When we poked our heads out of the hatch the morning after our arrival in the Lastovo Nature Park, we could almost have believed we were in the Bras d'Or lakes of Cape Breton, or perhaps Wall Bay in Turkey's Skopea Limani. After over six years of talking about it, planning for it, deciding not to go, then deciding that we really couldn't miss it, we had finally arrived in the cruisers paradise that had beckoned us to the Mediterranean in the first place. Croatia!
Following the advice of our friends Fred and Nancy on Frisco, we had checked in at Ubli on Lastovo island the previous afternoon. After Rick had dressed in his best shirt and paid visits to customs, immigration and the harbourmaster's office, he returned with a one-year cruising permit, a receipt for three months of sojourn tax, tourist passes for each of us and a wallet that was now about $450 lighter. We had known what to expect, but the total was still a bit shocking.
"I dropped in at the grocery store" Rick says. "They're out of bread, but they'll have some tomorrow morning. And we can get a SIM card for internet at the post office if we come back at 6 p.m.". With the ferry due to arrive any minute, we have to get away in a hurry. We head across Velji Lago, motoring past beautiful pine-covered hills and a well-hidden submarine pen to a small cove on the northwest side. Until recently, Lastovo was a military base and off limits to the public, but in 2006 the entire archipelago was declared a nature park.
By 6 p.m., Aisling is securely anchored. Not feeling any deep urgency about setting up internet access, we decide that our trip to the Ubli post office can wait until the next day. The wasps are too interested in our dinners to allow us to eat on deck, but we enjoy some star gazing after the sun goes down, listening to Abba tunes from the skippered charter boat "Barbara" that is tied to the wall nearby.
The next morning, we take the dinghy back to Ubli. As we walk up the road of the tiny hamlet, the perfume of linden trees fills the air. There is no one else in sight. Without a doubt, we are off the beaten track here. We find the post office closed, and realize that it opens only in the evenings, from 6-8 p.m. Darn. The grocery store has no bread today either. "Tomorrow morning" the woman behind the counter tells us, and she teaches us the Croatian words for hello (dobodan) and thank you (hvala). By the time we get back to the boat, Rick has convinced me that we should go around to Zaklopatika on the north side of the island, which supposedly has a fish market and is within walking distance of Lastovo town. It's less than 5 miles away, so we arrive shortly after noon and anchor in the small cove. On shore, there are a few restaurants, houses with pretty gardens, and not much else.
It will be a hot two-kilometer walk to Lastovo town (including a 300 foot vertical climb), so we clip large water bottles to our knapsacks before setting off. Rick wonders if we can hitch a ride, but few cars pass us on the narrow, winding road. The ones that do are driving like Grand Prix competitors. We zigzag between the small patches of shade and dive for the side of the road whenever we hear cars approaching. About halfway to the town we are rewarded with a view of the old port in the distance, and finally the charming town of Lastovo (population 100), with its unique chimneys, appears in the valley below us.
It is not difficult to find the Lastovo post office, but it is only open in the mornings and has already closed for the day. There is nowhere else where we can buy a SIM card, and the next day (Friday) will be a national holiday. Unless we go back to Ubli, we will likely not have internet access until the following Monday. "At least we had a nice walk and saw the town" I say. Rick looks unconvinced. The small grocery store here doesn't have bread either "Tomorrow," the clerk tells us, but they do have chocolate covered ice cream bars, so Rick buys one and I help him eat it as we walk out of town. Back in Zaklopatika, we get into the dinghy and are immediately waved over by a young Italian man who is having trouble with the motor on his dinghy. We tow him to a large yacht, moored in front of the restaurant, but decline his offer of coffee.
Now we have to decide whether to stay in Zaklopatika for the night or go back to Velji Lago. The thought of a swim in the clear waters of the cove and the knowledge that we still have time to pick up a SIM card at the post office in the evening lures us back to Velji Lago. By late afternoon, we're re-anchored in the same place we'd left that morning. The police drop by and check our cruising permit, and later we have a visit from the park police, who tell us that we must pay them an additional 50 kuna for park entry fees (25 kuna per person or the equivalent of about 5 dollars each).They are very well organized here.
At 6 p.m. we head to Ubli and join the line-up at the post office. Fortunately, the postwoman speaks some English, throwing in a smattering of Italian when her English fails her. She sells us two T Mobile starter packs for 20 kuna (about $4) each, then helps Rick activate one of the cards on his Smartphone, while a line-up of impatient customers accumulates behind us. As for the internet stick, she tells us that we will just need to insert the SIM card, put the stick into our laptop, and the directions will pop up.
Back at the boat, I fire up my computer and plug in the internet stick. It connects, but immediately directs me to a home page that is entirely in Croatian. Since we only know two words of Croatian, neither of which are any use to us in this situation, I am out of luck. Rick has a bright idea and sets up wireless tethering on his smartphone, but after I have downloaded about half of my work email it stops working too. It seems that we have already used up our entire quota, because it is asking us to "recarg". ARGH!!! We have more time left on the second SIM card, but can't figure out how to activate it.
By the next morning, we've decided that a little time without internet will probably do us good. We do a few chores and relax with our books. Rick is beginning to think he really is in paradise, since the norm in this cove seems to be topless or "naturalist" bathing. A young beauty relaxes on a swim platform, chest thrust out, hair flipped back. Later, I observe that Rick is taking a sudden interest in tanning his chest, which rarely sees the light of day.
Late that afternoon, we walk along the water to a cluster of small hotels near the bridge at Mali Lago. A boatload of charterers strikes up a rousing chorus of "In Vino Veritas" as we pass, and the sound of their singing follows us along the path. Miraculously, we discover that the large hotel has WiFi in its terrace bar. We order two "pivo" (now we are up to three Croatian words) and the beer arrives in large mugs, cold and good. We nurse our beer for over an hour while Rick answers email on his Smartphone and I occupy myself with shooing away houseflies and bemoaning the fact that I had forgotten to put my Blackberry in my bag. Oh well, a little more time without internet will probably do me good.
Things are quieter in the cove that night, and I could happily stay for a few more days, but Rick wants to move on to Korcula. We pull up the anchor at 9 a.m. and by 1 o'clock we are approaching the fairy-tale skyline of Korcula town. If the rest of Croatia is anything like this, I think we're going to be glad we came!
Port police and customs are located in the small shed on the starboard (west) side as you enter the small harbour of Ubli. After visiting them you will need to see the tourist/park person (who takes all the money) located on the east side of the harbour, near the restaurant. While checking in, you can tie up right in front of the port police on the west side or on the ferry wharf on the east if space is available. There is a banking machine near the restaurant to get the many kuna you will require. We paid 1756 kuna in navigation fees (good for one year) plus a 750 kuna vessel sojourn tax (good for three months).
A reasonably well- stocked supermarket (bread only at 9:00am) is near the ferry dock. Fuel is available at the end of the harbour.
We anchored in a small unnamed cove on the northwest side of Luka Velji Lago in about 30 feet in sand and weed; good holding. The water is crystal clear and warm (28 degrees on June 22) for good swimming.There is also a possibility of tying side-to a wall on the south side.
Zaklopatika had depths of 30-60' sand and weed. It is also possible to moor bow-to on a restaurant jetty for free (presumably you have to eat at the restaurant).
|Croatia and Montenegro 2012||
All is quiet in the harbour and the setting sun leaves red tendrils in the sky. We slip off the dock lines, pass the entrance and are on our way. The overnight sail from Bari to Vieste is as easy as it gets, with Martha keeping Rick company on his watch and Wally joining me on my mine. The hours fly by and before we know it, we are dropping our anchor in the small cove behind the lighthouse on Isola Santa Eufemia. We hope to stay in a spot where we can swim from the boat, but it is not to be. After catching a few hours of sleep, we decide the anchorage is too rolly for comfort and make a quick phone call to Caterina, a Canadian (Torontonian!) who operates the Centro Ormeggi in Vieste. The price of 35 euros a night sounds pretty reasonable for this part of the world, so we head for the marina.
We are instantly charmed by Vieste, which sits high on a promontory of white chalk cliffs. As in many of these coastal towns, the new town is a jumble of concrete structures, while the haphazard streets of the old village on the hill are filled with quaint tiny shops and homes. Many of the marble streets are so narrow that only carts and people can make passage.
Wally and Martha are delighted when Caterina immediately takes on the task of investigating options for their transport to Florence, where they are hoping to visit the Uffize gallery before flying back to Halifax on Tuesday. With everything left in good hands, they head out to explore the town, taking my Italian cellphone with them so that we can track them down later. Just as we are walking up the hill from the marina, they call us from a little café. We join them for a drink, then visit a nearby specialty shop where we splurge on a few delicacies. Back onboard, we open a bottle of prosecco, taste some of our purchases and cook a simple meal of chicken, couscous and salad.
Katerina recommends that Wally and Martha should take the overnight train from Foggia to Florence on Sunday evening. We will rent a car, explore the Gargano and drop Wally and Martha off at the station. This means that they can spend another day with us, but we hope they are not too disappointed about missing the Uffizi, which is closed on Mondays.
Part of the charm of Vieste is that there are few historic sites to make us feel obliged to get out and tour. We all relax and pursue our own amusements: Rick and I visit the market, Wally goes off to a beach and Martha does a little shopping. When we all convene back onboard Aisling, Wally and Martha invite us to dinner in the town. The Lonely Planet's description of the Enoteca Vesta ("If your wine is as important as your food, this is the place for you") certainly makes it sound like the perfect restaurant for Wally!
Our happy anticipation is somewhat dimmed when Wally begins to pack up his belongings and discovers that a box with three bottles of very special wine that he had purchased in Tuscany is nowhere to be found. We search everywhere and it is clearly not onboard. The box must have been left behind on the train from Rome to Brindisi, or in the taxi to the train station. It's a huge disappointment, but he cheers up a bit when we suggest that he may be able to find replacements in Florence.
We all dress up and head out, pausing for Wally and Martha to say goodbye to Caterina.
On the way up the hill, we pause to look at the merchandise being displayed by a young man, Roberto. We ask the prices of his sea shells and he hands me a few small ones. "Un regalo" (a gift) he says, "Capisce?" (Understand?) At first I think he is suggesting that I buy them as gifts, but then I realize he is giving them to me as a gift. Ah, a smart young entrepreneur! He has us eating out of his hand now. Wally and I hand over a few euros and come away with a larger shell and a red painted starfish.
Enoteca Vesta is set in a small grotto (previously the site of a furniture-making shop) with a wine cellar that is truly a cave. Wally climbs into the cave and views the wine selection with all the passion of a fashionista gazing at the latest haute couture collection. He strikes up an immediate rapport with the restaurant's owner, Bruno, and together they chose a lovely falanghina to accompany a spectacular parade of antipasti that seems to go on and on.
It is far too much food, but Bruno insists that we try at least half-portions of their two traditional pastas- troccoli with chick peas and orecchiette with anchovies and rape (to be accompanied by a wonderful Gioia del Colle). And surely we cannot refuse the desserts....a ricotta cake and an orange tart, with just a taste of a Trani muscato...At the end of the evening, the behind-the-scenes maestro (Bruno's wife Dorotea, the chef) comes out to take a bow. She says that she needs a rest, and based on the size of our bill she can probably afford to take one! But it has truly been a meal and an evening to remember.
The next morning, we are all up early. Martha attends Mass while Rick picks up our Fiat Panda rental car and by mid-morning we are on the way to the Gargano National Park. Our drive to Monte St. Angelo takes us through the Foresta Umbra, said to be a remnant of Italy's ancient forest. We drive under a canopy of oak, beech and pine
Near the visitor's centre, a few small Gargano deer are mooching for food. It looks like a wonderful place for hiking, or to have a picnic, but we have much to see and little time.
We continue our uphill climb to Monte Sant' Angelo, the town where in the 5th century AD, according to legend, the Archangel Michael visited the Bishop of Siponto in a grotto, leaving behind a red cloak and a footprint. Monte St. Angelo has been an important pilgrimage site for more than a millennium. St. Thomas Aquinas, Pope John Paul and St. Francis of Assisi all made pilgrimages here.
We won't get to see the footprint today, because it was covered by a statue of the archangel in the 16th century. In any case, when we arrive at the grotto, mass is underway and the room is crowded with pilgrims. No doubt there are many who, like us, have simply driven here for the day. For others, this journey may have great significance. The town itself is crowded with bars, restaurants and kiosks selling pasta and religious souvenirs. It's an interesting contrast to the sacred atmosphere in the grotto.
Now we need a shady spot to have lunch. We settle in at Le Clarisse, where the owner/chef, Guiseppe, comes out of the kitchen to explain the menu. Wally and Martha chose pasta al forno, which Wally says is just like baked macaroni. Rick and I decide to try troccoli with rape, a local seasonal speciality, and it is delicious.
Before we leave, Rick convinces Guiseppe to explain how to prepare the pasta. Obviously, troccoli and rape will be difficult to get in Canada, but we've already discovered that we can make a pretty good facsimile using arugula and spaghetti. (Write to us if you'd like the recipe.)
We seem to be on a pilgrimage today ourselves. Our next stop will be San Giovanni Rotondo, site of the tomb of St. Pio (Padre Pio). Padre Pio arrived in this tiny hamlet in 1916, as a capuchin friar. One of Padre Pio's great accomplishments was building a "Home for the Relief of Suffering", but even prior to this, pilgrims travelled to San Giovanni Rotondo to seek his spiritual guidance. His motto of "Pray, hope and don't worry" sounds just like something my grandmother would have said! We arrive in San Giovanni Rotondo exactly 10 years and one day after Padre Pio was canonized by Pope John Paul II (who also made a pilgrimage here).
I'm gasping for breath by the time we make our way up the steep flight of stairs to the courtyard of the church. When I wonder aloud what the altitude is, Rick whips out his smartphone and sits down on a wall, trying futilely to get his GPS to work. "Go ahead without me" he says. Truth be told, he has little interest in seeing the tomb of a 20th century saint. Martha, Wally and I continue inside.
We join the line-up of pilgrims filing past the tomb and gaze around at the glittering splendor of the sanctuary. "This is tacky!" mutters Wally, "Where's the shag rug?" Martha glares at him. Why hadn't we left him outside with Rick? "No really, think of how many mouths the money that went into building this church could have fed!" Someone calls out "Silenzio!" (we are not the only ones talking) and no more is said. It must be a bit of a trial for Martha to be visiting these holy sites in the company of two Protestants and an agnostic! But the mosaics are very beautiful, and Padre Pio's cell is touchingly simple. Martha helps me pick out a Padre Pio rosary for my mother's friend Dolly before we leave.
Our time together is drawing to a close. It's a quick ride to Foggia, where we have coffee and gelato at a café near the train station before waving goodbye to Wally and Martha. They will have a long wait for their train, but we want to get back to Vieste before dark. Driving back along the coast road, the car feels very empty. It is always more fun to explore these places with friends.
The first part of the return trip goes quickly, with a four lane highway and many tunnels straightening out the drive between Foggia and Manfredonia . From there on, travelling 12 nautical miles takes us about 40 minutes.The coast is steep-to and the road twists and turns around every cove, with hairpin after hairpin. Coming the other way are all the weekend visitors leaving Vieste and its beaches. We can tell this is Italy because almost every driver thinks he is in a race and driving a Ferrari, even though in reality he is probably in a Panda. Rick reminisces about his boyhood friend Smitty, who used to speed along in a hot car with a cigarette in his mouth, arm out the window, talking to the beautiful girl in the seat next to him rather than looking at the road.
Finally, the pinnacle rock of Vieste comes into view.
Vieste is starting to feel like home, but it is time to get moving again. Time to do the laundry, fill the water tanks and head for Croatia! Ciao!
|Italy (Mainland) 2012||
We hadn't planned to spend more than one night in Bari, which our Lonely Planet describes as "an exasperating city", and "completely un-touristy". I kind of like the sound of "un-touristy", but Rick doesn't like the look of the teenage punks that are hanging around the dock in the Porto Vecchio, where we are tied side-to. A couple of them even try to board the boat, but fortunately Wally spots them and chases them away. Thinking we should at least get a glimpse of the historic centre, Martha and I take a walk into nearby Bari Vecchia. I am grateful for Martha's unerring sense of direction as we wander through the maze of narrow streets and dead-end alleys. After a quick cappuccino in a little café crammed with university students, we make our way back to the boat for barbecued pork chops, roasted vegetables and a rubber of bridge. After dark, we are surprised when a display of fireworks lights up the sky above the art-deco tower on the opposite shore.
We are all up early the next morning, hoping to set sail for Vieste. The Italian weather site has not been updated since midnight, but diminishing winds that will begin more or less on the nose and gradually back to a broad reach with speeds in the 15-20 knot range are predicted. Rick walks up the hill to get a better look at the conditions outside the harbour, and decides we should give it a try. At 9 a.m., we pull away from the dock, raise the sails and head toward the Gargano. Within minutes, Aisling is heeled sharply and bucking like a broncho in the steep seas. Below decks, the coffee pot goes flying. It is not an auspicious start. I make my opinion known, and we return to the dock. At least now we will have a chance to see the church of St. Nicholas.
St. Nicholas of Myra was a 4th-century bishop whose kindness to children and penchant for gift-giving formed the basis of the modern-day Santa Claus legend. In the 11th century, his body was stolen from its former resting place in Myra by fishermen from Bari. (This theft was later justified by claiming that St. Nicholas "chose" Bari as his resting spot.) A basilica was built to house the remains, and today, it is an important site of pilgrimage.
As we enter the basilica, we hear wonderful music drifting up from the crypt below. A choir of Russian Orthodox pilgrims, complete with a director, is singing beside the tomb. The sound of their magnificent voices soaring in the small space is almost other-worldly. When their song ends, each of them kneels and reaches through the grate to touch the altar over the tomb that holds the remains of St. Nicholas, which are said to have miraculous powers.
Outside in the courtyard, a small figure presents the more secular side of St. Nick! Wally snaps this photo with his Iphone.
We continue through the streets of Bari Vecchia, checking out a few ceramic shops and peeking into alleyways along the way.
Then onward to a café with a view of the Norman Castello Svevo, where Wally introduces us to his new favourite, the Aperol spritz.
By then, the guys are ready for a small siesta and some time with their books, while Martha and I do a little shopping in Bari's upscale shopping district. The day ends perfectly with an onboard meal cooked and served by Wally and Martha: a platter of delicious bruschetta, asparagus and pine nut pasta and an arugula salad, accompanied by a wonderful bottle of Brunello that Wally has brought with him from Tuscany. It's a sad moment when Wally realizes that the last of the Brunello is gone!
But later, there are more fireworks to cheer him up. Does this happen every night?
The next day, the wind is still against us. Let's take the train to Trani for the day! Martha and I gather our belongings and walk to the train station, passing through the beautiful Piazza Umberto and Piazza Aldo Moro (named for the Italian Prime Minister who died at the hands of the Red Brigade in 1978). Rick is uneasy about leaving the boat unattended, so he and Wally opt to stay in Bari for the day.
Our train is leaving from platform 3 at 12.39. When we arrive at the platform at 12.30, there is a train on the tracks, but we are not sure whether it is ours. Intending to ask one of the passengers where the train is headed, I climb to the first step of the train, think better of it and step back down. A few seconds later, the door closes and the train pulls away. Yikes, that was close! I wonder where I would have ended up?
Leaving the train station at Trani, we walk down a beautiful oleander-lined street, following signs to the "centro storico'. We have a cappuccino near the waterfront before beginning our sightseeing in earnest. We initially think that this beautiful church is the cathedral, but it isn't.
When we eventually find the cathedral, it is closed for the lunch break and there is hardly a soul in sight.
Two newlyweds are having their photos taken by the sea though. In Italy, weddings seem to take place any day of the week and at any time of the day.
We wander over to the 13th century castle built by Frederick II , but the young woman at the information desk suggests that it may not be a good time to visit, since they are preparing for a cultural event. Time for lunch, then. We head for a nearby restaurant, the Pietra Bianca, and share a delicious selection of antipasti (the mussel soup is especially memorable) and a shrimp pasta (served very "al dente"). By then the cathedral has opened.
This Norman style cathedral, built between the 11th and 14th centuries, is dedicated to another St. Nicholas, "St. Nicholas the Pilgrim". Oddly, we enter through a crypt on the lower level, and a small flight of stairs takes us into the beautiful but simple cathedral.
The original 12th century cast bronze doors are on display inside and an interesting fragment of mosaic, similar to the ones in Otranto is set into the floor near the altar (sorry, my photos were a bust). We take a few quiet moments to enjoy the peace of our surroundings, then climb up up up, high into the campanile, where I am able to overcome my vertigo long enough to take this photo of the town and the marina below by poking my camera through a hole in the grate.
Now it's down, down, down...Martha takes this photo- I can't bear to look!
We're not sure when the train leaves, so we hustle back through the town. Thanks to Martha's expert navigation, we arrive at the station with just 10 minutes to spare. In the main station, I briefly lose sight of Martha, and an Italian man points toward an archway. He is gazing at Martha admiringly, then smiles at me and says "belle signore!" (beautiful ladies!). A few minutes later, we stop to buy water and I realize that he is still staring at Martha. He smiles sheepishly, shrugs and says "ancora bella!" (still beautiful!). But it begins to get a bit creepy when he is still staring at her from the other side of the platform as we wait for the train. When the train finally arrives, we are happy to depart.
We've just bought two large cones of gelato near the Piazza Umberto when my cellphone rings. "Can you pick up a couple of pizzas for supper?" Rick asks. But it is still too early; no one has their ovens on yet, so we return to the boat empty handed. Later that evening, we walk over to Bari Vecchio and eat in a small pizzeria near the piazza. In every bar and restaurant, the televisions are tuned in to the Euro 2012 football game between Italy and Croatia. The game ends in a 1-1 tie.
There'll be no wine to accompany our pizza tonight. With the weather forecast finally in our favour and lots of able crew to share in the watches, we have decided to do an overnight passage to Vieste.
As we walk back through the piazza, a local symphony is striking up the opening bars of a Strauss waltz. We'd love to stay and listen, but it is time to leave. Arrivederci Bari, I hope to see you again!
Cruiser's Notes by Rick:
We tied along side in Porto Vecchio on molo Sant Antonio and there was no fee. It is well protected from all directions. We stayed 3 days and were concerned the first day when some young kids (hooligans) were throwing rocks at some poor old fisherman on the wharf and at our boat. They also tried another time to climb aboard the boat when they thought no one was aboard. After that we had no problems. There is a marina (Sail club) opposite the molo Sant Antonio where friends of ours stayed. They hit one of the mooring anchors on the way in when circling around back. Otherwise they said it was a good stop. Small grocery stores nearby and a larger one near the train station. A fish market on the wharf. Fuel available further in the old port. It looked shallow but we did see a large fishing dragger go in there. There is a busy airport which is convenient for crew changes.
|Italy (Mainland) 2012||
Just as we are setting the anchor in Siracusa harbor, Rick's cellphone rings. It is Kathy MacGillivary, already waiting for us on the dock. "Jeez, I can see why you guys like hanging out here so much" she says. "This place is freakin' amazing!" I dash to make up a berth in the forward cabin while Rick launches the dinghy and heads to shore to pick her up.
Kathy bounces onboard, bubbling with excitement and looking fantastic in the new clothes she has bought in London. "I found a wine store" she says, passing me a bag with two bottles of Sicilian wine; one red and one white. She had also gone to the Binnacle before leaving Halifax and picked up a new fitting for our spinnaker pole. "I'll be your easiest guest ever" she promises, and when we discuss the itinerary for her visit she quickly endears herself to the skipper by nixing my suggestion of visiting the archeological park (which, although boasting an impressive Greek theatre, is a long hot walk from the harbour). Our time together will be short, since Kathy must fly to Barcelona for a business meeting in less than three days. "It would be nice to go for a sail if we could, though."
We decide to eat onboard, beginning with wine and antipasto in the cockpit as we admire the view of Ortygia, Siracusa's historic district, onshore. After dinner, we sit up talking in the cockpit late into the night, long after Rick has gone to bed, finishing off the red wine and opening another long-forgotten bottle purchased during our visit to the Spanish Alpuharas with our friends Doug and Liz in 2007.
The next morning, we are all up early for a run along the Ortygia waterfront in the sunshine. I'm feeling timid about running over the cobblestones, having barely recovered from a nasty fall in Marina di Ragusa, but I quickly relax and enjoy the experience. Kathy is exuberant. Twenty minutes into the run she spots a flat piazza, drops to the ground and does a few dozen push-ups. Has this woman even heard of jet-lag?
We have come prepared with our knapsacks, and make a stop at the morning market. We drop in to the cheese shop and buy baked ricotta, smoked mozzarella and salami. "Where have you been?" the young man at the counter asks Rick. "I haven't seen you in nearly a week." Continuing through the market, we buy mounds of fruit, a kilogram of melt-in-your-mouth ciliegino (cherry) tomatoes, three orata (sea bream) and much much more. Next, a walk through the streets of Ortygia.
I pause in front of a hairdressing salon, remembering that it has now been nearly seven weeks since my last haircut. The girl at the door makes it clear that if I want my hair cut they must do it "subito" (soon) , since they are about to close for the weekend. "Do it" says Kathy, "We'll go back to the boat and get lunch ready, then Rick can pick you up at the marina".
Unfortunately, I have not had a chance to look up the phrase "Not too short, please!" in my phrasebook. Shortly after we landed in Spain in 2007, I had the misfortune to nod with too much enthusiasm when a matronly-looking hairdresser held up her scissors and asked "Pequeno?" The results were so disastrous that I was obliged to wear a ball cap every time I went out for the next two weeks. So now, having placed myself at the mercy of this unknown Sicilian hair stylist, I sit worrying for a full ten minutes while he helps a friend choose a necklace from a small jewelry display at the back of the salon. He nods at my plastic-caped reflection in the mirror and holds up a finger. "Arrivo!" (I'm coming!) Fortunately, when he eventually arrives, it is clear that I am in good hands. He even knows the English word for "short" (surely the most useful word in any hair stylist's vocabulary!)
He decides to tell me a little story. "You understand a little Italian, don't you?" he asks. (Most Sicilians seem to assume that everyone understands a little Italian, perhaps because Italian is in some respects a "lingua franca" in this country where many regions also have their own languages or dialects.) When I nod, he continues. "My friend has just been asking me how I can communicate with all the stranieri (foreigners) that come in here. I told him there's always a way. A few weeks ago, a Chinese woman came in here. She was asking me for something and I didn't understand. She was asking for the toilet, but she was speaking Chinese, not even English. Finally she did like this..." (he lifts his leg)"...and said "pssssh..." I howl with laughter and he is satisfied that I have understood. He looks at his friend with satisfaction. "You see, she understands." I leave with one of the best haircuts I have had in years, at less than half the price I would have paid in Halifax, still laughing as I walk toward the dock.
Back at the boat, Kathy has prepared a delicious tomato and cheese salad, garnished with a few olives and some delicious Sicilian olive oil that Katherine had left in the galley. After lunch, I am ready for a nap, but Kathy hops into the dinghy and helps Rick scrub the sides of the boat, removing the muddy stains left by the marina's lazy lines. By now I'm wondering how I can convince her to cancel her trip to Barcelona!
In late afternoon, we dress up and head back to shore for a little shopping. Kathy is looking for ideas for her maternity wear business, as well as things to wear in Barcelona, but she periodically points out things that I should try on. "I used to love picking out things for you when I went on buying trips with Rick" she says. Ah yes, those were the good old days! An hour later, even Rick is carrying a Zara bag.
We head for the Piazza Duomo and peek into the cathedral, where a wedding is in progress while a few tourists are still roaming the side aisles. We tiptoe into the back corner to show Kathy the ancient baptismal font, then go back into the piazza to soak up the ambience.
Eventually, we settle ourselves at a small café. "Can I treat you to a pizza?" asks Kathy. ""I'd love to try a real Italian pizza". Unfortunately, the waitress tells us that it is still a bit too early for pizza, but she brings a small plate of antipasti with our drinks. Soon, the wedding guests pour out onto the steps of the cathedral and the waiters and waitresses rush out of the restaurant to see the bride and groom.
This is clearly an elegant affair, and we're delighted when the wedding party heads straight for our café. The bridesmaids are happy to let me take this photo, and their friends seem tickled pink that I want them in the picture too!
Now it is definitely late enough for pizza. We decide that our fish will keep until the next day, and head for "Il Gattopardo" just on time to get the last unreserved table. It is already dark by the time we get back to the boat. (This is a good illustration of why it is wise to turn on the anchor light before leaving the boat, even if you don't plan on staying ashore for dinner!)
The next morning, Kathy takes another run through Ortygia and I meet her a little later, bringing along her bag and a change of clothes. We stop at a little café, where I have a cappuccino while Kathy ducks into the washroom to change. I spot some unfilled cannoli shells and decide to introduce Kathy to my latest obsession. I have now figured out that the best cannoli are the ones that are filled on the spot, just before you eat them. Knowing that Kathy does not often eat sweets, I decide against the full sized cannoli, but have two of the small ones brought to the table before she emerges from the washroom. Her eyes widen when she tastes the first bite. "Can we order another one?"
We intend to do more shopping in the modern section of Siracusa, but everyone we ask tells us that the best shopping really is on Ortygia. So, after dropping in at the bus station to confirm the schedule for Kathy's bus to Catania airport the next morning, we head back over the bridge. By the time we phone to ask Rick to pick us up at the dock, Kathy has some new clothes to wear in Barcelona and I have a new pair of soft green chinos.
After lunch, we decide to go out for a sail. It has been years since Rick and I have "gone for a sail" simply for the joy of it. As we sail out of Siracuse harbour I recall the lovely days when we have sailed out of Halifax harbour to Herring Cove. Kathy takes the wheel and we enjoy the ride.
The day is perfect and Aisling's bottom is clean, so we are able to reach speeds of nearly 5 knots even though the wind speed is less than 10 knots. So often, we resort to the motor to make our passages faster. We resolve to slow down and enjoy the ride a bit more often.
That evening, Rick cooks the orata in lots of lemon, oregano and olive oil and we serve it with roasted potatoes and fennel, carrots and beans. It is a quiet night, because we will have an early wake-up call the next morning. Before 8 a.m., I am waving goodbye to Kathy as Rick ferries her to shore and finds her a taxi. She will have a long wait at the bus station, and an even longer wait at the airport, but she is not taking any chances on missing her plane. At 10 a.m., I receive a text from her. It says, "I just had a large cannoli!"