Playground of the Goddesses and Gods

Gino and I feeling very small at Temple E.

From the graveyard of pillars, we spotted a distant figure
dwarfed by the enormous columns in the background.

Dedicated to Apollo, Temple C perches at the crest of the acropolis,
commanding a stunning view of the sparkling sea.

Oriented to the east, Temple C brought forth three of the famous
metopes now housed at the archaeological museum in Palermo.

Picking our way through the disarray of fallen stones,
we could easily imagine we were in North Africa.

Earthquakes, war, and time can level even the most powerful.

I told you not to push on that.

It’s not yellow brick, but we followed this ancient road back past
Temple E after our trek up to the acropolis.

Looking up, we gasped as this came into view:
a postcard captured by my own viewfinder.

Hunger and fatigue finally drove us back to the gift shop. People were now pouring in so we waited patiently for a lull before asking for our packs. We thanked the clerks profusely; without their generosity, there was no way we could have slogged all over Selinunte as we had.

Packs once again on our backs, we left the park in search of food. Across from the main entrance, we saw a trattoria that looked promising. We approached, but the young lady sweeping and tidying did not appear to be interested in our presence. Another place soon came into view and we eagerly ordered from the friendly servers beaming at us from behind the counter. After wolfing down our simple panini at an outside table, we walked the few yards back to the bus stop.

What is it about bus stops that attracts odd characters? While we waited, a strange character with mad-scientist hair walked back and forth, mumbling to himself while repeatedly checking his watch and counting his change. At one point, he asked ME for the time. Finally, the bus arrived, and we gleefully jumped on. Kindly, the bus driver made sure we got off at the right stop and told us where to pick up the next bus for Sciacca.

Still September 5 – We Arrive in Sciacca

Tourist brochure for Sciacca 

The bus hurtled down the road towards Sciacca, sea on one side and olive tree studded hills on the other. Before long, we whooshed into town, parking on a bluff high above the water. A flock of grazing sheep dotted the hillside below.

The only map we had of the town was nothing more than a guidebook sketch, but it was enough to head ourselves in the right direction of our hotel. By accident, instinct, or luck, we found it without having to traipse all over town lugging our packs. Up an alley and several steep steps, we spotted the sign: “Locanda Al Moro.”

Stepping into the clean and contemporary lobby, we knew instantly we had chosen well. Built in the 13th century, this renovated Moorish tower now offers a few choice rooms, each named after a particular Sicilian wine.

The bright entrance hall opens to the sky, creating a unique indoor courtyard. A cheery breakfast room with high arched ceiling lies straight ahead while a cave-like wine tasting room hides off to the side. Modern, comfortable furnishings and an internet point in the receiving room beckon you to rest from your travels.

Dark-haired Leonardo behind the desk greeted us warmly and showed us to our room. Each room is named after a Sicilian wine — ours was Mandarossa. A complimentary bottle stood on the nightstand, which Gino promptly buried in his pack. It rests in our wine rack even as I write these words, waiting for just the right occasion.

Immaculate and bright, our room looked out upon the open courtyard of the entrance. The entire bathroom was covered with small green tiles, my favorite color. One could never imagine all this was behind that single wooden door off the narrow alley.

A working fishing port, Sciacca offers delectable seafood. While a hungry
tourist enjoys the panorama, Gino and I consider this restaurant for my
birthday dinner later that evening. Unfortunately, the breeze came up,
and we ate elsewhere.

Not wanting to waste one precious minute, we flung ourselves back onto the streets. Sciacca, one of the oldest spa towns in Sicily, was popular with the Greeks and Romans for its nearby thermal waters. But the reason we were here was for its famous traditional ceramics, and Gino, Mr. Pottery Freak, was ecstatic. Poked around the several ceramic shops lining the main street, we stopped long enough to watch a wedding party gather outside the Duomo. The bride and groom did not emerge so we moved on.

Examples of Sciacca’s ceramics can be found in the most unlikely places.

Reading of a particular Sicilian custom, I hastened to try it myself: a sweet bun with a scoop of gelato tucked inside. I picked “cannoli” gelato — what a great choice! This is now on my very short “Favorite All Time Gelato Flavors” list. Only one other keeps it company: carrot. (This was a flavor I found in Venice one year, never to be found again.)

Adorning the piazza at the foot of the centuries old Duomo, this
immense pot is a fine example of the traditional pottery for
which Sciacca is known.

The pottery of Sicily is often painted with very old designs and muted colors, less intricate and intense than the Majolica of Tuscany. Although we found the Sicilian ceramics very beautiful, Gino decided he prefers Majolica. Secretly, I was relieved; we were spared an extra 200 pounds to lug around.

Although we always try to blend in with the locals, there’s no hiding that we are tourists. Shop keepers and waiters always try to guess where we’re from (Italiani? Francesi? Inglesi?); they are always surprised to learn we are Americans. One store proprietor, hearing we were from California, launched into a lively socio-political discussion encompassing several contemporary issues. It took 30 minutes to politely extract ourselves from his shop.

I turned 55 on this day. After our whirlwind tour through the town, we returned to Locanda Al Moro for a quick shower to rinse off the clinging dust of Selinunte. I emerged from the green-tiled bathroom to find the room filled with colorful balloons and a card propped on my pillow. Gino does this every year, since we are often on a trip on my birthday. I come out of my morning shower to find balloons and an artistically decorated card. This year, he did not disappoint.

A magical alley pulls us towards dinner. We dress in
our traveling best for my birthday celebration.

As evening descended, so did we, down steep alleys and steps to the long wide Piazza Scandaliato, the long and wide piazza which overlooked the sea. A brightly lit merry-go-round added a festive air to the evening. Leonardo had recommended Hosteria del Vicolo for our celebratory meal. The ambiance was elegant, yet comfortable (except for the intermittently crying baby that finally left with frazzled parents). The food was spectacular. I had an eggplant dish with taglietelle in “ink.” Gino ordered risotto with shrimp and funghi (mushrooms), pasta with broccoli and red peppers, and slices of rare beef. We drank dessert: Gino tipped back a Limoncello and I sipped a small glass of Marsala.

Relaxed after our delectable meal, we sauntered in the fresh night air, admiring the twinkling town. We fell across a most unusual bar. Secured to the steps of a large stone staircase leading from one street up to another were sturdy wooden tables. One level was strewn with pillows to lean against as you sat on the steps. Nuevo Flamenco music floated from the open window of the bar. Claiming one of the tables, we ordered glasses of wine and marvelled at the bar’s uniqueness Never mind we were 55-year olds out past bedtime. The younger patrons accepted our presence.

September 6 – The Labyrinth

We would be moving on to Agrigento today, but before we left Sciacca, I wanted to explore the old section with its labyrinth of alleys and steps.

The Arabic influence on architecture, and even music, is strongly evident here. The upper part of town is a knot of Moorish alleys and passageways curving into corners and stairways.

We stumbled upon Madonna shrines, tucked into unlikely niches, and colorful doorways framed in decorative moldings.

Sicilians, in general, appear to be deeply religious, decorating their
town walls with shrines devoted to the Madonna. More than once,
we observed our bus drivers reverently crossing themselves as we
rolled past a church.

Noticing that blobs of smoothed cement had been added to one side of all the stairs, Gino figured out this was to enable motor scooters to zip smoothly up. And indeed they did. We noticed this curiosity in other towns we visited, as well.

One small and silent piazza was named in honor of Giacomo Matteotti, which, its plaque proclaimed, had been assassinated by the Fascists. As I travel through Europe, history becomes very real to me as names and faces are connected to the events learned about in distant classrooms.

This resident sweeps yesterday’s construction dust from his doorstep.

Much of the older part of Sciacca is under reconstruction. Wending our way through the steep passages of the upper town, we winced at the grinding and whining of machinery that periodically split the early-morning silence.

Some may have the urge to splash such doors with a
new coat of paint. I think they are already perfect.

Near the outer edge of the upper town, this newer looking house
contrasts with the nearby crumbling walls of a 14th century bastion.

The upper part of Sciacca is still encircled in parts by the old wall with entrances provided by five old gates (portas). Gothic churches and palazzos greet you at various points, including the 12th century church (San Nicolo’) and the remains of a 14th century castle (Castello Conti Luna). The names of the streets are identified by colorfully decorated ceramic signs.

This early morning, as we walked, a raspy voice suddenly burst through a loudspeaker in a sing-song voice. Almost immediately, a small rickety truck heaped with produce crept into view. We could see the driver calling out his wares into a hand-held microphone, blaring his voice throughout the tranquil neighborhood: “Cipolle, pomodori…” (onions, tomatoes…), he repeated in a loud gravelly monotone. I felt like I was in an old Italian movie!

Passing one house, we noticed a string dangling down from the second story, a clip and a note on the end. I looked closer and saw that the note was a list of desired items for the food vendor to leave below. What a great way to shop!

The Elders of Sciacca

Continuing our stroll, we passed locals going about their daily lives: sweeping, carrying groceries, shaking rugs. We greeted them and told them how beautiful we found their town. Always, they expressed appreciation of our appreciation and often proudly posed for a picture.

I love these guys!

Throughout Sicily, public benches are filled from morning til night with elderly gentlemen such as these, solving the problems of the world and watching you go by. These fellows sit in front of the Kronion Cultural Association, most likely named after nearby Mt. Kronos (now known as Monte San Calogero), famous for its hot water springs.

Window bars notwithstanding, these cement sentries
guard against unwanted visitors.

At the very top of town, we passed a small park, lush and inviting. As we peered in, the gardiniere (gardener) welcomed us inside to see the panoramic view from the rear of the garden. We followed his orange vest, admiring the unusual trees and vibrant colors of the foliage as we walked.

Both sides of the little park were lined with benches holding old men in caps, some with canes, sitting, chatting, and enjoying the sunshine. They seemed amused that we were so taken with their little oasis and beamed as I pointed my camera their way. On our way out, I also took the gardiniere’s picture, complimenting him on his lovely garden.

 

Gino takes a break from cinematography chores.

Reaching the top of one set of stairs, I paused as I waited for Gino to finish filming. A woman saw me standing there and looked at me curiously. “Aspetto mio marito — sempre con il video!” I explained. “Siamo turisti.” I’m waiting for my husband — always with the video! We’re tourists. She smiled and responded, “Lo vedo!” I see!

Sad to say goodbye to this sweet little town, we gathered our things from our B&B and schlepped our way back to the bus stop. Our next destination: Agrigento.