Terror di Trente

After a week cut off from the outside world, I was more than ready to leave Catania for somewhere new.  Whilst HIG was out at work, I packed my bag & hopped on the bus for Linguaglossa, a small town with views of Mount Etna.  I had made arrangements to stay on a vineyard there & help pick grapes.  The website made it look quite perfect.  I think, after years of watching those TV shows, where Brits move abroad & set up somewhere in the Tuscan hills, attempting to become wine makers, I kind of had a romantic view of what was to come.  Sadly, the reality was far from enchanting.

I arrived in the town center (after panicking about where to get off for far longer than needed) & proceeded to wait for my collection.  Five minutes went by, then another five & then I started to question as to whether anyone was coming at all.  I finally relented & called the host.  She told me to go get a coffee & she'd be there in five.  Ten minutes went by before she eventually came.

When we arrived, I was given the guided tour of the house & gardens.  The property was quite modern, with a great kitchen & bathroom & their living room/diner was incredible.  A large room with a high ceiling, every wall covered in art & antique furniture in every crevice.  The garden was beautiful, with an outdoor swimming pool down at the bottom.  There were even outdoor showers, made from huge stones, sitting in a graveled base.  I was starting to think I'd landed on my feet!  That was until I realised that the pool was an Eco pool.  Or otherwise known as a pond, complete with fish & frogs.  Did I fancy a swim?  Ummm, I think I'll pass this time, thank you.

On the first evening, the other volunteer, a Finnish woman, & the hosts'  Romanian worker, went out for pizza & so I was left alone with my hosts.  I had already sensed that this was not a match made in heaven & soon this was to be confirmed when the following conversation unfurled:

{sat in the kitchen waiting for one of the hosts to arrive with dinner}

Host One: "So, what did you do before WWOOFing?"
Me: "Oh, I was backpacking around before."
Host One:  "No, what did you do before?"
Me: "Oh, you mean before coming traveling?"
Host One: "You're evading the question & that's pissing me off!"

I swear, that is how that conversation, on my first day no less, went down.  As you can imagine, I was taken aback & quite in the mood to slap her round the chops.  But alas, I just answered the bloody question.

 

Unfortunately, the following day, on my first day of work, there were no grapes to be picked.  Apparently, after making sure that I had got to them by a particular date, so as not to miss the grape picking, it turned out, they weren't even going to pick them for another week.  And so, I was asked to shovel gravel from one spot, to another & sieve the stones in-between.  I was about ready to slit my wrists all of an hour in.

When my wheelbarrow, loaded with gravel fell over at one point, spilling the stones all over the grass, Host Two, just stood & looked at me & did absolutely nothing.  It was a really hot day & the sweat was pouring off me, my back was in so much pain from sieving the gravel & I just about wanted to cry.

Things were just not looking great.  These guys weren't about to give me the Sicilian experience.  Nor were they about to teach me the processes of wine making.  In fact, the only thing they seemed interested in, was using me as cheap labour.

Thankfully, a few days into my living nightmare, two Brits turned up & hoorah for the English & their sense of comaraderie.  The three of us huddled together & found friendship in our mutual dislike of our captures.  Every evening we would run off into town & plot our escape over a beer.  Then shuffle back to our prison in time for dinner & proceed to drink ourselves happy.  The one & only plus point to this place, was the constant flow of wine on offer.  I can honestly say, I was inebriated every night for two weeks.

Although, after a while, I think this became our downfall.  At first, our hatred of these two people & their treatment of us, riled us & made us plot escape plans nightly.  But soon, it became apparent that we weren't actually putting any of these plans into action.  Had it happened?  Had we developed Stockholm Syndrome?  No!  Not me, anyway.  Especially as I was consistently singled out for Host One's tirade of abuse.

I am a resilient person & I can take a lot, but I do equally have a short fuse & a fearsome temper, as mère can testify.  It took every ounce of my strength to bite my tongue throughout this entire experience, whilst getting extrememeley riled up on many an occasion.  Although, it's odd how, when someone verbally attacks you completely out of the blue, with something completely ridiculous, you just clam up, unable to respond.  How can anyone be expected to defend themselves against someone who is clearly being irrational.  Which really just annoyed me further, my inability to articulately defend myself verbally.

After two weeks of abuse, daily meals made up of three day old, re-heated pasta, too much red wine, far too many beers & at least some new friends in town, we'd had enough.  We faced our captures & told them we were leaving.  On our last evening, they took us out for pizza & karaoke & I almost began to like them…almost…Then I remembered how I'd been treated over the previous two weeks & I stopped even trying.

I could have really regretted those two weeks, but in the end, I really appreciated them, because, amongst the bullshit, I found two new friends, that I really liked spending time with.  So, in the end, it really was just meant to be.

x

A lost connection.

Leaving Vinciucci was filled with such sweet sorrow.  I had come to feel at home there, I was comfortable & although recent events had left me feeling disgruntled, I was genuinely happy there.  But, I had become too comfortable, sedated in the familiarity of it all.  I knew that, despite my longing to stay, it was the right time to leave.  Saying my farewells, I had to hold back the tears welling in my eyes.  I would miss these people.  They had, in their own unique way, become like a surrogate family to me.

After a final injection of gelato & an hour long wait, I boarded my bus to Catania, leaving Ispica & all those fond memories, from the five weeks spent there, behind.  It was time for the next chapter, for something new.

I had arranged to meet Hawt Italian Guy & stay with him in his rented apartment for a week.  It would be the only opportunity I would have to see him in Italy, before he returned to his home in Madrid.  Our time together at Vinciucci had meant something to me, but coming to the end of my stay there, I worried that perhaps my feelings had evolved from the alien environment, rather than true emotion.

HIG met me at the bus station in Catania & it felt like so much longer than three weeks since I had last seen him, yet nothing had changed.  He took my bag & we walked the short distance back to his apartment, stopping for groceries along the way.  The apartment itself was better than expected.  It was perfect in its imperfect state.  Small, compact, but well formed.  Empty & in need of life.  I loved it & I wanted to stay.  I wanted to be the one to fill it with life, to give its character some love, some affection.

We spent the evening eating & drinking on the terrace, which overlooked the port.  It was nice to be able to relax & have a proper conversation with someone, who actually understood what I was saying!

The next day & every other day after, HIG would leave in the morning for work & not return until late in the evening.  With no WIFI in the apartment, I attempted to entertain myself.  I would walk the five minutes to the fish market everyday, taking in the sights & smells.  It took me a few days to work up the courage to actually buy anything.  My confidence in my ability to speak Italian has somewhat taken a nose dive.

I walked along every street & down every alleyway.  I looked in churches, I strolled in parks.  I eventually found a free WIFI zone in one of the piazzas & so inevitably ended up there everyday, attempting to check my emails & Facebook.  Turned out Facebook was the only thing it would actually load.  There I was, hovering by a fountain, surrounded by tourists snapping away with their cameras, whilst I impatiently glared at my phone, waiting for the floods of messages to come in, only to be disappointed by the lack of red notifications.

On the weekend, HIG & I attempted to venture out on his vespa to the beach.  Alas, the weather had other ideas & both day's attempts were scuppered by the rain.  Instead we took a trip into town & with HIG's help, I finally invested in an Italian sim card!  Unfortunately, I had not had the foresight to call Vodafone at the start of the trip & get my phone unlocked, so I was greatly disgruntled when they told me it would take anywhere from forty eight hours, to seven days to do!  The sim was burning a hole in my bag, dying to be abused.  I sulked mercilessly.

Stuck indoors, with no internet access & our conversation running dry, I realised I had been right to question my feelings.  The attraction I had previously felt for HIG had gone.  Lost to the carob fields.  Yet, I did not regret my visit.  I am at least starting to realise that not everything has to have a happy ending.  It was an experience & now I've let it go.  So perhaps I am learning after all.

x

A feast for your eyes & your thighs.

It feels as though Sicily is out to get me.  My once loose skinny black jeans are now a struggle to get on.  Once on, they cling to every inch of me, my now rotund middle, spilling over the tight waistband.  The give has certainly gone.  I no longer recognise the figure that glares back at me in the mirror.  I'm thankful at least that my skin has darkened, offering a softness to my ever expanding curves.  But my discomfort is overwhelming.

The problem with Sicily is, it is ever so unforgiving in regards to such issues.  Every street corner beckons you into a gelateria.  Dozens of delicious flavours to choose from, you feel compelled to try them all & when you get two flavours for a mere €2, well, why wouldn't you treat yourself.  Soon you're having a gelato everyday.  It becomes part of your routine.  Gobbling down its sugary sweetness before it melts down your hand. 

Then there's the smell of fresh pane, wafting into your senses as you stand people watching on your balcony of a morning.  Those pesky Sicilians know only too well how to draw you in.  Soon you're picking up six warm rolls for less than a few euros & running back to your kitchen.  Torn off chunks, drowned in olive oil.  Nothing beats that carb injection.
 

Talking of oil, that much prized liquid gets itself involved in every meal.  Drizzled over salads & soaked into pane.  Pasta happily swims in its rich goodness.  A simple dish of tomatoes & mozzarella are made perfect by the addition of a splash of oil & a sprinkle of salt.  If only this golden delight weren't so laden with with calories, delicious bloody calories.
 

I have also fallen for the many offerings of formaggio.  Rounded balls of salty goodness hang in the kitchen, where I routinely sneak in & hack off slices, simply to devour where I stand.  Brie & gorgonzola piled high on chunks of pane.  Freshly made ricotta spooned over pasta & salads & hard cheeses grated over everything.  Never have I had such passion for this dairy delight. 
 

Of course the one thing that helps pile on the pounds more than anything is the daily dose of pasta.  Whilst we Brits are satisfied with the penne & spaghetti on offer in our supermarkets, Sicilians have dozens of varieties; mezzo rigati, capellini, fusili, bavettine.  A seemingly limitless choice of shapes & sizes.  Each to be cooked with varying ingredients.  Pasta for lunch?  Sure.  Pasta again for dinner?  Certo!  This is the Sicilian way & no one's about to quibble.
 

Finally, the nail in this culinary coffin, is the vino on offer at both lunch & dinner.  I've never been much of a wine drinker, yet here in Sicily it seems so natural to consume a few glasses over lunch & then finish off the bottle over dinner.  Rosso, bianco, it matters not, I happily drink either, whether it's the afternoon or the evening.  There's no drunken haze here, like there would be in England, the pasta makes sure to absorb the excess, this is merely a complimentary part of the meal.
 

You see, it's a terrible daily battle here in Sicily, between embracing & enjoying the many delights on offer & attempting not to have an internal fight with oneself, when examining the extra handfuls of flesh clinging to one's thighs.  It might be some time before I find a balance of conscience.