Temple of Castor and Pollux

Tempio di Dioscuri (Temple of Castor and Pollux)

Walking on, we came upon an area dotted with the outlines of former structures, some round, some square. But it was the impressive Temple of Castor and Pollux that captured our eye. Only four columns remain standing, and even those had been later cobbled together with fallen pieces that littered the ground. But no matter — the magic of Agrigento was potent as the sun bathed our upturned faces in its final golden rays of the day.

Look closely.  A single white head looks down from the highest perch of
Agrigento’s Temple of Castor and Pollux.

The sun finally dipping below the horizon, we made our way back to the little cafe near the park entrance. After confirming the spot for the bus, we waited but a few minutes until it arrived. It hurtled us back down the hill to San Leone beach, but this time we knew exactly where to jump off.

After a quick rest at our B&B, hunger drove us back out into the evening, this time to walk the waterfront promenade lined with restaurants. Wandering up and down, reading menus and people, we finally decided upon La Scogliera (The Reef). In keeping with its name, I was delighted by an antipasto of fresh mixed raw fish and a pasta with tomato, eggplant, and…more fish. Gino enjoyed a salad, pasta carbonara, and grilled chicken. Of course wine and coffee topped off the meal. Agreeing we had done enough walking for the day, we headed back to our room to pack up for our next day.

Gino beams at the prospect of breakfast at homey and comfortable Villa Amico.

In the morning, we walked down to the breakfast room on the bottom floor and claimed one of the tables set for the morning repast. An Italian family occupied another one. The TV news was on, and I gasped when I heard the news that Pavarotti had died. A woman, sitting near the TV, considerately moved her chair so that I could see the screen better, although I told her it was fine. When I asked when he had died, she responded “ieri.” Yesterday. In the days that followed, all the front pages of the newspapers were splashed with pictures and articles about this very talented and beloved Italian son.

September 7 – The Taxi to Caltagirone

Leaving Villa Amico in Agrigento, we paid our bill, thanked Pierdomenico, and humped our packs back down to the bus stop. We boarded an almost empty bus, but after several stops on its way up the hill, it quickly filled. An older man sat in an empty seat facing us, our knees touching.

Striking up a conversation, he chatted with us as we bounced our way to the main bus station at the top of the hill. We learned that his parents had been killed by Mussolini’s fascists in Bologna during the war. His wife was now dead and he wanted to remarry, but his 40-year old daughter wouldn’t let him. Looking at me with a helpless expression, he lifted his hands as if to say, ”Eh! What can I do?!” Arriving at the station, we all got off the bus. Our new found friend pecked our cheeks and wished us well, toddling off with his troubles.

Stepping up to the ticket booth, I inquired about tickets to Caltagirone, our next destination. Indeed, the bus would go there, but not until 1:00 p.m. It was now only 9:00 a.m.! I knew (from researching before we left home) that the train was out of the question — its convoluted route to Caltagirone would take eight hours! The bus took only two. Now what to do?

A row of taxis were parked nearby, the drivers sitting on a row chairs propped against a building, waiting for their next customers. After a quick conference with Gino, I approached them and explained our predicament. Asking if it was even conceivable to hire a taxi, I realized that, of course, anything is possible for a price.

An older driver seemed most willing to take on the task and we haggled for a price, a younger driver hovering at his side giving advice. We all finally agreed to ride as far as Gela and then we would decide from there whether to continue by taxi or bus. We loaded our packs in the trunk and off we went, insane as it seemed.

Our driver was pleasant and commented on things we passed along the way, but he wasn’t too chatty, for which I was thankful. Sometimes I like to simply sit back and absorb what I’m seeing rather than having to concentrate on conversation, especially in another language. Our driver did share that he has two aunts that live in Buffalo and cousins in Miami.

The road followed the sea as we flashed past the little towns. As we neared the town of Licata, our driver informed us that nearby Torre di Gaffe was where, during the WWII, the American Navy ship USS Roe landed Patton’s 7th army on the beach as a fierce attack force. I was once again reminded how the perspective of history is different for those who lived it.

A little over an hour later, we neared Gela and our driver asked us if we wanted to continue the rest of the way to Caltagirone. Having already driven this far, he was eager to go the final stretch and end his day early with a pocketful of cash. Our alternative was to catch a bus.

Gino, in the front seat, looked quite settled in; when I asked him which he preferred, he didn’t hesitate. We all agreed upon a total price of 120 Euro for the entire trip. From my nest in the back seat, I laughed quietly to myself when Gino so readily agreed. He does not spend money easily, but from his cushiony front seat throne, the prospect of schlepping his pack through unfamiliar streets was not very inviting.

About 45 minutes past Gela, we drove into the outskirts of Caltagirone, situated a bit inland and up into the lower-lying mountains. We did not know exactly where our hotel was, but did have the name of the piazza. Cautiously, our driver slowed several times to ask pedestrians along the way, inching our way closer and closer. Finally we arrived at Piazza Umberto, two hours before the bus back in Agrigento would even think about leaving. Thanking our driver profusely, we paid him his well-earned sum with a tip and waved as he zoomed off.

Not wanting to obstruct traffic as we gathered our things from the taxi, I did not pause long enough to take our driver’s picture. I regret it to this day.

Roomside Picnic

Now to find our hotel. We stumbled around the piazza under the weight of our packs, searching for La Scala 2, our hotel for our night in Caltagirone. Two kindly gentlemen could see we were having trouble and pointed us in the right direction. Trudging up a short incline, we spotted a door standing ajar; inside, a steep flight of stairs led us to the reception desk. We checked in and unloaded in our small, but adequate room.

Starvation brought us back outside to sniff out a restaurant — pizza was in mind. Ducking into one at the foot of La Scala di Santa Maria del Monte, an extensive pizza menu posted outside, we were apologetically informed that pizza would not be served until evening. Hopes dashed, we continued our search. A salumeria (comparable to a deli) came into view and we staggered inside, now completely famished. One of the clerks was wearing an apron that read “Melinda,” which is a brand of apple in Italy. Pointing it out, I smiled and commented to him, “like the apple.” Hunger pangs kept me from explaining that was also my name.

A sackful of goodies now in hand, we returned to our room for our little picnic. Struggling open the window, which appeared not to have been opened for some time, we propped ourselves at the brink of the miniscule balcony to rest and fortify.

The map of the town spread before us as we munched, we discussed how best to spend our remaining hours. The original plan was to take a bus to Piazza Armerina to view the fabulous Roman mosaics of Villa del Casale. But the prospect of another bus ride and all its attendant logistics did not sound appealing. One thing we have learned over our years of tripping is to not expect to see everything — in fact, expect to cut things out as you go along. This we did today, without regrets. It was just another reason to someday return.

Pleased with our decision to forego Piazza Armerina, we finished our little roomside picnic. Suddenly from nearby, the peal of bells filled the air. On and on they went, in different tones and patterns. The rings subsided, one last long clong echoing over the roofs of the neighboring buildings. Just as we thought this enchanting concert was over, the musical rings started up again. This happened several times. We never did learn the reason for the bells, but we considered it our personal welcome to this time-honored town.

The Ceramic Capital of Sicily

La Scala di Santa Maria del Monte (the Stairs of Santa Maria of the Mount),
Caltagirone’s distinctive staircase of decorative 142 stairs (I climbed them all
more than once). Each riser is adorned with colorful, hand-painted ceramic
tiles depicting everything from Moorish motifs to Baroque designs.
No two are the same.

We were ready to dive with gusto into the treasures of this town. The only reason for coming here, aside from the proximity to the mosaics, was, after all, to see its famous ceramics.

One could spend hours examining each of the fascinating 142 designs gracing the steps of La Scala di Santa Maria del Monte (simply referred to as “La Scala). On July 24th and 25th of each year, this grand staircase glows with oil lamps as the town celebrates the festival of San Giacomo.

Caltagirone is a UNESCO World Heritage site and pottery is the reason. Not only were the local potters world famous during the Middle Ages, prehistoric pottery has been discovered on nearby hills, further confirming the town’s ceramic legacy. Today, numerous craftsmen carry on the tradition.

The town is ancient, predating even the Greeks. Once the Arabs arrived, the potters added yet another dimension to their wares: glazed polychromatic color, especially blues and yellows. To this day, blues and yellows remain a signature color of Sicilian ceramics in general.

Celebrated for its excellence in ceramics, this ancient town proudly displays
its expertise in colorful pottery at every turn. These Majolica tiles in typical
Sicilian colors adorn the span of the Ponte San Francesco (St. Francis Bridge).

An up close view of one of Ponte San Francesco’s decorative tiles.

We headed downward, pausing at every ceramic shop we came upon, their floor-to-ceiling shelves groaning with colorful wares. In one shop, a young lady behind the counter motioned us to a side room where we stepped down into darkness. With a flip of a switch, a black light flickered on, illuminating a miniature village with tiny ceramic people and animals. There was even a tiny flickering fire.