Mt. Etna loomed steaming above Catania, which may, or may not, be a World Heritage site. We didn’t have time to explore. We had a bus to catch, a ferry to board and as it turned out, a date to meet Francesco in Pozzallo, though neither he nor we knew it at the time.
Despite what the schedule implies, ferries don’t leave from Catania in the winter. Instead you must get yourself to Pozzallo on the southern tip of Sicily. The bus slowly left the shadow of Etna, traveling through endless orange groves, fields of mustard and just blossoming almond trees, into dusty square towns with square houses where no one either got off or on. Eventually we reached Pozzallo but the port was still a good three miles away.
While Connie waited in a park with our belongings, I hiked to the port for ferry tickets. On my way back I met Francesco, a retired teacher in his late 60s, who offered me a lift. He took us and our luggage to a restaurant nearer the port where he and I drank coffee while Connie searched for birds.
Like the walrus, Francesco spoke of many things: how it was our destiny to miss yesterday’s ferry so we would meet; “men’s talk,” penis size, getting older, body hair, erections and other embarrassments before he had to leave. I wonder is that’s what all the men talk about with their cigarettes at the cafes. We stayed on for dinner, the restaurant empty except for the staff, all family it seems, who argued their way through bowls of pasta, plates of seafood and carafes of wine.
While we waited for the ferry to cast off I read the Virtu Lines magazine. They volunteered several ferries to evacuate refugees from Libya during the uprising and to act as a hospital. Our ferry, which was built in Western Australia in 2010, used its superior speed to outrun pirates as it transited the Red Sea. There was even a photo of the decrepit pirate ‘mother ship.’
The crossing to Malta was two hours of rockin’ and rollin’ in rough seas. We didn’t get sick, just barely, but many others weren’t so fortunate.
When we finally arrived we learned that not all pirates operate on the high seas; some drive taxis! They were demanding 20 euros for the five-minute drive to Valletta. Connie dug in her heels to wait them out and we found ourselves alone in a dark parking lot in a strange city with no idea where we were or where we wanted to go. A woman and her daughter took pity and drove us to the Hotel Phoenicia, out of our price range but near enough to the old city to walk. And with the help of the receptionist we found an alternative and negotiated a rate more to our liking. In Malta for less than half and hour and we met pirates and two Good Samaritans. What’s not to like?
