and stand upright into some hot charcoal for 35-45 minutes. We also stuffed artichokes with bread crumbs to boil on the stovetop and watched a demo of raw artichoke heart salad. All simple ingredients, all great results.

Artichoke trivia: I was told they are planted biannually from an “egg.”  The plant is cut to the ground the first year. The second year bears fruit, about 5-6 artichokes per plant, popping out here and there throughout the season. 

Other tidbits: they are a thistle! The leaves are scientifically classified as scales, like a lizard. You can eat almost every part of the artichoke, except for the hairy bits of older artichokes — babies are fair game. Wikipedia says they were historically touted as an aphrodisiac and — passion squish — also increase bile production! But best of all, artichokes taste damn good. Especially roasted with olive oil. If this is death, kill me now.

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.

any snotcicles?

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.

der da der...the backpack attack!

We went to Praha for Thanksgiving! Highlights:

It started as soon as the plane hit the runway. Grey skies, barren winter trees. A bus in a muddy parking lot. The unsmiling driver started the engine, and thus the rockin’ sounds of AC/DC, courtesy of the city’s contemporary radio station. The words burst forth unconsciously. “Dobre vechir,” I said. The driver said it back. And so we began bouncing down the cobblestones towards beer and, for me, a week of Eastern European nostalgia. Slava bohu. (Thank God) I’d finally returned. 

Nine years. Might as well round it up to a decade. A decade since I left Ukraine with a backpack and a full load of emotional baggage from my time there with Peace Corps. Y2K’s imminent threat (the grid is crashing! the grid is crashing!) released us volunteers one month early from our 27-month service, all benefits intact. So, after two years, two months, I boarded that plane to Thailand on a cold November day, with a vodka hangover and mixed feelings. Yes, I had an amazing experience. But I felt lighter as the plane lifted off, tucking up its wheels, Ukraine shrinking below us.

I was getting bitter towards the end. Bitter about the blase` “boys will be boys” way my Ukrainian colleagues handled the bunch of rowdy drunk guys climbing into my apartment when I was home. Bitter about PC’s politically-motivated solution of installing a steel door on my shared apartment as opposed to making a stink with the police. But mostly I was bitter about my ineffectiveness. And bitter at the dissolution of my original ideals and what I hoped to achieve there.

I know now that another name for this bitterness is “growing pain.”  I can’t seem to learn without it pinching – though I wish it was different — these tough spots are part of the process. It’s like squeezing myself through a tube of toothpaste. Pain, pressure… then finally, release.

I know this now. But I was 25 when I left Ukraine for warmer climes, and since then, I’ve rehashed my experience often. It was an amazingly intense learning experience, and, as I add to my lifetime highlight reel, Ukraine still ranks singular in terms of its emotional purity. 

But the mental trips down memory lane have yet not resulted in an actual trip back. I’m hoping to change this next year, as living in Sicily now officially places me in the neighborhood. My friends and fellow vols who journey back assure me that “Ukraine has changed” from our free-wheeling PC days. This doesn’t bother me a bit. I’ve changed as well.

But while times change, behaviors change, and, lord knows prices change– personality stays fairly static. So it was with happy recognition that I reached Prague last week. Much was altered — chain stores, the galloping spread of the touristy districts — but I recognized the personality. I found it in the metro, in drunken Paul, in the smoky benches of the beer hall, in the freshly painted “Modern Talking” graffiti by the fallen Stalin monument. It was like my 10-year high school reunion — everyone looked different, but they were still the same people. It felt good. It felt right. And it felt like something moving inside me — some anxiety, some leftover baggage — had finally come to rest. I’d finally returned to Eastern Europe. And it finally felt like home.

From the steps of Caltigirone, a cute Sicilian town where I dropped loads of euro last weekend on the local speciality – ceramics. Note: A gal with the nickname “Stone Hands” should neither buy nor handle breakable items. I should have avoided this town entirely. My high-dollar artichoke plate is already in three pieces.