Arrivederci, Mrs. Scuderi

We decided to blow out of Syracuse a day early—we had seen what there was to see, and had a long drive to our next planned stop, so we thought we’d break it up with a night and day in Palermo.  Alec also found out that the Palermo soccer team had a game on the afternoon of the 6^th (afternoon games are not so common), and we thought it would be fun to go.  Javier Pastore is the franchise player, and Barça had negotiated—unsuccessfully—to get him.

On the way we stopped in Enna for lunch, at La Trinacria.  (The trinacria, a three-legged figure, is the symbol of Sicily).  Enna sits atop a very high hill, which made it the only interior town in Sicily for a long, long time—its location made it very difficult to attack.  The restaurant is unassuming and the food terrific.  Alec and I shared papardelle with pistachio pesto, and raviolini filled with eggplant , artichoke, and ricotta salata and sauced lightly with pomodoro. 

The good thing about changing travel plans at the last minute in a place like Sicily in the middle of winter is that it’s not too hard to find a place to stay.  We found an apartment with an adjoining room in an old palazzo—the Palazzo Conte Federico—that was both the most expensive lodging of our whole trip and a steal at 150 euros.   When we rang the bell, the massive front doors swung slowly open so that we could drive into the courtyard.  Nicolo, a charming young man, met us and showed us our rooms in a 12^th century tower.  Skins and pieces of armor hung on the walls, and the furniture was mismatched and old, but it was warm, well-equipped and comfortable.  Nicolo had stocked our tiny kitchen with juice, milk, coffee, cookies, and water.  He invited us to come up to his apartment when we were settled.

We walked across the courtyard and up the steps of the other size of the palazzo—the 15^th century side.  Nicolo answered and said, “Welcome to my home.”  It turns out that it’s his family’s palazzo—they have inhabited it since it was built 500 years ago.  He gave us a tour of the rooms, which featured original hand-painted beamed ceilings, murals, murano glass chandeliers, and a lot of old weapons.   Niccolo grew up there and still lives in the palazzo with his brother and parents (who happened to be at the beach villa just now).  Mom is Austrian, a soprano, and a triathlete; Dad is a Formula One racer.  Each has a trophy room in the palazzo—I suppose you can do these sorts of things when you have a title.

We ate dinner at a restaurant called Sant’Andrea.  We had to walk through Palermo’s rabbit warren of streets to get there.  The streets were dark and I found it easy to get disoriented, as can happen in medieval areas that were not built using a grid.  Palermo is an in-your-face kind of place—loud, dirty, pushy, a little threatening.  And then, tucked into the middle of a neighborhood with nothing else signalling that it’s a nice place, sits a lovely little restaurant.  Sant’Andrea bustled quietly.  We had heard that Sant’Anrea excelled at fish.  Everything on the other diners’ plates looked great.  Unfortunately, I ordered wrong.  The fish of the day was mackerel—not my favorite—so that eliminated a few choices on the small menu. Alec and I shared an appetizer tasting plate, which had some good things on it, but I ordered bucatini with bottarga, and it was just too fishy for me. I should have had the risotto. We also ordered grilled beef for the kids—trying to switch things up from their twice daily pasta meals—but they hated it.  And they were tired.  Alec really liked his sea bass, but the rest of it was a bust.  The magician who wandered from table to table bought us a little time, but once we found out there was no more chocolate cake, for the kids, we knew it was time to skedaddle.  I ordered a cannoli with the check, not wanting to leave my research unfinished.  Creamier than the ones I’d had in Syracuse, the ricotta cheese studded with tiny nibs of dark chocolate.  Really good.

By the time we trudged home, after getting the kids a gelato fix on the way, my nerves were frazzled.  I was starting to feel worn thin from the travel, and from the 24/7 family time.  Alec knows me well.  By the time I finished doing “grumpy time” with C.C., he had already run me a hot bath.  I sank down into it with the New Yorker and didn’t come out until I was pretty sure the kids were asleep.