Felicità!

It was the massive lava lake of Congo’s Nyiragongo that initially lit the fire. This obsession with volcanoes has kept us going for over 40 years now: hiking crater rims and peering in disbelief into the abyss whenever the opportunity arises; crawling on all fours with sharp scree cutting into our flesh; sliding down wet slopes with every step up without seeing a thing through the fog; sniffing sulphurous fumaroles; listening in awe to thunderous rumbling as rocks the size of cars get catapulted into the night sky, which we could only vaguely discern in the dark. The closest we have ever come to red-hot lava flows was while watching Kīlauea erupt from a safe distance and behind fences. We wished we had brought binoculars. But we hadn’t.

But finally, FINALLY, Sicily’s Mamma Etna delivered! She is always more or less active and as it happens she was wide awake when we were around. The opening act arrived with flashes of lightning and ear-splitting thunderclaps. Hailstones came clattering down on the black lava like jewels from a broken necklace. It set the tone for everything that followed. The skies cleared, and a massive all-terrain Torsus Praetorian vehicle hauled us from base camp across steep old lava fields and rough gravel tracks to where Mamma Etna was once again busy fertilizing her slopes. Our young guide was every bit as excited by the spectacle as we were. He kept shouting, “Guys, we are so lucky! You don’t know how lucky you are!” But we did know, and we only wished we could have stayed much longer…and a bit closer.

But Greeks, Romans, Arabs, Normans, Spaniards, and ultimately the Sicilians themselves were equally vying for our attention. Braving the brutal heat, we do believe we paid our dues. After Taormina, Siracusa, and Palermo, it was high time we returned to mainland Italy. Neither Scylla nor Charybdis could keep us from paying our friends-in-residence a visit.

Guy and Deborah welcomed us with hugs, kisses, wine, and swordfish pasta into their cozy abode nestled among 300-year-old olive trees that still yield premium oil each year. We retired for the night with Vinnie parked just around the corner at the foot of an ancient Saracen stronghold on a hill overlooking the village of 450 inhabitants, among them our friends. We swung our rear doors wide open to let the balmy night air drift in and slept the sleep of the gods. The next day blossomed like an Calabrian dream, beginning with “cannelloni alla Calabrese” among a zillion other goodies at breakfast and ending with seafood in Tropea, “Borgo dei Borghi” (Village of Villages.) In between lay the Garden of the Gods above a secluded private cove to which Debby held the key, and a drive in a 22-year-old cabriolet that made me feel like an over-the-hill movie star. Everywhere we went, Deborah was stopped by the locals for a hug and a chat, and another hug. And tomatoes, and red onions, as a gift. Aaah, la dolce vita!

After all of these glorious moments (Grazie mille, Deborah and Guy!!!) we hit the road again ,”Felicitá” blasting through the speakers, on our way to our next stop: Pompeii.