After the Bosco kerfluffle we were very relieved to be mobile and independent again. We hopped a ferry to Sicily, a mode of transport I highly recommend if you find yourself in southern Italy and want to watch the sun set over Mount Vesuvius and the Mediterranean.
Palermo struck us immediately as dirty yet beautiful, sunny but mild, poor but over-the-top friendly. Shopkeepers were always giving us samples and freebies, passersby offered us advice when we looked lost, waiters practiced their scant English on us, an elderly couple shared their thermos of coffee with me on the train. Everything is cheaper in Sicily and we felt like we'd stumbled on some kind of excellent secret--we saw not a single native English speaker the entire time, just a lot of Italians enjoying their vacation.
We did the obligatory historical things, visiting a beautiful Byzantine cathedral and catacombs cluttered with centuries-old corpses. We went to the smooth white beach by the crystalline blue sea, along with half the city residents, all of whom were doing their darnedest to turn their skin the color of dried tobacco. Only a few blocks from the apartment Jamie discovered King Ferdinand's old hunting grounds, converted into a lovely park with lots of trails where we could run and observe the prostitutes that hang out there.
And of course we ate, and ate, and ate. Crudo and pistacchio paste and magnificent cherry tomatoes and canollis and marscapone pizza, and huge plates of whole bass and swordfish steaks and octopus and prawns all grilled up right next to the table by a fat dude smoking a cigarette.
So there you have it. Three weeks in Italy, many a cornetti and cappuccino, lots of train rides, some historically relevant sites, some sub-par beer and excellent wine, lots of yardwork and aimless walking, and a lot of great hang out time with a couple of my favorite family members.
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