these weeks in the odyssey
5.24.99 -- 6.7.99
porto rotondo, sardinia, italy

Get Your Own Temple, Pal

I think it's fair to say that most art historians at one level or another pretty much just want to be Indiana Jones. The romance of faraway places, the excitement of uncovering lost cultural treasures, the really cool hat you get to wear -- each of these contributes to the allure in its own special way. Plus you get to bullwhip people...always a plus in certain sticky social situations.

Predictably, however, there are those that abuse the role. Those that insist that their husbands call them "Indy." Those that ask their fathers to dress in professorial duds from the forties a la Sean Connery in "Temple of Doom." Those that tend to claim tourist sites as new finds in the name of Art History. Now, I ain't saying no names (well, no last names, anyway), but Kristanne seems to have adopted a decidedly proprietary posture over there at right. You'd see it even more in the next picture where she plants her flag into the foot of an old German tourist lady who was getting too close (the "Hussy from Hessen," as Kristanne called her), but Kristanne made me erase that one under the threat of the bullwhip. I kinda miss the ole Michelin Guide, now that I think about it.

After a three day standoff, I was finally able to convince Kristanne that she had not, in fact, discovered a long-lost ruin after an arduous hike through the jungles of South America and bloody battles with the Evil Kookai Pygmies, but rather had just stumbled off the tour bus and followed the signs to the well known Greek Temple of Concord in the Sicilian town of Agrigento. It did reassure her a little bit when I told her that it had been a rather warm walk and that one or two people even had to take the little golf cart ride they offered. Any hardship to sweeten the pot, y'know?

Well, it seems like approximately twelve billion years ago in a galaxy far, far away, (Star Wars fever is gripping even those of us without English language movie theaters), but we managed to leave Rome in one piece. Well, really two pieces since Kristanne and I have yet to fuse our bodies and brains into a single amorphous mass. Alas, poor Rome, we knew ye well! Your cobbled streets are the paths to our hearts, your ancient ruins the spark to our wonder, your high-voltage espressos the livewire fuel for our tank.

Before we left, though, our roommate Anna had to leave first to hang out with the paparazzi at the Cannes Film Festival. Which meant that we had to fire off one last game of team double solitaire for eternal bragging rights between the legendary duos of Snow-Pea and Sugar-Brown (long story, don't ask...suffice it to say that I'm "Pea." Why do I have to be "Pea?" Why can't I be "Thor" or "Lancelot" or "Load Bearing Stud?" "Pea?" Who the heck wants to be "Pea?" I'm writing my congressman. Or calling my mom. Or both.) Well, as you can tell from the expressions at left, Kristanne and I pretty much wiped the floor with their sorry carcasses. Anna seems to be transfixed by the camera, gazing into its filmic embrace with an expression that is either pensive (pondering the nature of nostalgia and its relationship to the collective unconscious) or a glassy stupor. Her partner, Tracy, meanwhile seems to be wildly amused by the pretty pictures on the cards ("That darn joker gets me every time"). As for me and Kristanne, well, it seems that Kristanne is taking this opportunity to cheat openly while I pound my fist on the table like some card-playing Khrushchev and shout "We will bury you!" We take double solitaire seriously at the Sugar-Brown Snow-Pea (gotta do something about that name) household.

It hasn't been easy living with three women, even when you're married to one of them. Oh, sure, you could conjure up some lame Three's Company-style hijinks, try to package it up and pitch it to the studios for a cherry primetime slot between "Three Guys, a Girl, and a Pizza Place" and, well, whatever comes after that, but it wouldn't be reality. "Three Girls, a Guy, and the Guy's Dirty Socks" just doesn't have the same ring, y'know? Nor does "Three Girls, a Guy, and Dangit The Toilet Seat Is Up Again."

The main problem, though, isn't the lack of a suitable title. No, it's more the tempestuousness of the subject matter. Is primetime America really ready to see a man severely beaten if he doesn't get the pasta just al dente enough? Are they ready to see him sent to his room for not wearing an apron while he cooks? Tough questions for tough times. I mean, when it's not up my nose, my finger is as close to the national pulse as anybody's and I just can't tell. And don't worry -- I use a kleenex before and after I touch the national pulse. Can't be too careful these days.

Eventually, though, we managed to get Anna into a taxi and off to the airport for her flight to France, but not before taking one last picture with random kitchen implements (we were running out of subjects at this point). Then, we had to pack ourselves -- the bus left the next morning for our eight day trip to Sicily. Combine that with the fact that we not only had to move out of our apartment on the day we got back from Sicily, but also needed to finish our shopping for friends, buy our tickets to Sardinia, and arrange a hotel, and you have the recipe for an aggressively compressed schedule.

Nerves were fraying as we scurried hither and yon, hellbent to tie up all the loose ends before we jumped on to the bus. Scarcely brightening our disposition was the fact that the furshlugginer bus was bent on leaving Rome at 6:00. In the morning. On the other side of town. We woke up at five and dragged our sorry tails into a cab, making the bus just in time for a pleasant six hour jaunt south.

The Italian countryside was simply gorgeus as we drown down the A3 bound for Reggio Calabria and the famous Riace Bronzes displayed in a museum there. Sheer mountains rise up at impossible angles, covered with lovely greenery. Clear mountain streams grace the narrow valleys. It was an Italy we had yet to see and it was truly amazing, offsetting any boredom we might be feeling about the eternal bus ride.

After a short visit with the Riace Bronzes (they actually don't say all that much), we grabbed a ferry for the 30 minute jaunt over to Messina on Sicily. During the trip, we managed to strike up a conversation with some Sicilians in their broken English and our shattered Italian. We told them of our plans for Sicily and before we knew it they had bent Kristanne's professor's ear to convince him that we couldn't possibly go to Sicily without going to Taormina. How could we even think of it? Were we mad, off our rockers, completely insane? Did we want to pay for such a transgression with our lives? (These were, after all, Sicilians.) Wisely, we decided a short trip to Taormina was in order and the next day we hit the beautiful vistas you see there at right. That picture is from a fantastically well-preserved (better than Dick Clark, even) Greek amphitheater nestled high on a rocky promontory between Mt. Etna and the Mediterranean.

Sicily is a fantastic place. The people are amazingly friendly, probably owing in some small part to the relative lack of American tourists that come there. We were definitely more of a novelty here than we were in Rome. Kristanne, in fact, took this one step further, claiming that the Sicilians are the "Texans of Italy," plainspoken, generous-hearted, and a little bit bluff. They did not, however, sport any bumperstickers with slogans like "Italy Out Of Sicily" or "My Other Fiat Is A Horse," so the comparison definitely has some practical limitations.

After Taormina, we continued south to the ancient town of Siracusa (Italian for "the potatoes are in the trunk"). You're probably going to get really tired of reading this sentence, but, yes, Siracusa was quite beautiful, too, gently lolling in the Mediterranean like a happy little sea otter who can't wait to lay on its back and eat the mussel it just cracked. There are probably some practical limitations to that comparison, too, so put your grains of salt where you need 'em.

Siracusa was a wonderful departure from most of the Italian towns we've seen. Instead of being painted primarily in yellows, oranges, and browns, most of the old town (Ortygia) was a gleaming shade of white. Especially beautiful was the Piazza Duomo, paved with white stones and fronting a beautiful old church (Duomo) built on the ruins of an old Greek Temple. The Doric columns on this church/temple ("chumple?") were remarkably intact and you could see just what the Siracusans had done to transform it into a church. We hit the piazza right at sunset, all lit up in glorious shades of pink in the day's final rays. Come to think of it, maybe I should have taken a picture of that instead of the guy selling potatoes out of the trunk of his car. You have to admit, though -- those are some nice taters.

And that's when our story gets interesting. That's when whatever vestiges of the commonplace that still clung to our little journey began to rapidly disintegrate. That's when the rational, the ordered, and the logical took themselves off to a bar and got loaded on cheap hooch and their evil twin Mr. Entropy came to visit. Yup -- we checked in to the Hotel Kaos.

Actually, just getting to the Hotel Kaos proved to be something of an ordeal. It's located down in Agrigento, famous for some amazing Greek temples still standing there (that's one of them at the top of this page). Handily, there are many signs that point you directly to the hotel. Not so handily, it seems that some people have an ardent disbelief in following signs. So, as Kristanne and I gradually clawed our eyes out so as not to see the bus drive past the clearly-marked signs to the Hotel Kaos one more time, our bus did u-turn after u-turn in response to various suggestions from those that had to pee the worst. We seemed to be afflicted with a severe case of Dog Whistle Voice such that our various pleas, supplications, and explicitly worded threats fell on deaf ears. Sample exchange:

"Hey, guys, why don't we follow that sign to the Hotel Kaos and see if it doesn't take us there?"

"Say, do you guys hear a high-pitched hum in here? Why don't we take that exit about a hundred yards before that clearly marked sign to the Hotel Kaos and see if that gets us there?"

There are only so many places you can go in Agrigento, however, before you eventually get to the Hotel Kaos. And so we did arrive, just slightly the worse for wear. But, boy, was it ever worth the wait. Despite the slightly suspicious name, there was plenty of room at the Hotel Kaos. And what a view! That's Kristanne over there at left, enjoying the view of the Mediterranean from the staircase above the Kaos' lovely pool.

MOMENT OF EXTREMELY OVERT FORESHADOWING: Examine that staircase carefully. Notice its daunting height, its precarious pitch. Feel the Mediterranean sun pounding its pavement. Will this staircase perhaps play some future role as our tale unfolds? Some important part? Yes. It will. Thus ends the Moment of Extremely Overt Foreshadowing.

The Kaos was beautiful, yes, but befitting its name, it was also quite strange. Room numbers did not correspond to floor numbers in the elevator so that you needed to play an elaborate guessing game to find your room. The floor layout was bizarrely byzantine in nature, requiring you to work your way through an elaborate labyrinth of corridors, antechambers, and maid's quarters before you could find anything you were looking for. You can check out any time you like, but you're not going to be able to leave if you can't find the dang exit.

Thankfully, however, there was a bar. After a tasty dinner of various Mediterranean seafoods (the octopus down there is unbelievable), we all managed to negotiate a safe passage back to the bar and set up shop for the evening, ready to be regaled by the best karaoke efforts of whoever might happen to get on the mic. Kristanne and I waltzed, Jim and I tangoed, the two girls at the bar made out, and that bartender there alternated between surly, giddy, or completely surreal. Eventually, we all ended up in the pool. Just another night at the Hotel Kaos.

The next day, we were up bright and early for some early morning rays and a refreshing swim. Eventually, though, it was time to face the heat of the day and check out the temples of Agrigento. These were truly amazing, definitely one of the highlights of the trip so far (especially the Temple of Concord, the best preserved of all of them). We hiked around for a couple of hours before heading back to the bus and down to the Kaos for an afternoon dip. Yes, you read that right. We left the Temple of Concord for the Hotel Kaos. I am not making these names up.

We couldn't have known. There was no way to know. That picture there at the left would prove to be the last of me for the next couple weeks without at least a pair of crutches and a big ole bandage swaddling my tender right footsie. You see, there was injury. There was hurt. A boo-boo. The pool at the Hotel Kaos is surrounded by a grate consisting of small metal half-pipes with uncovered edges. It juts up above the concrete, an evil force of lurkage preying on unsuspecting poolgoers. During the day, the hotel staff can be observed fastidiously honing each and every one of these pipes with nail files until they bristle with a razor's edge. The entrance to the pool itself is a slightly graded descent into the water so that you can just gently walk on in. Unfortunately, after they finish sharpening the grate, the hotel staff goes ahead and lubricates this descent with 10-40 motor oil. Pennzoil. And, as I attempted to walk up this devil's slope and out of the pool to the waiting embrace of my chaise lounge, I slipped, kicking out my right foot to regain my balance. And, it would have worked, too, if it weren't for that meddling grate. As I attempted to stop myself from going ass over teakettle, I managed to catch sight of the nefarious hotel staff, giggling in the wings and brandishing their nail files. The Hotel Kaos is a tough place, I tell you.

Ouch. That hurts more than a kiss on the cheek. Still stinging from being called "Pea" for so long, I reacted like any good red-blooded 'Merican Male -- I cursed. First I cursed, then I ignored it, continuing my tough-guy walk back to my chaise lounge. Figuring it was just a bruise or something, I finally decided to hazard a look at it, see if maybe I needed a Band-Aid or something.

And that's when I pretty much almost passed out, seeing as how a big ole flap of my foot was twisting in the wind. Actually, the flap wasn't even the worst part -- there was also a nasty looking gash in the ball of my foot. The weird part was that it wasn't bleeding. These things never seem to bleed until you look at them. Maybe I'll write a book on homeopathic medicine entitled something like "If You Don't Look, It Ain't Bleeding," or "Ignorance: The Best Medicine." Maybe not. In any case, it was definitely bleeding now, so I slapped a towel on it with some direct pressure (thanks for that first-aid tip, Ma), and did the next sensible thing any adult would do -- I cursed again.

At this point, I had pretty much exhausted my first aid knowledge. I checked, but it was looking like my curses (inspired though they were) were not doing a heckuva lot to fix my foot. Lucky for me, though, people were starting to realize that I wasn't just laying on the ground with a towel on my foot and a freaked out look on my face for nothing. Not this time, anyway (it was different the night before, I swear). As it turned out, I was really lucky to cut my foot Among The Art Historians (also the title of my forthcoming documentary film...look for a December release, just in time for the holidays). While I tried to stop cursing, Tracy and Laura got me to elevate my foot, disinfected it with hydrogen peroxide, and followed up by giving me a short lecture on narrative techniques in the paintings of Caravaggio. Meanwhile, while Kristanne sprinted off to get help from the leaders of our group, the other students set up a slide projector and whisked me through a synopsis of the major Greek orders of architecture. The Art History Pararescue Brigade was in action!

Before I really knew what was happening, my foot was bound, bagged, and ready to boogie. People were using words like "stat," "CBC chem-7," and "Corinthian order capital." Four sturdy Art Historians grabbed my arms and legs and toted me and my foot up those stairs you see there at right (trust me, they'd have to be sturdy to do that).

THE FORESHADOWED EVENT IS HERE!: Recognize that staircase? Look a little familiar? Sense the ironic counterpoint? If you don't, just scroll on back up to the Moment of Extrememly Overt Foreshadowing. You'll get it!

The top of the stairs gained, I waited a tense few minutes for Kristanne to take my picture so that you, the web page reader, could suffer along with me. I didn't mind the picture so much as Kristanne's suggestions for different poses. "Umm, honey...can you look, you know...more pitiful? Grimace for the camera, sweetheart!" Just as Kristanne was swapping lenses to get a tight close-up on the beads of sweat on my forehead ("This is Pulitzer stuff, honeypie!"), the taxi arrived and we were off to the Pronto Soccorso (Italian for "Way to go, dumbass").

Italian taxi drivers all seem to be able to trace their lineage to Mario Andretti at some point or another. This guy was definitely a direct descendant. If we weren't already on our way to the Pronto Soccorso, we probably would have ended up there anyway, though maybe in a different taxi. We screeched to a halt in front of the emergency room, our taxi driver flailing his arms wildly. I think he thought I was hurt a little more seriously than I really was as he caterwauled into the emergency room and immediately got into a heated shouting match with one of the attendants, demanding that I receive treatment immediately if not sooner. Either that, or he was related to the guy and was just saying howdy. Sometimes, it's hard to tell with Italians.

Italian hospitals are just a wee bit different than American ones. First of all, they are a lot older. The wheelchair they put me in appeared to have been constructed in the '50's. Possibly even the 1850's. It was rusted and half the fabric on the seat was missing. "Heh heh heh," sez I. "I'm sure the actual medical facilities are absolutely modern. Heh heh heh."

Secondly, there is no real system for admission. You just sort of go in and try to act hurt and pound on one of the random doors scattered about the waiting room in hopes that you will be treated next. This is what everyone else is doing, too, trying to gauge which door will open first and acting as hurt and/or pissed off as possible. In Italy, it helps to be loud. It helps to attract attention. It helps to grab the doctor by the lapel and shake him until he grasps that you would actually like some medical attention. It definitely doesn't help at all to just sit there and wait your turn. That approach will get you a bunk on the floor in the waiting room and a month-long wait as people with hangnails receive treatment before you because they can scream louder.

Also different is the fact that there is no separate entrance to the emergency room for ambulances. They just pull on up and haul the wounded (no matter how frightfully) right through the waiting room. This creates an interesting scene as the folks with hangnails refuse to budge for the people who are seriously injured. They just stand there until the medics forcibly push them out of the way. Thankfully, Kristanne's professor, Jeffrey, speaks fluent Italian and was there to help us. He is also an expert at the Italian 'system' and soon had me on a gurney in an inside hallway, tellng me stories about Italian doctors smoking cigarettes as they sewed up his finger sans anesthesia the last time he was here about a year ago. Hehehe. What a great story!

After about a half hour, they wheeled me into an actual medical room of some sort with a few other patients. No one was smoking, which was nice. Happily, they anesthetized my foot and gave me seven amazingly thick stitches in the big cut. The dangly flap they didn't really look at, just put it where it was supposed to go and slapped a bandage on it. We know they didn't really look at it because when we eventually changed the bandage a few days later, we were a bit surprised to find these really big leafs from the poolside stuck under the flap. So much for disinfection!

Unfortunately, I hadn't had a tetanus shot in a while, so after the stiches were in, one of the nurses went to a locked silver box near the door, carefully opened its heavily hinged lid, and pulled from its velvet-lined confines a gleaming hypodermic roughly the size of Rhode Island (a state that exists expressly to be demeaned in comparisons like this one). After a short moment of silence from the assembled doctors, she drove it into my backside with a wicked flourish. Ouch. My butt hurt worse than my foot. Then they sang 'Ave Maria' and wheeled me back out to Kristanne who took some time out from her busy schedule of (A)wringing her hands, (B)weeping uncontrollably, and (C)wishing she had some potato chips, to greet me with a happy hug. Then, it was back to the taxi driver who let me know that it wasn't really my welfare he was concerned about by driving twice as fast back to the Kaos as he had to the hospital.

The next few days were a sort of blur of plastic lawn furniture, bus seats, and hopping along on one foot. The happy side of being injured is that I figured this was sufficient excuse to get past the No Shorts Law Of Italian Men. Did you know this? Italian men just really never wear shorts. You just don't see it. So, during the dog days in Rome, I had been trucking along in long pants, sweating like crazy with my paleface northern complexion. No longer. I considered switching directly to a Speedo-style swimsuit instead of shorts, but was ultimately dissuaded by Kristanne and an unending series of wellwishes who all closed their visits with firm recommendations against the Speedo idea. The not so happy side of being injured was that the hospital didn't give me any crutches (again, "free"), so I was left to make do with hopping until we could find a Farmacia (in Italian, "House of Crutches"). After a day and a half of hopping (and a near-constant chorus of happy jeers from various tourist groups), we eventually improvised with a pair of splintery two by fours found discarded by the roadside. These were almost exactly as useful as they sound. Luckily, we were eventually able to find a pair of crutches in Cefalu that did me just nicely, mobile once again (well, sorta).

I'd like to be able to tell you more about the places we visited in the following days, but the truth is that me and my foot basically stayed planted in whatever cafe was closest to where the bus was parked, spending some quality time with the plastic lawn furniture. So, while Kristanne and Crew went to see what I'm told are some really great mosaics at the Villa Romana near Piazza Armerina, I sat on the ground in the shade by the bus and read my book. And, while others were enjoying the beach at Cefalu, I ate gelato with some old men who thought it was really quite amusing to see a guy hopping along with two by fours for crutches. And, in Palermo, I worked quietly in the hotel room while the others braved the really absolutely astonishing air pollution (check that pic at right) to see the Capella Palatina.

Our last day in Palermo, we took the bus to the town of Monreale, high above both the really quite unbelievable air pollution and Palermo itself. There, in a wonderfully scenic setting, is a gorgeous 12th century church (Duomo) and cloisters. Thankfully, I was able to crutch myself around well enough to see some of this. The mosaics were really tremendous, though I still don't understand the urge to glue bits of tile to the wall when you could just paint it (I know, I know...they last longer. Whatever.). Once we saw the Duomo and the Cloisters, though, we had a bit of a dilemma on our hands. Our ferry to Naples didn't leave until 8:30. That left us with some serious time to kill in Monreale. Ever-inspired, the Art Historians began a spirited game of Art History In Rome Charades in the shade outside the Duomo to pass the time. I've never seen somebody act out St. Peter's square before (and I'm almost certain I never will again), but I would have to say that was the topper (though Kristanne's Four Rivers Fountain came close).

The night ferry to Naples was uneventful (though crutching up the gangway on the ferry was mildly traumatic) and we soon found ourselves at the ancient city of Pompei, eternally mummified from the epic eruption of Mt. Vesuvius in 79 A.D. Again, Kristanne and crew told me that Pompei was really not to be missed, even as I missed it in my perpetual plastic lawn furniture with my perpetual caffe macchiato and the unending novel I'm reading right now ("Underworld," by Don Delillo, by the way, also not to be missed). After a really quite brief six hours in the cafe, it was back onto the bus and on our way back to Rome.

Strange to be back in Rome. Especially strange since we had all of about 24 hours to pack, clean, and take care of every single quotidian detail you can imagine before we had to be out of our apartment and on a train to Civitavecchia where we would catch the ferry to Sardinia. At this point, I must point out that Kristanne possesses the strength of 12 men, four oxen, and Babe the Blue Ox all rolled into one. You can probably imagine just how much help I was during all this hullabub (umm, exactly none is the last measure I recall). So, while I sat in the corner and tried to dust a bookshelf, Kristanne did literally everything. She packed. She cleaned. She got our train tickets. She bought us books. Groceries. Paid our bills. Felled logs to build a cabin. Put down crops for next spring. Staked a preliminary mining claim on a promising little patch out back of our apartment. Cured cancer, eczema, and the heartbreak of psoriasis. Postulated a firm connection between Eros and Thanatos while refuting some of the more esoteric points of Jungian psychoanalysis. Published heartfelt editorials on the current conflict in Kosovo. Brought me a piece of pizza for lunch. Picked up my Fed Ex package from work. Left my Fed Ex package from work at the bookstore.

Huh? What was that last one? Yup, unfortunately during her daily rounds of doing absolutely everything Kristanne forgot this tiny little package at a bookstore in Rome. Equally unfortunately, we didn't figure this out until we were already on the train to Civitavecchia. So, out to Civitavecchia we go. Into the plastic lawn furniture I go. Back on the train to Rome Kristanne goes, bound to pick up my package from the bookstore. Five hours later, Kristanne pulls up to the train station in a taxi. A taxi? What the heck is going on here?

As it turns out, Kristanne was able to fetch the package in Rome with the greatest of ease. The train ride back proved to be somewhat different, however. It started out normally, there's Roma Ostia, there's Trastevere, all the stops I remember. Waitasec. What's that? I don't remember this stop from last time. And these people look somehow...different from the people on the train the first time. Lightning-like, Kristanne was out of her seat and onto an unlighted, uncared-for, grafitti-covered train siding. Would she have to return to Rome from here? Would she face unknown dangers? Who knows when the next train back leaves? Will Sid have enough caffe macchiato back in Civitavecchia? She sprinted up to a waiting train conductor, asked him (in Italian, no less) if this train was bound for Civitavecchia. Sure enough, it was, though by a slightly different route. This was definitely the milk train, stopping at random spots along the tracks to let people off to wander home through the fields, no train station in sight. Eventually, the train did pull into Civitavecchia, though an entirely different station than the one where I was at. No matter. She grabbed a cab over to where I was, slapped me on in, and we were into a hotel room for the night, tired and dirty as the dickens.

The next morning, we got up early to make sure we got a taxi (there are only so many and literally every single person in Civitavecchia is there to catch one of the myriad ferries leaving for Sardinia). Success was ours and before we knew it we were safely ensconced in our seats, lulled gently to sleep by the massive keening herd of mewling babies in our cabin. If there was an Italian baby that wasn't on our ferry, I'd like to hear about it. They crawled up our arms, over our seats, swarming in some sort of gang reflex. Marauding babies. It was cute at first, but rapidly lost its charm as we moved into hour two of the symphony of sobs.

Finally, the ferry arrived and I managed to crutch my way down the gangway as you can see there at the left. Almost there! Almost there!

At this point I'm more saying that to myself than about the trip to Sardinia. I've been writing this episode since approximately the Eisenhower administration and I can finally see that little line there at the bottom coming into sight. Whee-hoo!

A quick taxi ride later, Kristanne once again shouldered our entire burden and we were into the waiting arms of our vacation apartment in Sardinia. There you see her at right, unbelievably carrying absolutely everything in the midday heat. What a trooper! Those crops she put down back in Rome are really going to come in handy, too.

Our apartment is gorgeous, complete with beautiful views of the surrounding sea and mountains. Sardinia is sort of unfathomably beautiful -- a gorgeous combination of California and the Mediterranean Riviera. Sure, the phone doesn't work (grrrrr....the one thing we actually asked about), but that should be fixed any day. Relaxation is starting to set in, and boy does it feel good. Be sure to check back next week as we provide Actual Unretouched Photos from our deck of the surrounding environs. We'll also be identifying birds, starting with the Citril Finch and possibly working our way up to the Yellowhammer. Finally, we're looking forward to some action shots of Kristanne on the little scooter we've rented. Sorry for the delay and come see us again next week!

Last Week's Front Page Picture

In pictorial matters, that's me and Kristanne over there at the left, all shiny and happy in the really quite incredibly scenic Sicilian village of Taormina. Perched on a picturesque cliff between Mt. Etna and the Mediterranean, Taormina features an amazingly well-preserved Greek amphitheater with commanding views of the softly sensuous surrounding sublimity, so sweetly situated in scenic Sicily. Heh heh. Say that three times fast.