The Horsegirl Ate Herself a Horse -- Catania, Sicily

I'm starting this post from a small cafe near university square in Catania, Sicily.

I'm drinking a refreshing glass of latte di mandorla. My psoriasis would prefer I not drink this sugary almond drink, but it's better than coffee and everything else on the menu.

Dear Sicily,

Not everyone wants granita and brioche and cappuccino for breakfast. Some people want bacon. And eggs. And avocado. Could you get on that, please? 

Oh yes, and you should probably stop making your gelato look so good. It's not fair. 

Love, 

Aimee

It's nine thirty, so Catania still believes it's early. Well, tourists in Catania still believe it's early. All local Italians go on holiday in August, so most of the people strolling down Via Etnea are the comfortable shoes wearing tourists and the stylish Italians from northerly regions (probably escaping the flooding in Liguria). And the loud, obnoxious, stereotypical Americans who gasp about finding a Levi's outlet on the main shopping street. 

"Bet those pants cost 50 dollars here." 

"No, dude. Like, 50 euros." 

"Euros, yeah. That's way more expensive." 

"Dude." 

I've long since been desensitized to the fact that no matter where I go (except perhaps Albania), I cannot escape American culture. It pervades everything with its bad coffee, fast food, film, music and cowboy hats. It's amusing and a wee bit embarrassing to watch the amazement of my fellow citizens and realize that I was that person. 

Oh well. We're all the person. At some point. I wonder what kind of person I am now and what kind of person the me of ten years from now will think about the me now? 

She'll probably think, "my goodness. That girl needed to calm the f*ck down." 

Catania is hot, hot, hot. I thought Calabria was roasting, but Catania takes roasting to a whole new level (the nearby volcano gives the heat a sinister edge). It is bustling with dark, skinny legs wearing short shorts, shirt skirts and short dresses. Tube tops, tank tops, hats and sunglasses. People carry their bags in front of their chests to stave off pickpockets and march in and out of shops like Zara, United Colors of Benetton and more makeup stores than I imagined possible. Although I stand by the decision I made to not wear makeup or fancy clothes until I don't need them, I do catch myself gazing wistfully through the windows and imagine my face with a touch more mascara and floating along in a swirly summer dress. 

Which just means that I still need them and should learn to be happy with my sarong and my natural face. Learn to be happy? Ummm... no, I think I know how to be happy. I just need to allow myself to be happy. Yes.

My host picked me up from the train station at 22:00. During my wait, I listened to podcasts on lucid dreaming and finished reading a fabulous fantasy by Neil Gaiman. I was also hit on by a middle-aged man whose phone I'd asked to borrow. It always bemuses me to be asked out for drinks by strangers who can't even ask you out without using google translate. I imagine sitting at the bar and tediously explaining my "occupation", why I can't drink beer and "days how many until depart you".

This is the worst kind of small talk. It's just so blatantly clear the conversation is not their top priority. Whilst conversation is usually not the top priority on "wanna have a drink with me?" dates, I do appreciate some manner of charade.

Even though I was still in the "curl up into a small ball and pretend I'm drinking chocolate milk at my family's house with our two adorable puppies within arm's reach" mood, I told my host I still had a bit of energy and wouldn't mind going out. Because he spoke decent English and I anticipated good - great conversation. 

I gave Michele a quick yoga lesson the next morning, after which he dropped me off at the city center with advice to visit the fish market. His fridge was remarkably empty (just a bit of booze, water, and four cherry tomatoes), so I purchased a hunk of cheese to nibble on as I meandered between stalls of wide-eyed fish, enormous eggplants and many different shades of tomatoes. 

Then I wandered. Wandering without Ellie makes me feel lighter than air. And feeling lighter than air felt better yesterday than it had the day before. 

We all have monsters. Monsters that rear their heads on different occasions... summoned to the surface by various events. I'm sick. I'm tired. I'm lonely. These feelings of fear, physical vulnerability and emotional stress have shifted my focus from the fulfilling to the things that leave me drained. So. I need... to be gentle. To shift my focus to being healthy. To the little things that fulfill me. God, my life is so, so full of the little, fulfilling moments. Life is so satisfying.

The elephant is the symbol of Catania. The sculpture created the original lava statue as neuter. However, Catanians took this as a personal insult on their virility. So... umm... the sculptor was forced to attach proper sized asserts to assuage their wounded pride.

Damn sea archers.

Latte di mandorla is amazing, by the way. If you're in Sicily, try the latte di mandorla. Drink cappuccino in the morning when it's relatively cool, and drink creminos in the afternoon when it's boiling. 

And if you're in Catania... try the horse. 

Yes. 

The horsegirl went and ate herself a horse. At least half of one (Michele ordered a vast amount of cavallo. He was probably compensating for the four cherry tomatoes). 

And this horsegirl has to acknowledge that horse... horse is delicious. If horse was as easy to obtain as pig, it could very well be a staple of her diet. 

"MY GOD, I will never look at horses the same way," I said as I admired the gigantic horse meatballs and cut into a piece of horse steak. 

After consuming so much large, majestic quadruped, this shamed "I love horses and think they taste divine. I can do both, right?" vagabond returned with Michele to his flat and took a nap. Half a horse sitting in your gut has the tendency to induce immobility. 

Upon waking from my nap and feeling the cavallo settled and quiet, Michele and I mounted his motorcycle and drove about 40 minutes to Taormina. Our plan was to meet his friends who would lead us up a secret entrance into a castle to see a concert from backstage (back castle) 

His friends discovered that the secret entrance was very even-handed. It favored no one with its secrets. We ended up trekking up steep, rocky hills through thorny underbrush in the dark (in my flipflops and sarong. I was unaware that thorny underbrush awaited me in Taormina) for over half an hour before Michele's friends admitted defeat and went to get drinks. As Michele and I had already spent over two hours in the touristic city center, we thought it a better idea to mosey on home. 

Don't wear sarongs on motorcycles. Just don't. I maintain that sarongs are god's gift to travelers, but they are not god's gifts to bikers. I may or may not have flashed half of Sicily on the 40 minute ride back to Catania.

Unless you want to flash half of Sicily. Then by all means, tie on your sarong and have yourself a merry little motorcycle ride.

We'd planned a morning yoga lesson in Michele's kitchen, but Southern Italians don't believe in 7:00 am (unless it's that time when they're hitting the snooze button). When all the "I just woke up" text messages were received, I decided to just put Michele upside down and give him a massage. 

Which is always good.

And now I'm at the cafe. Waiting to meet my next host at the train station in a little over an hour. 

My 33rd bed. 

My self-loathing monster has quieted down a few decibels, but my fear monster is still raging rampant. My body just hurts... all over. And this fear monster makes me want to be in a place that feels safe. 

And as much as I love traveling and strangers and couches, safe still feels like Grand Junction, CO. Safe still feels like Janet's hugs and Cathy's random, extremely helpful medicines and my mom's chicken broth.