Prior to a trip to Sicily Blonde and Brunette agreed that, as we could stay at the Sheraton in Catania for free using Starwood points, we would base ourselves there and do day trips to neighboring destinations.
Blonde, aware of her designated driver status due to being the aggressive wackjob half of the sister duo, established her driving conditions in advance. All trips would be taken and ended while still daylight and Blonde would not consume so much as a small glass of wine when she was going to be driving. Brunette – who looks puzzled if, at sunset, you ask her which direction is west – was to be the navigator.
That worked splendidly on Day One as we did not have a rental car. The next day the driving began. As soon as we got the car we were never back before midnight and Blonde had always consumed at least two glasses of wine. The primary reason we returned so late was due to being constantly lost.
On our last full day in Sicily we decided to go to Caltagirone, a town in central Sicily, about 45 miles from our hotel. Caltagirone was destroyed in an earthquake in the 1600s (when Brunette was in junior high and Blonde in elementary school) and was rebuilt in something that is called “earthquake Baroque style”. This bizarre past is at least part of the reason the town and surrounding area is protected by the UNESCO World Heritage program.
The main landmark of the city is the 142-step monumental Staircase of Santa Maria del Monte, built in 1608 in the old part of the town. Each step features different hand-decorated ceramics and the staircase is lined with groovy little shops representing some dauntingly talented artists.
In the no-news category we got lost, repeatedly, on our way to Caltagirone. Finally we came upon it and saw a car park. We stashed our small white car that looked like every other rental car in Sicily and easily walked a few blocks directly into the heart of town.
After hours poking around town, trying not to buy too many ceramics we went for dinner. We were the only women in the restaurant (including the help) amid a small collection of lumpy old Sicilian men grouped around a TV sports show and an aquarium. At the conclusion of this uncomfortable dining experience we headed back to our car. Or so we thought.
Blonde, demonstrating her strong directional instincts, led the way. But not to the car. Clearly the car park had been moved! It was now nearly 11 at night, the town was emptying out and we had not seen any women outside for hours.
(This is a huge mystery in Italy. Italian women are hot and gorgeous until their {best case} early thirties. Then they get married, go inside and come back out in their 70s and are ugly and angry {the anger is understandable}. Other than in major cities there are virtually never middle-aged women out alone or with other women or men in the evenings. Hookers are an exception which we frequently suspect we are assumed to be. We hope so anyway. It beats looking like nuns who missed curfew.)
After at least half an hour of looking everywhere for the damned car we asked a policeman for assistance. He didn’t speak English (fair enough) and didn’t understand our Italian (mostly because the main thing we learned was how to ask if there’s a good pizzeria in the area).
It was time to seek civilian help before we were the only two people left in the town center. Walking down a dark alleyway (highly recommended from a safety perspective) we encountered a blacksmith who was doing whatever they do that involves iron and fire. He didn’t know WTF we were saying beyond the fact that we were looking for a car park but he cared and tried to help, two uncommon characteristics in Sicilian men.
We marched quickly back and forth across the town as our benefactor took us on a tour of random, tiny car parks, none of which had our car. Our unlikely trio came back to the town center. The blacksmith, our new BFF walked briskly into a long, small bar while motioning for us to wait outside.
In a scene reminiscent of a bad movie our buddy walked to the bar, was instantly handed a shot glass of something we presumed to be exceptionally manly and downed it in one gulp. We stood outside feeling anxious, stupid and increasingly uneasy.
Very soon the blacksmith emerged from the bar with a younger man to whom he was clearly transferring us. The new man proudly informed us that he spoke excellent English and that he was “a world-famous journalist”. With such fame comes responsibility and he explained that he had to stop at his office and would then drive us to our car park.
Earlier in the day our car park had been a two-minute walk from where we were now standing so this didn’t seem to make sense and getting into a car late at night in Sicily with a total stranger is the sort of thing pish-poshed by the overly cautious.
As we had no other viable options we trailed behind the world-famous journalist for the couple blocks to his office. When we got there he asked if we would like to come up to use the facilities. This was the only time in history either of us turned down such an offer.
He said he wouldn’t be long and unlocked his car so we could wait there. It was a black Mercedes with darkened windows. Of course it was.
Blonde sat nervously in front while Brunette fairly whimpered in the back and questioned if what we were doing was wise. Seriously, this had to be questioned?
The journalist emerged with arms full of his publication. Apparently one can become world-famous printing news items and amateurish ads on paper placemats which are distributed to local restaurants. This was an occasion which normally would have made us dissolve into giggles. Not this time.
The journalist drove quickly and confidently onto a highway that B&B didn’t know existed and which appeared to be leading away from town, most likely straight to hell.
Brunette later revealed that she had been cowering in the back seat summoning up the courage to strangle the journalist from behind when he assaulted Blonde. (Brunette is about 3’ 10, weighs 42 pounds and can’t put on her 6 oz. backpack without her sister’s help. She wants to point out that the size and weights cited here are not entirely factual. She’s just really puny.)
The journalist pulled off the highway and into the car park we had given up all hope of ever seeing again. This is a good place for the term “palpable relief”. On the brief ride there the journalist had inquired as to our lodgings and travel plans. We amazingly managed to lie about where we were staying and said our next stop was to Malta to meet up with Brunette’s husband. (If you’ve read this blog before you know we’d prefer to be abducted than to voluntarily meet up with the aforementioned husband.)
When we got to the car park Brunette got out faster than she’s ever done anything except reach for a glass of free wine. Blonde was trying to exit politely but quickly and put the emphasis on the “quickly” aspect.
The famous placemat journalist offered to lead us to the road we needed and signal where we should turn off. At this point we were agreeing to anything so signed up for that plan ASAP from behind our locked doors.
As we neared the turn-off point our rescuer pulled to the side of the road and we pulled up alongside (want travel safety advice from us?). He proposed that he accompany us to Malta, stay as long as needed, be our driver and “do other things we needed”.
Apparently the sharply honed instincts of a journalist smelled a rat in the whole meeting-up-with-a-husband story. We declined and left the scene at a speed not often associated with a 4-cylinder Fiat.
If we had really been meeting up with Brunette’s husband we would have totally taken the journalist up on his offer. But the “other thing” we would have needed would not have been what he was interested in providing.