So goodbye Bevagna. Farewell Umbria. Arrivederci to my little friends in the Piazza Garibaldi. On our Friday, the second day of our trip, we do spend a glorious day in and around Bevagna – running errands, visiting a new and intriguing winery that is built to resemble a turtle shell, having lunch with Marco and Chiara and their two beautiful children, dining at Simone’s amid the hubbub of another night of the Mercato del Gaite. But perhaps our minds have already transported us to Sicily, our destination the following day, where we will spend the next seven nights.

The island is just a brief flight from Rome on a flying mood spoiler called EasyJet. Just an hour in the air but generations and a civilization away from the mainland. We land at Palermo’s Falcone e Borsellino airport, named after two anti-Mafia prosecutors who were murdered a number of years ago. It is a powerful symbol of the different realities that this very different culture has had to face. We step, gratefully, from our EasyJet and step into a foreign land. A land even more foreign than the land of medieval hijinks that we left behind in Bevagna. Our week in Sicily is about to begin and we are looking forward to it greatly.

We arrive on schedule thanks to the efficient folks at EasyJet who build an extra hour into their schedule to allow for a totally random boarding process that has passengers enter both the front and the rear of the aircraft with no regard to where their seats are actually located. And thank goodness we are on time, as my EasyJet seat is a sort of modern cross between a spikeless Iron Maiden and a rack on which the “low cost carrier” saves money by not adding a recline button. And my entire right side, starting from my shoulder is sore and lifeless from the nearly 50 pounds of weight I have packed in the briefcase slung over my shoulder so as to enable my checked bag to weigh in under the magical limit of 20 kilograms.

Stepping from the terminal into the blazing and blinding sun I see the shuttlebus to the rental car center. Unfortunately so has everyone else on our flight and, apparently the several flights that have arrived before us. The 16 passenger bus is swarmed by Italians seeking to flee the airport and begin their vacations and I decide that waiting for a later bus is futile. In the scorching Sicilian sun I begin my trek to the rental car center, a ten minute walk from the main terminal which is made just a tad more difficult by the fact that the entire airport, including all of its pedestrian walkways and vehicle lanes, is under construction. I arrive in the rental car hall a few minutes later, my clothes, which had looked so smart, snappy and fashionable in Umbria earlier that morning now drenched in sweat, sticking to my pudge and scuffed and streaked with stains from what promised to be a short travel day. I entered the pavilion looking like a castaway or someone who had crawled across the desert in search of water.

In front of the rental car counters, a good dozen of them, is a swarm of humanity who similarly look as though they had survived a Saharan trek. Heat, humidity and perspiration do not mix well with large groups of people in close proximity, especially Italians, either from the physical perspective or the social. Despite the fact that there are but two clerks at each counter, a dozen renters are able to squeeze their way to the fronts of each line and each is pleading his or her case for a car. As an American, the only grownup in the group, I imagine, I patiently wait and attempt to keep my place in line against an Italian assault not seen since the landing at Anzio. Then, as I move into the first alternate spot I hear one of the clerks say to the man in front of me, “license, passport and credit card please.” Those words struck a chord of dread in me. My passport was in my briefcase back in the passenger terminal with the rest of our group. To say that I ceased to be a grownup would be a gross understatement.

Twenty minutes later, after trudging back to the terminal to retrieve my passport and to hook up with another member of our group who had just arrived and was also renting a car I enter the rental car terminal a second time. When we enter, it is apparent the tide had come in. The sea of humanity crushing the counters is twice as large as before.

But our Sicilian odyssey was about to begin and we would not let a long line, or, more accurately, a huge, pulsating, human mass, interfere with our fun. A while later both John and I had worked our way to the front of our respective lines, had given the same information we provided when we booked our cars, declined all terrific offers for upgrades and upcharges and found ourselves in the lot, looking for our cars. Ours, is a brand new Nissan Qashqar, or some such other nonsensical word (I always loved the wholecloth invented Toyota Sienna, sort of named for the Tuscan town Siena – perhaps Nissan should have traded Toyota the extra “n” for a couple of “u”s). Twenty kilometers new. I opt for the full insurance coverage knowing there will not be a great deal of flexibility on the part of Dollar Rent-a-Car when I return their brand new Qashqar all qashed up.

Within a few minutes our group of six, which will be augmented by two later in the week, is off, heading south toward the southern beaches surrounding the ancient Greek temple and remains of the colony they called Selinunte. Our three bedroom beach house, delightfully designed to open up completely to the cooling sea breezes that take the edge off the blazing Sicilian summer heat, is the last house on the road that ends at the beach and abuts the national park that houses Selinunte. When we arrive at the beach house Zeffiro a little over an hour later, greeted by our friend Gabriella Becchina who will be our host for the next week, we know that we are in for a treat and that the photos on the internet, so often employing photoshop tricks to enhance them, have, if anything understated this place’s charm and seduction. It is going to be an excellent week.

And the next morning, before heading out to the beach for a splash and down the beach for a bite, we awake to this outside our terrace. In this strange land, part Italian part exotic, we know we are in for a treat.

Ci vediamo!
Bill and Suzy