Day 1: Catania

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February 22, 2008: Santa Maria La Scala, Italy

Three thousand feet above Sicily we began our final descent. I should see Mount Etna. I should see the sparkling Mediterranean gently rolling in. I should see what I'm flying here to see. Instead, I'm asleep. The captain's voice over the intercom woke me and I caught a glimpse of Mount Etna as we prepared to land. We touched down in Catania, at 4 a.m. as far as my body was concerned, without incident. I assembled my bike and headed for Santa Maria La Scala, fifteen miles away.
No, back up.
Coming from the States there was a layover in Rome. On arrival in Rome I started having a suspicion, as various conversations went on around me which I could not understand in the least (despite having studied Italian a little before I left), that this trip was going to be a lot harder than I had initially thought. For some reason I felt that everything was going to go sideways. Call it a gut feeling, call it an omen, but whatever it was was entirely accurate.
Finally, I landed in Sicily: land of beauty. Rich history, ancient ruins at every turn, quaint medieval villages--a proud and cultured past awaited me. Excitement and anxiety filled me as I walked out of the airport to catch my first real glimpse of what Italy has to offer. I lifted my sleep-deprived head to take in all the beauty I'd been promised, and I see... what looks like south Philly. Needless to say, my first impression was less than stellar. But this is a big city, I thought to myself. All big cities are going to look somewhat similar. Once I get on the road it'll be different.
Before beginning I checked my maps and the directions I wrote down before boarding. All seemed to be in order as I headed down the road I knew to be Via Fontanarossa. To be certain I conjure my best Italian and ask someone--I was right. The intersection where I knew I had to turn right held an anomaly: no road sign. Oh well, roads around airports are rarely marked, and I knew this was the right way. Coming to the next intersection I noticed the same thing and began to worry. Nowhere in my travels that first day did I see any road markings. Asking for directions was a bit of an ordeal as well since very little English is spoken in Sicily, at least to me. At best I picked up a few words, then just nodded and said "si" as they explained where to go. This didn't happen very often as even when I moved to the sidewalk to ask one of the passersby where I was, there was still a sense of "ohshitoshitohshit" as cars whizzed by.
Italy is certainly not the place to decide to brush up on road etiquette. Being introduced to Italian traffic while riding a bike is akin to learning how to swim in shark-infested waters. With no shoulders, catus-lined walls abutting the road, no discernible rules being observed, being told by everyone I asked that the highway is a perfectly safe place to ride, and warily listening to that advice briefly (someone get me off!), I started to feel that Sicily was trying its damnedest to kill me. But I would not succumb to its threats and obstacles. So instead I committed suicide, I hailed a cab.
Having the cycling section of this trip shortened by a few months, I hailed a cab after I found myself, somehow, back at the airport. There were lists printed on the poles outside the airport that gave a general price for transportation to certain destinations. Being the savvy traveler that I am, I consulted this list before asking any cab driver how much it would be to Santa Maria La Scala and my campground. Sixty Euro was a whole lot more than I wanted to spend on the first day, especially considering I brought 200 Euro with me to start, but I was desperate and I really had no choice. I strolled up to the only cab in the area that looked like it could hold my bike and asked how much it wa to my destination, "Sixty Euro," he said. Thank god, I found an honest one. So we loaded up the bike and headed out. He helped me with my Italian along the way. We had as good a conversation as we could--he didn't speak much English and I don't speak much Italian.
From above, Catania is a maze of windy alleyways and narrow streets (unmarked no less), none of which seem to go in a straight line or follow any sort of pattern. As the twists and turns continued throughout the ride, I start to become convinced that the end of the journey was going to result in a minotaur. While the driver wove through traffic like a Formula One racer, I sat, white-knuckled, clutching the armrests for dear life. To my relief we ended up at the campsite, minus the minotaur, and I looked at the meter--80 Euro. I began to grumble about traffic and a fast meter, but this was interrupted by the cab driver's voice, "90 Euro," he said. What the hell? He now informed me, not having stated beforehand, that the bike was 10 extra.
Arguing with merchants, or a cab driver in this case, is, at the very least, an uphill battle. They're usually quick-tempered, quicker-tongued, and things escalate easily. This man was a rare treat though. He still possessed all of these traits but I had no idea what he was saying. It's like watching a movie with the sound down: you can make up whatever words you want. "My you look good today," he would say to me. "What a friendly and decent human being you are."
What little English he spoke before was completely nonexistent now. Arguing with someone is bad enough, but arguing on someone's home turf when you don't know the rules and have to resort to hand gestures is even worse. The last thing I wanted was to try and explain this to the police, so in the end I had no choice but to concede. I paid the 90 Euro--half of the money I had brought to cover the first few weeks--and checked-in to the campsite.
Camping La Timpa, nestled in a nature preserve and brimming with citrus and palm trees, overlooks the Mediterranean and its rocky volcanic coast. The tiny fishing village of Santa Maria La Scala lies down the hill, while Acireale, a bustling city of 50,000, rests above. The scenery surrounding the campsite, and the fact that I finally made it there, was enough to make up for the faceplant this trip took right from the start. Anxiety still filled my thoughts, and I didn't truly appreciate the scenery surrounding me, but knowing that I had a place to sleep for the night certainly alleviated some of it. I called my mom to let her know how things went and how concerned I was about the rest of the trip. She reassured me that we could work through it. Just to hear someone familiar, and to know that my family was there to help any way they could eased my mind. I fell fast asleep at six that night, and didn't wake until seven the next morning.

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