Should you ever find yourself wanting a massive New Years Eve party, might I suggest Taormina?  Yikes.  These people take welcoming the new year seriously.

We ate dinner early, at 6:30, which for Italians is like heresy.  Walking home, the streets were empty.  Turns out everyone was napping.  The festivities got started around 9 — about the time I headed to bed — and showed zero signs of abating upon our departure at 4 am.  Our place was bumping.  Couldn’t miss the fireworks, either.  They exploded right outside our window.  For a minute upon waking I thought I had been magically thrust back in time and the Allies were bombing.  

Our last two days were quiet ones, well, until New Years Eve.  We stayed close to home, and the weather turned more typical of Mediterranean winters, i.e, rainy and cool.  Mt Etna got all her snow back, and I’m sure many were happy that the slopes reopened. 

On the 30th we took a cooking class and learned how to make pizza and macaroni from scratch, Sicilian-style.  (No eggs!  Who knew?)  We essentially ate and drank for six hours while playing with dough.  I came back to the apartment and fell over from a carb crash.  I regret nothing. 

The 31st we took a cable car down to the shore.  It felt post-apochtoliptic.  The stores and cafes were closed, the beach empty.  My compatriots searched for odd looking rocks and found (or stole) lots of them.  We wandered over to Isola Bella, a small nature preserve.  

Taormina was always an unusual choice for us.  Usually on trips, we play spot the American or New Yorker.  I cannot tell you what strange corners of the world I’ve hid in only to hear about the local news in Chelsea, Battery Park, or Brooklyn the next bar stool over.  However, in Taormina I ran into Americans once.  (Brits twice.)   Once more in Ortigia.  Instead, it was mostly Italians, who knew we were tourists 4 blocks away.  

It feels like we stumbled into some secret, Italian holiday hangout.  I sense the summers are for tourists.  From what locals said, it’s a horror show of people and traffic.  Italians either embrace it or rent out their flats and stay away.  But the holidays belong to them.  

To say we intruded into their secret feels strong.  Nobody was rude, just perhaps surprised to see us.  Rates for apartments were cheap.  The crowds were thin.  Many restaurants were closed, but we had no trouble getting reservations from those open.  Tour companies were glad to host us.  We loved how quiet and calm the city was, and felt really fortunate to see it this way.

I wonder if more tourists stayed in Catania — all the other folks with us on the Etna sojourn came from there — but nobody local had much to say about the city other than, “Well, if you’ve seen everything else, then I suppose.”  Certainly, Catania is much more accessible than Taormina.   

But Taormina holds a special place in RBD’s heart.  Maybe in a past life, she spent time there.  It would be easy to live tucked up in the surrounding hills.  Her drive to return caused this entire endeavor, after only visiting for just a few hours in 2000.  It is a special place, though, and I hope you all find your way there in the off-season and find out why.  

As if on cue, my knee has returned to its granola-like-crunching ways.  The pain is bearable, but dysfunction has returned — swelling, heat, catching on itself.  To think, in 24 hours my surgery will be done and I’ll be at home, all doped up.  

So this is where we part.  I am half way home, somewhere over open water, south of Reykjavik (which I used to pronounce Rev’-nah-jack when playing Carmen Sandiago).  In 2,034 miles and 5ish hours, we arrive.  Mom and Megan have additional flights each to catch.

Remember, if you’d like a pic send me a note and I’ll get it to you. Anything you’d like to see more of or less of?  

Next year will be a great year for international travel.  First, we trip to Costa Rica in April to celebrate our 10th wedding anniversary.  We actually went to Costa Rica for our honeymoon, and are looking forward to returning.  Mom and I trip to Riga in Spring.  She wants to see where her people came from.  My great grandmother immigrated to the U.S. from Latvia.  Finally, RBD turns 40 and wants to spend a long weekend in Paris to help soften the blow.  It’s not a bad place for that.  That trip occurs in late-September.  I hope you’ll join us for these adventures.

Thank you again.  I very much appreciate your time and interest.

Arrivederci!