Author: leanagallagher

So we made it to Puglia, but our bags did not. Oh well. As a friend wisely said “spend the day at the spa in a fluffy robe and sleep naked, you’re on vacation!”. I guess I will get to buy those Italian sundresses and new sandals….

Tranquillo. Dolce Far Niente. I’m in Puglia now, calm down, enjoy what is here. So we filed our paperwork for the luggage and met Antonio outside. We found out he is from Ceglie Messapica, where we are renting the Villa on Saturday. Old friends right away. He dropped us at our hotel in Monopoli, a lovely seaside town. There was a small Sagra (fair) tonight in the piazza.

As good as the pasta looked, we kept our reservation at the rooftop of the hotel and had the freshest fish in beautiful surroundings with endearing waiters. So what if my bags are lost — I’m in Italy now.

It’s beautiful, the food is good, our room is lovely and we are exhausted! Oh, and there are lots of cats!

What started out as an idea at my kitchen bar in Florida two years ago in a pandemic is finally coming to fruition.

Family trips are difficult to pull off. Selecting the week when everyone can go, finding a location that appeals, and planning the right amount of time together and time apart. I spend so much time searching for just the right thing that I’m always nervous before we get there.

But it’s Italy for God’s sake! How bad could it be???

I’ve packed light, checked my bags, selected an outfit that I can sleep in, but still looks stylish — oh, and I learned my lesson with shoes…

See you in Paris tomorrow on our way to Puglia!

The trip is hours from being officially over. Bags packed, CNN on in the room awaiting the taxi. Dinner last night was perfectly French at Allard, the 1935 bistrot that Alain Ducasse has taken over. It was delicious and old fashioned and Brad got his Ile de Flottante.

We walked around, took in the sites and were reminded how 11 days is the perfect amount of time away. We begin to miss our mundane routines and our beloved cat. We are creatures of habit.

Relais Christine is special little hotel. It was more special 20 years ago when it catered to the French and was a cloistered little gem on a back alley where you would never be found. It has been renovated, it has a Guerlain spa, and it caters to Americans. A large group from Memphis loudly greeted us when we checked in. Not what we were expecting. But it is a lovely place to return to, English is spoken by everyone, and it still retains some French charm.

We brought a bit of Chazy to Paris at Lisa’s suggestion. She spoke a bit of French, loved French poetry but never made it to Paris. She came in a Balenciaga bag and now lies in the Jardin des Tuileries in front of the sculpture Nymph with a view of the Eiffel Tower and the Louvre in front of the palace. A fitting spot.

So mission accomplished on all fronts. Chazy laid to rest, 20th anniversary well celebrated, sites seen, food eaten, souls replenished and we’re ready to com home. Oh, and I have succumbed — I’m wearing sneakers to the airport. Bon voyage!

Well, Catania’s Fontanarossa airport did not disappoint. It’s never been a good airport, and though it’s better, it’s a case study in disorganization. We actually had a bad meal at the airport. But enough about cheap airlines, long lines and bad food, we made it to Paris!

Weather is lovely, trees in bloom, April in Paris. We entered our room, and again a tray of charcuterie was before us, with chocolates from Grouper and the Aunties. My two dear friends, Bethany and Amanda, who flew to Florida to ensure the well being of our sainted cat, sent this welcome tray. We were so tired and so hungry, we devoured it in seconds. Good bread, good butter, many hams and gherkins saved the evening.

The room, though charming and two stories, had an air conditioning problem. It is wonderfully unseasonably warm in Paris, but that made for a difficult night’s sleep. In the morning I summoned my best Parisian indignation and told the front desk about the problem. In cruel English with a haughty French accent I was questioned about my ability to open a window or turn on the air conditioner. I stomped my foot and demanded it be fixed or we moved to a different room immediately. So different than Italy, but it was sort of a fun game. Then I proceeded to breakfast.

Paris is a gorgeous city, and it is a multinational city. There is every kind of food imaginable, and every type of human that God made. Very different than Sicily. These are the restaurants in the first blocks of walk.

We walked 9 miles so far today and didn’t get to the Eiffel Tower! The gardens, the buildings, the bridges, the cafes. It was a stupendous day which included some day drinking.

We headed back to the hotel to organize our flight check in and the manager of the hotel came over to us. She apologized about the AC and had it fixed and comped our room. Parisian indignation for the win!

Our last few hours in Taormina were tear jerkingly blissful. Breakfast on the terrazzo with the lavish spread and perfect cappuccini. I tried a bit of willpower today and only had yogurt and fruit (the dried figs were otherworldly), avocado toast Sicilian style with caramelized Tropea onions, and house smoked swordfish and breseola with chicory salad with special Sicilian lemons that have large edible pith. Brad had bacon and eggs with white toast.

We did a short walk up and down the hills and alleys of Taormina. There are 93 restaurants and God knows how many hotels in this tiny place. Even the shabby corners are beautiful.

We met a couple of cats and chatted with a vegetable vendor and headed back to the hotel for the last bit of Principessa time.

We actually discussed not going to Paris. But as in most things in life, best to leave on a high note.

So off to Catania to stand in lines with throngs of budget travelers and their bulky luggage to take EasyJet to Paris. I am back to being a pedestrian. It was such fun while it lasted.

Notes on Sicily while they are fresh in my mind: Every time we mentioned anything, the response was always “I think that is the best one”. They want you to feel that you have chosen well — the room, the table, the menu item, the city — always the best one. They smile and make eye contact and greet you. There is not a man that does not own a pair of white leather sneakers and wears them with a suit, and there is not a young woman without a tattoo above her heel.

It was a fantasy to stay at the San Domenico Palace. I loved pretending I belonged there, and my God, is it gorgeous! However, my heart is in Noto and Siracusa — they are my people. I love the easy shrugs and the crumbling grandeur and the laughter and the feeling that all will take care of itself in time. They are warm and accepting and generous and a little garrulous.

I never mentioned masking — ubiquitous. Everyone, everywhere. Everyone is exhausted by it, like the rest of the world, but they are respectful of others, and the country is 92% vaccinated and 80% boosted. We may still get sick, but it’s not for the lack of trying to keep everyone safe.

Cocktails in the courtyard, dinner facing the Mediterranean, each and every person in the hotel wishing us a Happy Anniversary, like we were visiting royalty, and cassata cake in bed with fluffy robes.

And so twenty years passed in the blink of an eye. We spent the day discussing the highs and lows. Interestingly, we both believe that the lows, though miserable at the time, served to bring us closer together. Neither one of us can believe that 20 years have passed. I’m sure there will be more highs and lows ahead of us, but if it will be anything like the last twenty, damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead!

Heaven, in Italian.

We slept the sleep you have when there is nothing on your mind but peace and happiness. Disney this may be, but it’s a really good Disney. Taormina has been designed by the Italians for American pleasure. English is spoken everywhere, with a lovely accent, but everywhere. If you get concerned about not speaking the language, fear not in Taormina. I find myself saying thank you instead of grazie. But everyone makes you feel like they are there for your pleasure, so I’ve been lulled into it.

How can you complain when this is breakfast? The last photo is of almond granita and brioche — a Sicilian standard breakfast. I know. And yes, Brad had waffles with maple syrup.

When I was a girl, there was a small stand that sold “slush”. It was called Uncle’s. Two flavors, almondade and lemonade. I always loved the almond and I still do. Mandorla in Italian.

So here are some photos of the hotel. It doesn’t do it justice. There are cloisters for silent meditation, medieval staircases, a courtyard with dripping bougainvillea, and the staff in elegant Italian outfits, and gardens and vistas at every turn. Trees dripping with fruit, flowers in vibrant colors, and a softness to all of it.

After my fourth plate of breakfast and second cappuccino, we headed to the 300 BC Greek Theatre. Again, Greeks built for plays with a view of Mount Etna, and the Romans rebuilt to slaughter humans and animals. And so it goes.

And then to the Public gardens

And then back through the labyrinth that is Taormina. Hundreds of restaurants, shops and alleys. Hoards of tourists and lots of tchotchkes. We escaped back to the tranquility of the hotel and let Francesca serve us our first (and perfect) pizza in Sicily. of course the chef sent out some fried anchovies to start.

And then the afternoon at the pool, reading (at least I read in Italian). We watched the film crew, we were served fresh nuts and biscotti, Brad ordered an iced tea (I can hear the barman swearing quietly) and we dipped in the pool.

And now back in luxurious robes, drinking wine, eating our Italian wedding cake and preparing for our dinner tonight. A pretty marvelous 20th wedding anniversary.

Big scoop – so the 40 year old tech giants at the pool are actually the production company for HBO’s The White Lotus. My mistake. They all look the same to me.

https://www.hbo.com/the-white-lotus

They are all here filming at the Hotel. There was a crew on the water all day filming a scene on a boat. At least 10 employees were around the pool enjoying themselves all day in a $2000 cabana with drinks flowing— like no production company Jeffrey has ever worked for.

Taormina has a lovely, touristy downtown, but also some tasteful homes and apartments.

The hotel is gorgeous, and it makes me feel like Principessa.

The highlight of the evening was meeting Luca Casablanca, owner of Tischi Toschi and Sergio our waiter and showman extraordinaire. Unassuming little place on a side street with a dozen tables. Food, service and ambiance are perfectly real and true. This might not look like much but the food was some of the best we have eaten.

Yotam Ottolenghi recommended it, and with good reason. Food is perfectly prepared, but service — the best. Sergio made a party with the whole restaurant. Extra wine, homemade liqueurs, and lots of laughter were generously distributed. The spirit of Italy is here in this restaurant.

Now if I can just spot Michael Imperioli around the hotel tomorrow……

Okay, so it’s even more beautiful than I remember. Perfection has a place. We may not leave the hotel. Ever.

We arrived like royalty. Everyone in the hotel addressed us by our name. Our bags were whisked away, a fresh sparkling juice was presented, and we were taken to a cloister to await our room (we were early).

When our upgraded oceanfront suite was ready, we were brought through this gorgeously restored 17th century palazzo into our suite with a lovely gift from our children. I immediately burst into tears from the beautiful emotion of it all.

Unpack, bathing suit on and head to the pool. Gorgeousness.

And then 2 guys from New York started a very loud conversation with us and the spell was broken. Everyone was speaking English, American English. No one is even trying to speak Italian. Okay, get a hold of yourself. Brad had a much needed full conversation with two men about the securities industries. He was delighted to say more than please and thank you. They were nice (loud) men.

Then there was the whole hip group of tech millionaires in several cabanas wearing comfortable clothes and drinking far too much. The 35 year old capo was secluded in a far cabana with his laptop, the girls kept checking in with him — right out of Succession.

Back at the room, the door bell rang, and in came a Sicilian wedding cake and champagne for us. Nice touch, and the waiter spoke Italian. Back to La Dolce Vita!

We are in the back of the car, with our favorite driver, Giovanni, regaling us with stories of his wife and child and the surrounding towns. We will be in Sicily do a few more days, but a different Sicily — the American version, I fear.

Noto is a tourist town, but a tourist town that caters to Italians. We did not meet many English speakers. It is run down by American standards, but that is the point — Brad said it took a lot of time to make this patina. Why do we feel the need to make everything perfect? The aging of the buildings here is like the aging of women and men — it gets more interesting, not less. Yes, you need to do repairs and maintenance, but isn’t it supposed to exude a bit of history? Shouldn’t you be curious about it’s past? There’s a mystery to it that speaks to me and always has. It’s why I hate Disneyland and love Europe — there is mystery and stories to discover. I’ve always preferred older men, older homes, older people — there is a depth to it all.

Taormina will be Sicily very well taken care of and suitable for framing. And I want to go, and it will be extraordinary, and we will enjoy it tremendously, but it won’t capture my heart the way Ortigia did 30 years ago, and still does.

The Sicilians, like the Maltese, are a very cosmopolitan bunch. They travel, they read, they discuss world politics over coffee and they realize how long it takes for things to change. They look at their centuries’ old towns and rest knowing that even if an earthquake comes and destroys it all, they will rebuild and go on. Now there is a whole group of mostly southern Italians that are so beaten down by generations of discrimination and suppression that are pro Putin and Le Pen. They like the strong man because he makes them them feel the power they will never have. I feel for them — they are lost, have been ignored and feel they will never be recognized. Their only hope is to throw their lot in with the aggressor that promises to protect them and gives them crumbs after taking the rest for himself. It’s an ancient tale, and one that survives. I see it more clearly here, as we always do when we’re away from our environment.