Anyhoo, yesterday I finally snapped the photo of a Kodak sign I’d been eyeballing for a few weeks. It piques my sense of time to have a 40? 50? year old sign for an essentially dead technology mounted on a building likely to be twenty times older. Here also is a photo of the last Sicilian sunrise I expect to see. It was a good one - finally a sunny day. Fun coincidence that the songs Don’t Look Back by Boston and Don't Stop Thinking About Tomorrow by Fleetwood Mac both played this morning - "Tomorrow" playing just as I began to type. Good advice, indeed. Onward.
Sometimes when I leave a place, I get a feeling that I should stay, not go at all, an almost overwhelming reluctance to move away from the comfort and, I guess, safety of the known for the unknown. It happened even when I was traveling to a familiar place, say a couple weeks’ vacation at a place I’d been before - and knowing I would return shortly. Lately, I haven’t been experiencing it quite to the depth I had before. Maybe it’s because I’m less attached to any one particular place, or I have set my mind to ever move forward. Either way, as I woke this morning and packed up and cleaned up, the feeling of staying was so fleeting as to barely register. Maybe it's the pull forward? Maybe it's knowing nothing is waiting for me at "home" wherever that is? Maybe it's the anticipation of a comfortable plane ride, since I went all out and booked business class for the long leg? Heck, I lived well within my budget for 2021, only spending 70% of my allotted funds. I can let myself live a little, right? Anyhoo, yesterday I finally snapped the photo of a Kodak sign I’d been eyeballing for a few weeks. It piques my sense of time to have a 40? 50? year old sign for an essentially dead technology mounted on a building likely to be twenty times older. Here also is a photo of the last Sicilian sunrise I expect to see. It was a good one - finally a sunny day. Fun coincidence that the songs Don’t Look Back by Boston and Don't Stop Thinking About Tomorrow by Fleetwood Mac both played this morning - "Tomorrow" playing just as I began to type. Good advice, indeed. Onward.
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In preparing for my imminent departure from Sicily, I decided to take a Covid test - even though as of today, it is not required for my trip. Odd, I think, and possibly to change on a moment's notice. To avoid any issues, I decided to spring the €50 for a PCR that I could take several days in advance instead of an antigen test that I would have to scramble for immediately before leaving. I arrived at the testing center at 8:30 on a Monday morning. Nobody else there. Pay the money and suffer the indignities and discomfort of swabs deep in my throat and sinus, and I'm outta there. Piece of cake. I walked past the antigen testing center later, and saw there was a queue of maybe 10 waiting in the rain. I don't know what the cost is for the antigen test, but I'm ok with getting financially semi-soaked for the test itself, rather than the physical soaking waiting in line. Regardless, it's over and done. I shuffle back to the apartment, and hang out watching the rain fall. Fast forward 24 hours and I have my result: Now, as a non-speaker of Italian, but the owner of a decent English vocabulary, I see "Assente" not only once, but TWICE, and read it as "assent," meaning agree or positive. Contrasting that with the one instance of "Negative" and my jaw dropped. No. Fucking. Way. I couldn't be positive. I couldn't. In the last three weeks, I'd barely come within 2 meters of anyone, ever and even then, pretty much only in passing.
I was shaken, stunned. I was in complete disbelief. I'd foregone the insurance on my ticket because, well, I don't know, but I didn't buy it. I'd also booked a hotel on the other end for a few nights as a landing until I figured out longer term arrangements. Was I out the money? It wasn't budget-busting, but I don't like throwing away money. I briefly toyed with the idea of ignoring the test because it wasn't required for my flight anyway. I quickly discarded that thought because I'm not a dick. On the positive side, I wouldn't have to worry about staying here longer, because my lodgings are set for as long as I want them. And, other than being colder that I like (it's cold and cloudy and the heater is rather inadequate to get the temp much past 62), and the fucking, non-stop barking dogs nearby, they are really nice. I could hang for a bit longer until I'm clear. I don't get Schengened outta here until the end of the month, so I have some time in that regard. I had almost resigned myself to asymptomatic positive results when I popped the whole line in an online translator just to be crystal clear of the translation. Huh. Assente means absent. I'm not as smart as I thought I was. Good thing. My few minutes of panic-planning and thought were for naught. Onward I go. Tropics, here I come. Ever heard of the Schengen Area? I knew of it conceptually in general terms, but not by name until I was on my way to Spain. Even then, I didn’t really pay much attention, because, beaches, bitches! Turns out, I should have paid a little more attention, or at least had it register in my consciousness maybe earlier, as it’s affecting my short term plans. (Who am I kidding, all my plans are short term. My only long term plan at this point is a dirt nap.)
Schengen is the area comprising the greater part of continental Europe. They not only have a single currency (the Euro) but have shared travel control. This means, as a traveler, I have to exit after 3 months, and can stay for only 3 months in any 6-month span. This is a little different from many individual countries in that in these places, after the visa expires in 90 days, you simply have to leave for a short time, after which you can return and reset the clock. (Disclaimer: I haven’t researched any specific country’s “stay away” policy, since 3 months seems long enough to me to stay before moving on.) Nopers, sir, in the Schengen, if you stay for 90, you have to leave for 90 before you can return for another 90. Or so I understand. And that means exiting the bulk of Europe, and not returning for a minimum of 3 months. I didn’t pay much attention to it when on my way to Spain, because I was only planning to spend a month there, and had no real plan at the time for after my month expired. Then, I went to Portugal for 2 weeks. OK, now I’ve used 6 of my allotted 12 weeks. On I go to Taormina. And now the problem. I like it here, and it’s a great place to Covid-hunker. Low case rate, lots of space for me to ramble about and not get (literally) in anyone’s face, good food, good people, quiet (except for the neighboring dogs – fuck those guys). My short term plan had updated to stay here longer, a couple of months, maybe. Then, last night I was reminded of Schengen by a fellow traveler I had met in Lisbon. (She's a Canadian who is now in Crete, and needs to exit about the same time I do, if you're curious.) I followed that up with some quick research, and learned that I can’t simply hop to, say, Malta ($15 round trip from Catania), for a weekend and return. Huh. I need to exit and cannot return for a while. Kind of a bummer when Omi is lighting up the planet, but I'm a law-abiding person, and the penalties for overstaying visas here can be severe. I put them in the same bin as fire, anything on Derek Lowe's list and wolverines of Things I Won't Play With. So, I have to leave before the end of January. Guess I won’t be getting a new bottle of Scotch for the evening’s tipples after the current one is drained. I figure it’s time for me to provide what the crowds clamor for. Ok, no crowds, no clamoring, but why not. Here are some photos I took when traveling to Castelmola from Taormina a couple of times and around Taormina. The primary route between the two towns (on foot) is a footpath from antiquity. I mean that; the path’s been in in use for 3000 years or more. Stunning to think on the number of generations of people walking it. That’s almost 1000 generations. Amazeballs.
Anyway, most are nature, except the rat. I wonder if it’s worse to get squished on a grate or just squished? The fresco depicts a beheading. It’s in a church that dates from the 1st century. The fresco was created in the 16th. The building was restore with the fresco left unaltered. The thing is on a small terrace on a cliff. The gate? Yeah, that’s a thousand years old. It’s called the Saracen Gate and provided the pinch point between the two. The narrow, named “street” is barely shoulder width. Kinda cool. The design in stones is throughout Castelmola. There is only one street in the entire town where cars are allowed, and it’s got this pattern embedded. It took a combined eleven or so hours spread across four days spanning two weeks, but as of today, I have partaken of the two shot Pfizer cocktail with a Moderna chaser. I am now boosted like I’ve got a Saturn V strapped to my ass. I have to say, though, there is nothing quite like trying to navigate a Byzantine bureaucracy while not speaking the language.
I started with a friend who helped me get the required paperwork, and filling it out. That was about 90 minutes on day one. Day two was me spending about two and a half hours getting to, getting in and getting denied the booster. Turns out everyone here has something called a Codice Fiscale which, I think, identifies them for anything health related. As a foreigner, I obviously didn't have the card. So, denied. After consulting with my English-speaking friend, she dig some digging on my behalf and found that I could, as a stinkin' foreigner, get my very own codice fiscale, but that required a visit to another government office in another town, a few miles down the coast. Since it's now December 24, I figure it all can wait until the holiday weekend has passed. End week one. Enter day three, week two. I walk to the place. Seems...deserted. No cars, no people. I peer in the window, and see a couple of carabinieri. Cool. Less cool: they don't speak any English, and, me, the idiot I am, still have nothing but the language skills of a toddler. Despite the handicap, I (I guess) explain well enough to gain admittance, and get it all taken care of with a combination of guess what I'm saying, pidgin Italian, gestures and pantomime. Woo! I walk back to Taormina and celebrate with whiskey and Netflix. Time elapsed: 4+ hours. Day four, week two. It's another walk to the vaccination location early in the morning. Apparently not early enough, as I am the 37th on the list. I eyeball the woman who signed up in front of me (made easier, because she was attractive and wearing quite a stylish hat), and followed her lead. It took another few hours - probably two and a half - before I worked my through check-in, get the jabberwocky, and check out. Add in the hour of commute time and my total is up to about eleven and a half hours. Good thing I've not got a lot else to be doing. The only remaining thing to do is to hit the pharmacy with all my documentation and get the Green Pass. I think at that point, I'll be done with all that - at least for a while. Here I am, in a beautiful, ancient, seaside town in Sicily for Christmas. Alone. None of that is a surprise, in fact, it's planned. But what's odd, or at least interesting to me, is that the two women who have been the most involved in my life over the last 20 years both have connections to Italy, and I'm really no longer in contact with either at this point. Weird, huh?
My ex-wife spent an exchange year here back in the dark ages of physical letter writing, speaks the language fluently, and still maintains friendships here. We did travel the mainland for a couple of great weeks way back in the 20th century. We went to Rome, Florence, Venice, Verona and Rovigo. It was easy for me, given she was fluent and had friends, and I just went along for the ride with a stupid expression of no-comprehension. I distinctly remember the coffee, and good food. I'm certain her Italian friends thought she married a simpleton. So do I. The other person was my primary running companion for quite a while. She divorced and moved first away, and then back to my area. We maintained contact throughout her moves and I like to think I helped her figure some things out. She had wanted to visit Italy, and had done some language lessons as well. When I got divorced I reached out to her to see if there was any interest in other than (what had devolved to at that point) casual and intermittent electronic communication. I even went as far as to extend an invitation to join me in Italy (or wherever I was going to be). I buy a ticket, she joins me with no expectations, no strings; just a friend to hang out with. To date, she's expressed no interest. Am I hopeful she’ll change her mind? As long as I breathe, there’s hope I suppose. Though I imagine Vegas odds would be astronomical to the point of absurdity. So here I am: Covid-hunkered down in Taormina, exactly as I planned, but quieter than I hoped. I'll spend tomorrow probably doing what I've been generally doing every day: walk the town (masked, of course), read, take in the views, drink some coffee, overhear conversations I don't comprehend and generally cogitate on WTF I'm doing. It's still pretty easy traveling, since I can get by when I need to with pidgin Italglish, Google Translate, and pantomime, though not on the level as if I had a translator next to me, or the language chops myself to understand. Even so, I drift through, unspeaking. A toast with a tasty local tipple: almond wine. Happy Christmas. Just some photos I took while wandering about last night. It's a bit eerie seeing all the restaurants with not a single patron. I wonder if it's just that I was early for Italy (it being only about 6:30 or so), or the off season, or the rise of Omicron. There weren't a lot of people walking about. Me? I got a pizza to go and watched an episode of Wheel of Time on my laptop. I read the books so long ago, the only memories being triggered are character names.
Anywhoodles, enjoy the photos. This is mostly a photo blog post, since the activity was simply walking about in Taormina. Click the link to get the deets about the town. It's quite the cool place with only about 11,000 permanent residents. I love the winding ways, and views around every corner. The stairs are impressive, and they are everywhere. I guess that's what happens when you build a town on the side of a cliff. OK, it's not actually built on a cliff (it's not a cliff everywhere; there are some scattered about, though), but it's definitely on the steep side, and there are stairs everywhere. For example, from my place to the beach, there are over 400 stairs. Where there aren't stairs, it isn't flat. To get to the main road in the other direction, there are (again, in addition to a reasonably steep grade) another 300 stairs. I didn't try to count the number of stairs up to the viewpoints I hit. I too quickly ran out of fingers, toes, and other dangly bits to use to count. Anyhow, here are some photos. It's too bad the one person who so badly wanted to visit Italy isn't here with me. If you happen to see this, my offer is still open. Hit me up.
It was not the smoothest of moves, but it wasn't bad. It definitely could have been worse. It started well: 30 minutes total time from an €8.00 Uber, dropped at the airport, and through security. At the Lisbon airport, all electronics, in fact every loose item, is to be put into a bag or a coat pocket. Contrast that with Lanzarote where all electronics had to ride outside, and to NYC where laptops ride alone. I didn't have to remove my shoes and I didn't wear pants that required a belt, so I can't contrast that with either other airport (NYC, no shoes, Lanza, no belt). Smooth sailing.
I check the board, "Gate announced at 6:20." Cool, cool. Departure is 7:15, announcing a gate 30-40 minutes in advance is standard procedure in Europe. I go to get a coffee and croissant. After snarfage, I check the board again. "News at 7:15." No mention of a gate announcement. Checking further, no other flight is showing any anomalies, so something is funky with mine. A few minutes later, I get a text telling me my gate. Cool, cool, everything must be above board again. I get to the gate, and the board there doesn't show a departure. BUT, there is staff present. She announces the flight is delayed because of a strike in Rome. What the fuck? I've heard of wildcat strikes, but a strike in one city, affecting flights on a random day? I chose to be phlegmatic about it. I really don't have anywhere to be, do I? I do what I'm trying to do best: Kindle and Chill. About 5 minutes before scheduled departure, it's announced the flight will be leaving approximately an hour late. I guess the strike lasted about 43 minutes. I guess the ATC personnel wanted more time for their espressi? Who knows. All I knew was I was on my way. Smooth sailing, y'all! Flight(s) were uneventful - as all good flights are. Landed in Catania. Since I didn't have checked baggage, I walked out the exit to be intercepted by security. She asked me questions I couldn't answer. Mainly because she asked in Italian, and I'm a Stupid American who doesn't speak anything but 'Murican. (OK, I kind of can, almost, partially get by in Spanish Spoken Like a Child®). After some intervention on the part of another security officer, I discovered they were asking where I was coming from. I replied, "Rome." They then let me by. It was several minutes and I was already outside, when I realized they probably wanted to know where I originated. I wonder if I would have had a different result if I had said Lisbon? I may have been redirected for a Covid test. Onward and northward I went. By bus. Again, fairly uneventful. But, holy shit, that bus barely fit some streets and the hairpins? We had to back down on one to allow another freaking bus to pass the other way. On one turn, we swung wide, as needed, and the oncoming car darted inside our turn to get out of the way. Wow. That took some cojones de acero. My faux pas of the trip was to push the button to be let off, just as the bus was turning into the terminal and coming to a complete stop. End of the line. Duh. Oh well. I thanked the driver, taking him by surprise I think, and hopped off, double slung my bags and started walking. Several hundred stairs later, I'm looking at a closed and locked steel gate. This is where I'm supposed to be staying, but I have to say, it didn't look particularly inviting. But this was the place: Residence Terra Rossa. Courtesy of a former exchange student (Hey Brando!), who's mom owns it, I was offered a deal I couldn't pass up. Beside being on Sicily and if Family offers you a deal you don't pass it up, it was simply an offer not to pass up! I saw a button for Reception and pushed. After a few minutes, the sally port gate opened, and I walked through. Into a dark courtyard. Huh. A man approached and asked (again) questions I couldn't answer. Turns out he is from Romania, and his Italian isn't much better than mine. After a lot if back and forth using Google Translate (I'm not sure of his reading ability either TBH.), we figured out the situation, and he showed me to my accommodations. Ice cold, but not unexpected. The heater was running, but it had some significant space and chill to overcome. To my delight, there was a bottle of wine, some bread, chocolate and coffee in the kitchen. I was set for the night and morning. But for the time being, I was more than happy to simply burrow under a blanket, sip some wine and watch some Netflix. I'll hit the town in the morning. |
AuthorJust a guy out exploring the world. Former world-class never-was endurance runner. Archives
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