In high school, and even more so in college, I became interested in Existentialism. I read Camus—“The Stranger,” “The Plague,” his essay “The Myth of Sisyphus,” and other writings. In college I read some Sartre, Kierkegaard, Nietzsche, and took a class on a Spanish writer, Miguel de Unamuno. What spoke to me about these writings? I suppose they reflected back to me some of my own developing ideas about the world and my place in it.
I grew up in a family and community of immigrants, refugees from Communism, and survivors of the Holocaust. Like many tight knit communities, we were sheltered and insulated from most people who were not a part of it. We were dissuaded from risk, understandably, and from stepping outside of our, or rather our parents’, comfort zone of safety. We were raised with fairly strict guidelines and admonitions about the importance of following religious and insular community rules. To me, it always seemed like the emphasis was on what one couldn't do, rather than what was possible. As I read the works of Camus in particular, I was introduced to the idea of freedom, and of individual responsibility. That one could be a member of a human community, like Dr. Rieux in The Plague, have deep compassion for others, yet be free from religion. I learned in The Myth of Sisyphus that life could seem absurd—in fact, was deeply absurd—but you could still participate in it fully. The Myth of Sisyphus and Jean Paul Sartre’s play “The Flies,” which I read in college, were based on Greek myths, another passion of mine. In The Flies, Sartre uses an ancient story to call the French to action against their Nazi occupiers during World War II. But at its heart, it's also a call to action to overcome cowardice. To choose freedom, to claim personal responsibility and power over the rules and strictures of a society that insists on conformity. For me, a young man forming an identity and trying to break free from an overwhelming sense of responsibility to parents and teachers, and what I thought they wanted, as opposed to what I wanted for myself, these writings were revelatory. The reason these thoughts came to mind is almost silly. I was walking this morning in the city of Brindisi, my departure point from Puglia and southern Italy. Having completed my ride for now I took the train here from Lecce so I could figure out what comes next, and also hopefully visit a beach one last time. As I was walking, it seemed as though I was being followed by a swarm of flies. I would wave them away, they would return, ad infinitum. I couldn't figure it out, until it became apparent it was garbage day. Yellow bags of trash and brown buckets of compost lined the narrow streets where I was walking. In Sartre's play, flies plague the Greek city of Argos as punishment from the gods, or rather, as a reminder to everyone in the city that their King Agamemnon was murdered by the current rulers, and that they held some responsibility for it. I won't go into all the details—not everyone's a nerd about this stuff like me. Eventually, the flies transform into vengeful goddesses called Furies when the children of Agamemnon, a man named Orestes and his sister Elektra, kill the rulers (one of whom is their mother). In this telling of the ancient story (2500 years old at least), the Furies hound the “sinners,” yet only have power over them when they allow themselves to feel guilty for what they’ve done. Okay, I know this is getting complicated, but stick with me. You see, all of these themes come together for me on this bike trip, and others I've taken before. Riding a bicycle long distance, especially when I am physically or psychologically challenged, provides me with a sense of power, of individual freedom, an opportunity to test myself against my own or other’s ideas of what is possible. I can see where riding a bike for a month as a grown man may seem absurd to some, but to me, it's joyous and a celebration of life. Every year that I've committed to, and then planned, these adventures I look forward to them. From the moment I conceive of them to the moment I set off pedaling into unknown and often challenging experiences. And yet, almost as soon as my wheels start turning, actually way before if I'm being honest, I start feeling guilty. The Furies find me and pursue me throughout my journey. Sometimes I can evade them for shorter or longer periods, but they always return. Why do I feel guilty? That's a deep and complicated question, with many facets that I won't go into in this writing. But the feeling stems, I believe, from those messages of childhood as to what one owes others, or what you believe you owe others, versus what you owe to yourself. Of course, one has obligations to others—that is undeniable. But the sticky part that is important to me is, what do you owe to yourself? I tell this following story because I think it's funny, but also illustrative to some degree of what I deal with internally. I know these trips upset my 94 year old mother. She worries about me, of course, still. When I told her I was going on a trip a few weeks ago, she said “You want to go to Europe instead of visiting me?” She said this in all seriousness, but I couldn’t help myself from laughing. And so in my heart, despite myself, I think: Should I be doing this? Why aren't I “X”? X being: visiting my mother, working, helping with chores, saving money, being a husband, father, son. All legitimate of course! And, this is what the Furies whisper when they find me. The character of Orestes in The Flies—and again, it's more complicated than this, but this is my take away—begins his moral development with the idea of freedom as “freedom from,” a young person's idea of freedom. Maybe this is what appealed to me when I was younger. I wanted to be free from my parents, from my religion, from college (I dropped out and joined the Army, which solved all those problems temporarily in one fell swoop). Orestes finally moves toward a “freedom to,” a freedom to act and impact the world based on his convictions. And without a debilitating sense of remorse, which is why the Furies have no power over him. That “freedom to” is what I'm still working on. Tomorrow, I take the train to Venice. I was planning on a beach day today in Brindisi, but the weather has turned, so today its a cafe and writing day instead. North of here, there has been torrential flooding in central Italy, caused by “rain bombs,” another impact of global climate change. I was going to bike in Croatia along the Dalmatian Coast next, but they are expecting rain there as well. Instead, I will start biking in France a little earlier and for longer than I had planned. From Venice, I'll take a train to Paris, pick up a bicycle there, then make my way south to a town called Nevers, along the Loire River Valley, roughly 200 kilometers east of Orleans. That’s where I’ll meet Margaret in a little over a week, and we'll get to ride together for a while in central France before heading back home. Hopefully the Furies won’t find me. Ciao for now.
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This afternoon I arrived in Gallipoli, a 60 km ride from Guagnano, where I stayed the night. Gallipoli means “the beautiful town” in Greek. There is more than one Gallipoli in the Mediterranean. An infamous battle in WWI was fought in Turkey, at the Gallipoli Peninsula, and memorialized by a movie with that same name. This Apullian Gallipoli is right on the Ionian coast, looking west from the heel of the Italian boot.
I am looking forward to dinner tonight. Today, after a modest hotel breakfast, I feasted on cookies, a cheese and tomato slider, and a couple of cans of iced tea that I bought at a market somewhere along the way. Was it Nardo? Atypically last night, I didn't have dinner. The place I stayed at was far from any restaurants, so I walked 20 minutes to a grocery store, picked up a pear, a bag of mixed nuts, and a bottle of wine. That's how I wound down for the night. But that was an anomaly. I've had wonderful meals here in southern Italy. Restaurants typically don't open until 7:30 or 8pm. I'm usually so tired by that time that I'm the first person in the door. “Solo?” is the question that greets me. “Si, solo,” I say with downcast eyes and an embarrassed shrug. I know the implication of this response. I will not be seated in a prime place outside overlooking a beautifully lit church, or with the rest of the gathering patrons, but in a dark corner inside the restaurant. The food and service will still be wonderful. But as a solo diner, I can't take up a prime spot that would be reserved for a couple or family. Totally understandable and completely fair. When I order, unless it's pizza, I rarely know exactly what's going to arrive but I'm never disappointed. When I ask for descriptions of the menu, I don't entirely understand the responses. But I nod vigorously and give the okay sign to indicate my approval. I've learned that most people in Sicily and southern Italy speak very little or no English, and I of course speak virtually no Italian. We both whip out our phones to use translation tools. But often we just pretend to understand each other and it mostly works. In other places in Europe I’ve visited, there has not been this much of a language barrier. The town before Guagnano was Manduria, known for the type of wine they produce called Primitivo. The glass I tasted was red and sweet but not cloyingly so. I loved Manduria, even though it did not stand out from the other Apullian towns I’ve visited. There was still an old central district, baroque churches, piazzas, bars and restaurants. When I arrived on Sunday, I just parked myself on a bench in one of the squares and watched life unfold—groups of older men gathered in clumps, some on bicycles, some in front of the church and scooters or in wheelchairs; laughing teens met their friends; little kids ran their scooters through the piazza; and young mothers with shopping bags caught up with each other's news. The truest meaning of a public square! There was some event that was being prepared for in the piazza. Chairs were set up, lights and sound systems, trucks, police and safety officers overseeing the proceedings. Then a stage backdrop and a floor were installed. What appeared to me to be some kind of a dance competition was going to take place here this evening. More and more people gathered. I left to get a pizza and a beer around the corner, then came back as the event got closer. I took a seat and waited with anticipation. As the minutes passed, I started to get the feeling that this was less of a competition and more of a recital. It was a dance school putting on a performance of their students, many of them children, and the people in the audience were family members and friends—probably everyone in this town except me! I felt a bit self conscious as I looked around as the seats were filling, and stood up to give my spot to someone who clearly was there for someone she knew, perhaps a grandchild. I migrated to the back and waited, watching the Mandurians greet each other, looking for the best seats, moving to the loud music starting to blast from the speakers, while the bells from the nearby church laid down an accompanying arhythmic beat. The performance finally started at 8:45pm (on a school night!) and it was a blast. There must have been over 500 people there of all ages. The light show was astounding. The sound and production was professional, and the dancers were ready for their moment. I stayed long enough to watch a young woman perform. What I gathered was an anti-Mafia dance, including posters of Mafia dons that she tore from a poster board, the tune from the Godfather playing in the background, and a final display of the message, “Mafia kills.” Afterwards, I reflected on how I felt both a part of, and separate from, this community in a part of the world I've never been to before. Of course I know what it's like to cheer on your kids at a dance recital, gather with your friends to kibbitz and enjoy each other's company. But there was enough of a strangeness to the setting—the culture and the language—for me to feel different, other, out of place and it was unsettling. Yet totally enjoyable and unforgettable! Okay, let me take a step back about six days. When I left Sicily for Apulia, I found a company that would not only rent me a bicycle but also help me figure out where to ride, tips about where to stay, what to eat, stay safe, etc. They provided me with a GPS device loaded with the tracks and destinations for each night—something I could not really have done on my own as I realized during my ride in Sicily. For the most part, this has been a great experience. Each day I ride about 40 miles or so mostly on low or no traffic roads and back ways with a charming Apulian town as the destination for the evening. I've stayed in Locorotondo, Alberobello, Grottaglie, Manduria, Guagnano, Gallipoli tonight, and Lecce, the “Florence of the South,” tomorrow night. I’ve biked past miles of olive groves, vineyards, distinctive stone structures called trulli that look like they are from a Dr. Seuss book, beautiful jade and azure beaches. And, I've also navigated through confusing traffic riding narrow winding Italian roads and around roundabouts, past mounds of garbage and rubble, abandoned and burned out cinderblock structures, chased by dogs, and rolled over roads that you would need a four-wheeler to traverse. The landscape was sometimes so alien that a deep feeling of foreboding and loneliness would sometimes overtake me. Even though I knew that I could rely on the GPS tracks that had been created just for me, I couldn't help feeling sometimes that perhaps I was lost, and worried that if something were to happen to me, who would find me? (Silly, since I had my phone with the contact of the bike rental with me.) The sun beat down so hot and hard that I had to stop constantly to drink water. And though normally I would be very conscientious about bringing food, like energy bars or trail mix, I've not been careful about that here, simply because it's not been convenient to find familiar items and packaged foods. I try to grab an apple or croissants at my daily free breakfast but that has not been enough. Once early on, I was feeling very depleted and lightheaded. I rode past a tree that smelled of sweet decay and heard the buzzing of bees. I turned around to see what it could be. There were ripe, partially opened fresh figs on a tree by the side of the road. Some of the fruit had fallen and was rotting at my feet. I grabbed a fig from a branch and popped it in my mouth. Delicious, instant energy. I grabbed a few more and devoured them. My spirits revived and I kept riding, refreshed until the next town. It happened again the next day. I began keeping a lookout for the distinctive leaves of the fig trees dotted along the roadsides. After a couple of days of riding, slow but steady, I started entering wine country. Vineyards, miles and miles of them on each side of the road. Some white but mostly deep purple, or even blue grapes dangled in thick, shining clusters everywhere. Again, I felt like I needed some sugar in my blood to keep going. But this was different. The fig tree seemed like public property. These grapes were clearly a commercial enterprise. But I couldn't help myself. I stopped, parked the bike, and snatched a cluster of blue orbs. They were small, not all ripe, but I devoured them like a hungry animal. They were so good! I can't remember eating anything so delicious. Even the bitter seeds that got caught in my teeth sustained and delivered me. I felt guilty about the theft. But I pushed those feelings aside in the interest of survival. And in fact, I did the same thing again each day thereafter. Never worrying that I'd run out of food on my rides again. Well, the sun is starting to set over the sea, and the wind has picked up. I'm writing this at a busy outdoor cafe, sitting solo, but they don't mind here. I’ve got a prime spot to watch the sun set. Another day and a half of riding for me through Apulia. Not sure yet what is next. I have a little time yet to decide. Whatever it is, it will be good. Ciao. Leaving Sicily and starting the next leg of my trip was a multi-step process. First I had to return the bicycle rental from Ragusa to Siracusa, make my way to Catania, fly to a city called Bari in southern Italy on the Adriatic coast, in a region called Puglia (also known as Apulia), take a train further south to a coastal town called Monopoli, then a bus to another town called Locorotondo, where I would pick up the next bike and routes for riding through Puglia. Whew!
Taking trains in Italy has been relatively easy and inexpensive. I have an app from Italy's nationalized train system, Trenitalia. I punch in the start and end points, it gives me the timetables, and then I pay through the app for an e-ticket. To get from Ragusa to Siracusa to return the bike, a trip of about two hours, was less than 4 euro, about $4. On most regional or intercity trains in Italy, there is a dedicated area where you can easily place your bike in a holder, a couple of seats where you can park yourself next to the bike, and a place to charge your phone or e-bike if you have one. Very simple. When I got to the train platform in Ragusa, a small, picturesque, and tourist-centric town, I was waiting for one of those nice modern regional trains with the bike section. Instead, what arrived was a very small, two-car train covered in graffiti. I confirmed with one of the conductors that this indeed was the train to take to Siracusa. I hauled the bike and panniers about three feet up to the center of the train and looked around for where I could park it. The only logical space was right where I was standing—in the entrance way. Which was also the exit way. As the train started filling up, the conductor came by and started speaking to me in a very animated Italian. He seemed upset. He was motioning that I needed to move the bike out of the entrance, an entirely reasonable request. I tried for quite a while to navigate to a tiny space in the back of the train, which even if I could get get it there, would not be large enough for the bike. I pulled and pushed, lifted and twisted, but I couldn’t maneuver my bike through the narrow aisle. He indicated that if I couldn't move the bike out of the entryway, they couldn't leave the station. I could see we were both frustrated. If I took the next train, I'd be cutting it very close with the my next departure to Catania, and then flight to Bari. After consulting with the other conductor, the two allowed me to stay where I was. I agreed to situate the bicycle so that it had as little impact on passengers entering and exiting the train as possible. That meant standing and balancing myself and the bike through the two-hour train ride and pushing it back and forth, maneuvering around and with people bringing luggage backpacks, prams, and other bulky items. As passengers got off and on the train, it got so full at one point (remember there were only two cars) that the entire entryway was crammed full of people and luggage. My nose was practically touching the train door like you see in videos of people in the Tokyo subway system. I shared the entrance way with a family of four and a very large baby stroller; a couple with two electric scooters; and a hiker with an enormous backpack. So much for keeping the entrance way clear. Every time someone wanted to get on or off the train, a great shifting had to occur. Like one of those puzzles where you have to move tiles on a board to get them in numerical order. I was the last one off the train. When we made it to Siracusa, I walked the bike back to the rental, about 2 km, as riding in the streets was too risky, something I learned on the way out of town five days ago. The trip to Bari was rather uneventful. Even air plane transportation is relatively inexpensive and easy within the EU. I flew Ryanair which is one of several carriers,like Easyjet and Whizz Air, that connects cities throughout the European continent. The one somewhat unnerving aspect to flying with Ryanair is the last minute gate announcement and sometimes gate changes which leaves me on high alert until I'm actually on the plane. Also, and I'm not sure if this is just an Italian characteristic, but exiting aircraft is what I would imagine it's like being at a Who concert, if someone were to set off a fire alarm. No one is going to politely wait for you as you attempt to get your carry-on luggage and enter the aisle. You basically have to shove yourself into the stream. Come to think of it, that's how Italian street traffic works too. After Modica and Ragusa, the Sicilian hill towns I visited, the loveliest place I've been to so far has been the port town of Monopoli. I got in late and stayed in Bari overnight before I took the train to Monopoli, only about 45 minutes away. Monopoli sits right on the Adriatic, with thriving fishing and port industries. It's not a super touristy place I gathered. That may be because there's an even more picturesque seaside town to the north, called Polignano a Mare, that draws more people. But still, Monopoli has some nice beaches, beautifully painted blue and red fishing boats moored in the harbor, a charming old town with Baroque and Romanesque churches, and as everywhere in Puglia, great food and wine. I stayed at an Airbnb not far from one of the beaches. I decided I would get up early the next morning to catch the sun rise over the Adriatic. I got up at 6:00 and started making my way to a landing overlooking the water. But parked in the main narrow thoroughfare was a truck with a crane-like hoist and a group of workers installing enormous art pieces, representations of old computer technology like floppy disks and joysticks, on the wall of the ancient fortress overlooking the sea. Aside from the workers, there were a few people out who had the same idea as I did. It was mostly quiet near the water. Some people were walking along the shore below me. Some towns people were out, perhaps walking to an early job. I watched the colors of the horizon gradually transform, from grey to blue and pink. In the story of The Odyssey, which took place in relatively the same area I was now, or at least not far, Homer repeatedly refers to the “newborn rosy-fingered dawn emerging out of the sea.” I watched as gradually a sliver of sun rose out of the horizon, out of the sea. It was thrilling, something I'd never actually witnessed, at least not in this way. There were a few fishing boats far off in the distance. The air was quiet as “rosy-fingered dawn touched the sky with blossom.” I could hear the water below lapping gently at the rocky shore, and the sea birds sounding their calls. All of a sudden, the sputter and growl of an engine came to life maybe 100 yards away. The sound was jarring and incredibly loud. It came off and on in sustained rhythms. I looked behind me to see where it was coming from. There was an outdoor cafe with white awnings catering mostly to tourists right behind where I was standing. Someone was out there with a power washer cleaning the sidewalk and preparing the place for the morning crowds who were soon going to come looking for coffee and pastry. I tried to tune out the sound, but to no avail. I had to laugh at myself. Here I was, conjuring up Homer and romanticizing the sunrise. Something the cafe owner, the fishermen out on the water, and the workers installing the art pieces on the wall had seen as often as, well, the sunrise! They had to earn their living, maybe taking little or no notice of this commonplace event. I on the other hand, was stepping outside of my own routines, and my own common places—work, my home in St. Louis Park, my relationships with family and friends—and seeing things others see every day in this space but with a different lens. I suppose we can attempt this, no matter where we are—to experience what we have seen and experienced a thousand times before, with new ways of seeing and perceiving. Today, I had an awesome ride through fields of vineyards and olive groves, fig trees, and past stone trulli. More about that next time. Ciao. My time in Sicily is coming to an end. I'll visit one more hill town, Ragusa, not far from Modica, which is where I'm writing from. Modica is known for its baroque churches, its unique chocolates, and winding streets where centuries-old buildings the color of sand rise on surrounding hillsides.
I arrived yesterday and checked into my place, a cross between a hostel and a simple hotel, showered, washed clothes in the sink, and went out exploring. I was tired from my day of riding, so the steep stairway climbs and the half bottle of wine I had for dinner made for a short night. A couple of highlights here included the Duomo of San Giorgio, seemingly being held aloft as you approach it by a garden of fragrant flowers and greenery, as if it had been planted in the center of the garden. And the other highlight, as it has been in every Sicilian town I’ve visited, is the evening promenade when everyone, visitor and local, gather on the streets to meet friends, walk their babies in strollers or have a drink or bite to eat in one of the seemingly endless trattorias spread around the center of town. I have grown to love this nightly ritual. Of course I find myself in this space as observer rather than participant, sometimes a bit envious at being a stranger. But it is such a delight to be in the midst of these gatherings. Although I don't understand the words people are saying, and it is the case that I have rarely heard anything but Italian the entire time I've been in Sicily, I do understand the casual pleasure people are expressing being in each other's company. This ritual seems to be so ingrained in the life and culture here that I can see perhaps why, at the beginning of the pandemic, Italians were hit so hard, likely refusing to isolate themselves from each other. Many of the women on these evening strolls wear colorful dresses, jewelry, beautiful shoes or sandals, their hair and nails done. I imagine they PREPARE to leave the house. This is a casual affair, but it is taken seriously. The men are not quite as fastidious, but still their attire is appropriate for the occasion. Especially if they are with wives and girlfriends. And these promenades are noticeably multi-generational. Older couples walking arm-in-arm, teens gathering in bands, parents pushing prams, young couples holding hands or embracing on the sidewalk. It's really so lovely. I feel somewhat a voyeur. But I prefer watching these human interactions to admiring the baroque architecture surrounding it all. I really had no idea what Baroque actually meant, but it is apparently an attempt by the Catholic Church to kind of one-up the Protestants by making their buildings and churches look gorgeous. And I guess I see that reflected in the care and effort Italians put into looking really good, whether it's on the streets or on the beaches. Yesterday morning as I started my journey to Modica, I left the beach town of Marzamemi, situated on the Ionian Sea side of Sicily. It’s a tourist town, but for Italian tourists. I was under the impression that I was the only non-native there until I checked out of the hotel. The desk clerk introduced me to an older gentleman wearing an Italia baseball cap. He asked me, in a distinct Bronx accent, where I was from. He said he had had a girlfriend who was from Minnesota when he was in college in 1968. He'd left New York to study Veterinary Medicine at the University of Bologna, partly to escape the Vietnam War. His grandparents had founded and owned the Hotel Celeste. We chatted for awhile. This was the first and only conversation in fluent English since I'd arrived in Sicily. Leaving Marzamemi, I again had to rely on Google Maps, which took me through the nearby town of Pachino. Like Noto, I had to move through extremely narrow streets that were not at all rideable on my bike. But after that, I found myself on almost car-free stretches of coastal road, past garden-fronted villas on the way to Pozzallo, another coastal port town known for its Blue Flag beaches. It was getting close to noon and I was really hot and drenched in sweat, aching to get into the water. Cars had stopped all along the road, with people getting out and walking down to the sandy beaches, toting colorful umbrellas, floats and towels. I finally arrived at my beach of choice Spiaggia Pietre Nere, or “Beach Black Stones.” I locked my bike, rented an umbrella and a lounge chair, and spent a couple of hours floating in the sea. I thought about my time here on this beautiful island of Sicily. I've loved the towns, the lively people, the history, the delicious food. When I first got here, I went to the town of Taormina on a day trip to see Mount Etna and, while walking the uneven steps of an ancient theater, trying to get a picture of the smoking mountain, I lost my footing, stumbled, and tweaked my back so badly I had trouble walking to the bus to take me back to Catania. I thought my trip was over then. But after an additional day of rest, ibuprofen and gentle stretching, I was able to ride—not as much as I would have liked, but enough to give me a sense of that freedom that bicycles give you. What has been most challenging has been the overwhelming heat during the central hours of the day. It has not really been possible to ride for very long before being waylaid by the sun. Luckily, I've been able to find the sea when I've needed to cool off. My other great challenge has been riding on the roads here. The route I've put together has more often than not taken me on a number of perilous roads, narrow or no shoulders, sometimes navigating roundabouts in the stream of traffic with cars and motorcycles. It has felt chaotic and unsafe. Precisely what I had intended to avoid after last summer's ride in the western states. So I feel ready to change scenery and try a different route. After I leave Ragusa, I'll take the train back to Siracusa, drop off the rental, and take a flight to Bari on the mainland. From there I'll start a tour of a portion of Puglia in southern Italy. Puglia, or Apulia, is where the heel of Italy's boot is. I'm still formulating that plan but hope to have something pulled together by the time I arrive there, hopefully with more peaceful and temperate riding. All for now. Thanks for reading. Arrivederci Sicilia! I posted this entry on Facebook a few days ago, and wanted to make sure to archive it for the blog.
What a day! Last night I had a job interview via Zoom at 10pm local time, so of course I had 3 espresso drinks and was awake for most of the night. Arranged for my bike rental the next morning. Nice guy but he spoke no English and I speak no Italian. We muddled through and the bike is pretty ok, although changing gears sounds the way I imagine changing gears on a John Deer tractor sounds. The sun was beating down so hard! Got on the road around 10:30am. Someone reminded me Sicily, especially the south coast, is closer to Africa than the European continent. Getting out of town was just insane. You have to basically shut down your reasoning brain on Italian roads and go with instinct. Continual leaps of faith. Finally got on the mapped route. No trails anywhere as I had assumed, all narrow roads. At least no trucks, just tiny cars, scooters, and motorcycles. But no shoulder. The sun beating down reminded me of Albert Camus’ The Stranger, one of my favorite novels. Pursuing the main character, Mersault, relentlessly, oppressively. No shade. Stopped along the way for a Fanta and realized I had left a lock behind so had to make a detour to a nearby town. How would YOU pantomime a bike lock? Finally figured it out and back on the road. Piles of trash everywhere, mingled with the scent of someone cooking a sauce, perhaps with garlic and undefinable herbs. Made it to a beautiful blue-green beach. Splurged on an umbrella and dipped myself in the Mediterranean, floating in the salty sea, buoied by it, the sun shining on my face, this time without malice. Families, young couples, older couples, beautiful women, fit men. I stayed until the wind picked up, then got back on the road, wiping the sticky sand off my feet and legs before settling into the rhythm of the road. The traffic was sparse, the Med was on my left, a gorgeous mix of jade and turquoise and white-capped waves. I was headed for a hill town called Noto, south of Siracusa. I flipped back and forth between my GPS app and Google Maps, finally settling on Google because it was easier on my eyes. As I got closer to the town, I noticed wild dogs on a hill to my right, and on an embankment to my left. A few started trotting down the hill towards me, barking and snapping. Instinctively, I started barking back, loud and with an edge of fear and anger. They backed off and I pedaled away as fast as I could. Google told me to get off the main road and climb a hill. The pavement turned to large rocks, then gravel, then a single track through woods. I’d been through this with bike directions from Google before. Cursing myself for falling into that trap again, I turned around and got back on the main road, and finally made it to Noto. Imagine a beautifully preserved town, known for its baroque architecture, narrow winding cobblestone streets, many of them at a perilous incline, and many of them only big enough for one car to pass safely through, and then imagine me trying to ride safely in that same road but instead tipping over, causing consternation and alarm among the local populace. When I picked myself up and walked the rest of the way to the place I was staying, I considered seriously cutting my ride in Sicily short and finding a new route in Europe, somewhere, anywhere. But after I checked in, drenched in sweat, salt, and sand, I took a long hot shower, washed my clothes, got a bite to eat and a couple of glasses of local vino bianco, then took that evening stroll Italians make along the main thoroughfare and decided to give it at least a couple more days before altering, again, the route I’d chosen. Tomorrow is another day, and another leap of faith. Ciao. Eisenhower famously said, “Plans are useless, but planning is indispensable.” And Alfred E. Neuman said, “What, me worry?” A few days ago, I was wrapping up my final prep for a bike trip I’d been thinking about since last summer: biking across flat, established trails along some of the rivers and coastline of Europe. I planned to avoid the blistering heat and dangerous roads I had experienced during my ride in July 2021, from Astoria OR to Jackson WY. Back then, I’d run across a mysterious biker outside of Yellowstone who told me he’d worked for the TSA and been instrumental in the establishment of some of the security practices after 9/11. I thought he was pulling my leg, especially because his name, which I can’t remember now, was Rick Danger, or something ridiculous like that. But, he was retired and riding the Great Divide Mountain Bike Route across the country. He regaled me with the pleasures of biking from the Atlantic to the Black Sea on EuroVelo 6, an inter-continental ride that followed the Loire and the Danube through Europe. I was star-eyed! I sunk my teeth into that idea and did not let it go.
After leaving my job in June, I had even more time to plan my trip. I would start at the end of August, after the busy tourist season ended in Europe, and when the heat would have somewhat dissipated, and ride through the beginning of October. My planned route was riding along the Po river, in northern Italy, from Milan to Venice. I would visit some of the famous cities along the way, like Verona and Padua. From Venice, I would ride to Trieste, on the eastern-most border of Italy. From there, down the Istrian peninsula, through a sliver of Slovenia and along the coast of Croatia, island hopping along the way, to end my ride in Split or Dubrovnik (the town that was used for the location of King’s Landing in the show Game of Thrones). The more I thought of it, the more fantastical it sounded. I couldn’t pull that off, could I? As the time grew closer, the more nervous I became. I planned everything to a T, but still I felt uncertain. I joined forums on Facebook, did tons of research, including on Italian language web sites, downloaded GPX files for my routes, honed my packing list down to about 15 pounds. Margaret agreed to join me for one of the legs in France, along the Loire, so I found plane and train info, made reservations, emailed bike shops in Europe. And more. Because my route was going to be “mostly” flat, I decided to bring my single speed bike. It was light, easier to disassemble and assemble, compared to my heavy touring bike. I would need to have it boxed up so I could bring it as checked luggage on the airplane. I was flying into Milan and would begin my weeks-long journey there, riding south to Pavia to get on the EuroVelo route that would take me to Venice. As the time grew closer, I nervously watched the weather in northern Europe. The beautiful rivers I had planned to ride along were drying up! A heat wave and drought were devastating Europe, and there were uncontrolled wild fires consuming the country side in France and Spain. I had dealt with wild fires last year, in my ride through Oregon, Idaho, and Montana, and remembered the devastation I saw then. Did I want to go through with this ride now, with the climate wreckage I was reading about? Maybe the only time to ride in the future will be in January! But, I was committed and hoped things would turn out OK. As the final weekend before my trip approached, I did some last minute assessments and final checks. My bike had been boxed by a local bike shop I trusted, Perennial Cycle in Uptown. They did a great job, and provided me with the information I’d need to re-assemble it when I got to Milan. Tools? Check! Bags? Check! Routes? Check! I wanted to double-check the dimensional requirements for luggage on Delta. The site was confusing, many permutations based on where you were going, the type of ticket you have, etc. I finally found something that looked useful. Oversized bags could be brought on board, but they had to weigh less than 50 pounds and be 80 linear inches at most. They would also cost $300 for international flights. This was not at all what I had thought or expected! My box was about 105 linear inches. And there was no way I was going to pay $600 for a round trip ticket for my bike! I frantically called Perennial and asked what I could do. They gave me some suggestions for bending the box, reconfiguring the packaging etc. I tried but it seemed like I was trying to perform Origami with a huge cardboard box that contained steel and rubber! I didn’t understand how this could happen, but I also didn’t want to to dwell on it, so I immediately shifted my thinking: I would rent when I got there, something I’d done on a previous European bike trip, with pretty good results. The vision I’d had for so long would have to shift, but that was OK. In some ways I’d have more flexibility, not having to cart my bike around everywhere, and instead just rent when I got some place. The day before I was to leave I started checking the weather in Milan. It did not look good, the long drought was turning into 10 days, at least, of rain and thunderstorms. Now, when I prioritized what I wanted to get out of this journey, at the top of the list were sun and riding along rivers and sea. I was not going to be able to do that for some time if I stuck to my plan. And I was not about to change the schedule. I began searching for alternative destinations and found a region in southern Italy called Puglia, and the islands of Sicily and Sardinia. Minimum rain, lots of coastline, and lots of sun, but no rivers. I kept those options in my pocket in case the weather forecast remained fixed for Milan and northern Italy. I got to the airport on Sunday afternoon, said good bye to Margaret, and headed to my gate, still planning, obviously, to fly to Milan. When I checked in and spoke to a gate agent, I mentioned my frustration about the bike I was going to bring along with me. How did others bring bikes overseas with an 80 linear inch limit? She did some searching for me and explained that I had been looking at information about standard luggage. You are allowed exceptions for sports equipment, packed in sturdy containers, that had a limit of 115 linear inches, and there was no extra charge. My heart beat just a little faster, thinking about how I’d panicked, and what a dumb mistake I’d made. But then, I recovered and realized that it was OK, perhaps for the best, to rent instead of ship. My flights were uneventful. When I got to the Milan international airport, I did a final check of the weather. Rain and thunderstorms for the foreseeable future. I got on my phone and found a cheap flight ($43) leaving in a few hours from Milan to Catania in Sicily. I booked a hotel on my phone, and just like that, all my planning went out the window. It felt freeing I have to say, and also scary. I was going to bike along the eastern and southern coast of Sicily for at least a week and see how the weather shaped up in other parts of Italy after that. The rest of the plan would come together, whenever it would come together. I had faith that things would work out, one way or another. When I arrived in Catania, very late, I caught a cab to my hotel. The experience was comical. I tried to tell the driver where I wanted to go using Google Translate. He had no idea. I showed him the place on a map. He got out of the car to talk to other drivers that were sitting on the curb. Some yelling and hand gesticulations ensued, and finally he motioned for me to get in the taxi. When I got there, almost midnight, his credit card machine didn’t work. We finally sorted out payment (about the same as I paid for my flight from Milan to Sicily!) and I settled in for the night. Today, I had a lovely breakfast at the hotel, run by a husband and wife in a renovated apartment, more like a B&B than a hotel. I wandered the streets of Catania, looked for a SIM card, had some grappa (much stronger than I thought, luckily I was not biking today), and did a little sight seeing. After some false starts, I found a great bike rental place tucked into a shabby side-alley. The proprietor, Frederico, could not have been nicer. He gave me tips about where to ride, commiserated about the inefficiencies of the public transportation system in Sicily, and gave me a great deal on the bike rental. I will return in a day to pick it up and start my journey south to the ancient city of Syracuse. Tomorrow, I will visit Mt. Etna, a still-active volcano, and a small town to the north, Taormina, by bus. All for now. Arrivederci! |