I took a trip to Sicily with a friend who lives in Zurich and speaks Italian. I was going for work, she joined because she loves Italy and why the hell not. We would have had a fabulous time no matter what. Her Italian turned the jaunt into something special.
A longer bit on Sicily and Syracuse and Ortigia to come. For now, a trio of meals, the first being breakfast on her apartment balcony.
Some bread and cheese — because Switzerland — and a delicious coffee she made. Quiet. Calm. Easy like a (Swiss) Tuesday morning, yeah.
We hop an Alitalia flight to Sicily via a four-hour layover in Rome. Some thread of the Alitalia union tapestry was on strike, so the lounges were closed. My friend suggests, "Why don't we pop into Rome?"
We get in a taxi, she does the talking. About 45 minutes later, the taxi drops us off at The Vatican.
We stroll. It's lovely. Perfect Roman getaway.
We get in another taxi to visit the Spanish Steps, arriving at the base of a monument left empty by Covid. (This was late 2021, Roman authorities forbade gatherings on the steps.)
Hunger joined us on our sojourn with plenty of time before our next flight. I needed a package of masks to carry on in Italy, so we found a pharmacy near the steps and my friend asked the pharmacist if we could find a good meal in the area. I had no idea what was being said, but I recognized the universal "Ah! Sì sì sì" that meant we'd get our wish.
I buy my masks, we depart. We headed away from the main drag, then we headed away from anything except alleyways just wide enough for one little Italian car to squeeze by the cafe and restaraunt tables occupying a third of the street.
We find the spot — one we probably wouldn't have found without the recommendation, one we definitely wouldn't have waited for a table at without the recommendation.
Well. That pharmacist knew about good food.
The service was quick. The aperitifs were wonderful. The food was stellar.
It was time for the airport.
I call an Uber, it arrives with haste. In Italy. I mean, this is an usually good day. Maybe not Ice Cube's January 20, 1992, but still worth writing about.
Back to the airport in plenty of time and on to Sicily. We spend a couple of hours in the back of a car, shuttling to the resort where I'll do my work for a couple of days and my friend will enjoy the pool and explore the countryside. But before then, it's late and we're hungry once more, so we order room service.
I gotta say, telling room service, "I'll just have water and a salad," never looked, nor tasted, so good.
The day contained no major events. I don't remember the flights, I barely remember the airports and shuttles. I remember The Vatican for being big, the Spanish Steps for being empty.
What I'll never forget was the journey — a serene, sensational day on the move — and the friend who made it possible.
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