 Rich goes undercover to investigate rumors new owners are modernizing Triana's Bar Santa Ana. If you ever happen to be down on your matrimonial luck, you’ll be glad to know that Íñigo Lopes is standing by to help. Well, not exactly standing, as he’s been dead for 520 years, but Sevillano friends tell me that if you kick the side of his tomb, you’ll be married within the year. How Íñigo became associated with marriage and good fortune is anyone’s guess. The guy was, as far as I can discover, not only single but singularly unlucky, and his final resting place has suffered a series of what I can only call grave misfortunes. It all started in 1493 when Christopher Columbus was leaving Puerto Rico and asked the king to give him, as a tribute, a young man to serve as his “assistant” (meaning slave). The king, possibly misreading the nature of the position, gave him Íñigo, his own son. Back in Spain, the young man was baptized a Christian, acquired a nobleman as his godfather, and entered Seville’s San Francisco convent to become a friar. Later the nobleman invited Íñigo to live with him, showered him with gifts, then made advances of a very frisky nature. Íñigo objected strenuously, and the nobleman killed him. Yikes! Like I said, not a lucky guy. In a fit of remorse, the nobleman had Íñigo buried in a magnificent but secret tomb in Santa Ana, the main church of Triana, then a separate city but now part of Seville. Three centuries later workmen discovered the tomb, and the church put it on display. In no time a legend sprang up that if you kicked the tomb you’d soon be wed. As you can imagine, the ancient tiles have taken quite a beating. Eventually, exasperated church officials installed a low railing — but placed it just close enough that if you really stretched, your toes could still make contact. I’ve never actually kicked Íñigo’s tomb myself — one husband is enough for me! — but I drop by occasionally to admire the tilework. On a recent visit, I was shocked to discover the grave has been moved from the wall to the floor and given a thick plexiglass cover and painted base. Another token barrier has been installed, but as you can see from the orange chip in the black paint, that hasn’t deterred local hopefuls.  Church officials are getting more serious about protecting Íñigo Lopes' tomb. This shrine makes a weird kind of sense in Santa Ana’s church. Ana was Jesus’ grandmother, Mary’s mother, and is the patron saint of unmarried women, those hoping to get pregnant, moms, housewives, and grandmothers. Her enormous church is filled with statues of holy females, from Ana to medieval martyrs to Seville’s own Saint Angela of the Cross, canonized in 2003. Some say the remarkable amount of respect for females can be traced back to the city’s legendary founder, Mesopotamian goddess Astarte, who for 3000 years represented Mother Nature, fertility, and carnal pleasures.  As a fertility goddess, Astarte is often shown naked. The saints in Santa Ana's church are far less risqué, of course, but the cult of the sacred female is remarkably vivid there. Maybe that’s one reason the church is so popular. In these secular times, 72% of Spanish Catholics rarely attend mass. But Santa Ana still draws crowds, not only for Sunday services but as the launch point for activities such as Holy Week processions and the spring pilgrimage known as the Rocio. Another reason people flock to the church of Santa Ana is that it has its own bar.  At left is Santa Ana's 13th century church; to the right is the Bar Santa Ana. OK, it’s not officially part of the church, but Bar Santa Ana stands directly across the street, serving those going to, coming from, and avoiding religious worship. Everyone meets there, often to celebrate milestones, and during its 110 years, the photos on the wall have become the family album of Triana. For nearly 60 years José Cárdenas stood at the bar, serving up classic dishes such as colo del toro (tail of the bull), tortilla de españa (potato omelets), and thinly sliced jamón (ham) along with ice cold beer and a friendly smile.  José Cárdenas congratulates a couple on their wedding day, 2015. So you can imagine my shock and horror when I read last week that the bar was sold to a hospitality company from the city of Cadiz and had been “tastefully redecorated.” “Is nothing sacred?” I exclaimed upon hearing the news. “What can we expect now? Chrome chairs, plastic menus, and avocado toast?” Downtown Seville has all too many soulless corporate eateries serving 27-euro hamburgers and refusing to provide tap water by claiming it’s unsafe (no it’s not!) in order to make customers pay for bottled beverages. To think this blight could spread to the heart of Triana was almost too much to bear. Fearing the worst, Rich and I dragged ourselves across the river to check out the “improved” Bar Santa Ana. We could not have been more overjoyed at what we found. The new owners are a lively young couple, María from Barcelona and American-British Benjamin, who hired a Sevillano named Saul as manager.  Manager Saul Cruz Palomino with owners María Sanz de Acedo and Benjamin Dalton. “The papers got all the facts wrong,” María confided cheerfully as she placed a couple of cold Cruzcampo draft beers on our table. She and her husband have carefully preserved the character of the bar and happily showed me around the old photos. “This one’s from the 1940s,” Benjamin said. “You see the boy at the right? He’s around seven. That same guy was just in here. He’s a bit older now, of course.”  Bar Santa Ana in the 1940s The former owner, José, lives across the street and drops in often; I saw him collecting a drink from the bar when I arrived. The atmosphere is as welcoming as ever, but naturally, the new proprietors have made changes. The bathrooms had their first comprehensive makeover since they were spruced up for Seville’s 1992 World Expo. The false ceiling is gone, revealing a wonderful crazy-quilt of old wooden slats high overhead. And while sticking to classic dishes, the menu now features more fresh ingredients. Rich and I felt we owed it to my readers to do a taste test and ordered a local delicacy called carrilladas. These are pig cheeks that have been lightly braised then simmered for hours in port wine with onions, peppers, thyme, and bay leaves. “Carrillada is a melt in your mouth, get up and dance, and smack yourself in the head for not having eaten this earlier type of food,” says my friend Lauren on her recipe blog Spanish Sabores. “Yes, it is that good.”  Carrilladas arrived on Seville's culinary scene in the 1970s and became an instant classic. Lauren is so right, and I have to say, having sampled carrilladas all over Spain, those at Bar Santa Ana are the best I’ve ever tasted, tender enough to cut with a fork and bursting with flavor. Far from being ruined, the bar is better than ever. Whew! Luckless Íñigo Lopes may not be allowed to spend eternity in peace, but I am sleeping a little easier these days, knowing Triana’s iconic bar hasn’t been sacrificed to the modern gods of tourism and globalization. Do we have St. Anne to thank? Maybe Astarte is still keeping an eye on her city, making sure we pay homage to life’s sensual delights, starting with hot pork cheeks and ice-cold beer. Whoever deserves the credit, I say amen!  The walk to the church and bar of Santa Ana from downtown takes around 18 minutes. WANT MORE OUT TO LUNCH POSTS? This story is part of my ongoing series about visiting offbeat towns in the city and province of Seville, seeking cultural curiosities and great food. DISCOVER MORE PLACES TO EAT IN SEVILLE LEARN MORE ABOUT MY 2023 NUTTERS' WORLD TOUR AND THE GREAT MEDITERRAEAN COMFORT FOOD TOUR Now an award-winning Amazon best seller WANT TO STAY IN THE LOOP? If you haven't already, take a moment to subscribe so you'll receive notices when I publish my weekly posts. Just send me an email and I'll take it from there. enjoylivingabroad@gmail.com Be sure to check out my best selling travel memoirs & guide books here. PLANNING A TRIP? Enter any destination or topic, such as packing light or road food, in the search box below. If I've written about it, you'll find it.
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 Rich checking out Utrera's Consolation Park When I learned the town’s name meant “a place frequented by vultures,” I have to admit my enthusiasm dimmed a little. Vultureville? Really? However, my current project, “Out to Lunch,” involves visiting offbeat towns in the city and province of Seville, seeking cultural curiosities and great food. As I soon discovered, Utrera offers these in abundance. The town is a pleasant half hour’s train ride from the city of Seville, and the moment I arrived, I was impressed by the vibrancy of the street life. On this crisp, sunny morning everyone was out: shoppers with bulging bags slung over their arms, dog and babies enjoying their morning promenade, old men on park benches swapping tall tales about youthful exploits. Cafés stood on just about every block, the smell of coffee and toast wafting enticingly from the doorways. “I can resist everything but temptation,” I said, steering Rich into one appropriately called Primera Parada (First Stop).  Coffee in Primera Parada Over coffee, I pulled out my phone to review my notes on Utrera’s ancient buildings, newest archeological discovery, local cult, promising restaurants, and main culinary claim to fame: the sweet mostachone. “What do you want to see first?” Rich asked. “Let’s just wander,” I said. We spent hours strolling about, admiring elaborate Baroque doorways, medieval churches, spacious parks, well-groomed apartment buildings, and the complete lack of litter or graffiti. Whenever we found ourselves near one of the places on my list, or saw an interesting public building with an open doorway, we popped in for a look. The sign below made me stop in my tracks. “The people of Utrera, in memory of the mortal victims of Covid-19, especially those who died alone. Utrera, 31 March, 2023. In this building was the vaccination center, where dozens of thousands of Utreranos received the vaccination that made the end of the pandemic possible.” If this was an American town, that sign wouldn’t have lasted a single day without being covered with graffiti and controversy. The Utreranos, on the other hand, know how to count their blessings.  Meanwhile, Rich was on the lookout for mostachones and spotted a pastelería that had been making them since 1880. The baker offered me a free sample, asking, “Brown sugar or white?” I went for the gusto with brown sugar. I sank my teeth into my first soft, delicately sweet mostachone and bought half a dozen more so I could continue my selfless research. All in all, Utrera was a comfortable, friendly town with nary a vulture in sight. Unless you count the nefarious leaders of the disgraced cult. I was astonished that I’d lived in Seville nearly two decades and had never heard the lurid story until I began researching this outing. You might want to put the kettle on; it’s quite a tale. Back in 1968 some Utrera schoolgirls (allegedly) saw the Blessed Virgin in a tree. And 23-year-old accountant Clemente Domínguez Gómez saw his opportunity. At the time, hardline faithful were disgruntled over Vatican modernizing, such as prayers in the local language and women attending mass (gasp!) bare-headed. Heresy, declared Clemente. After getting a renegade Thai bishop to ordain him, he was struck blind but went on to proclaim himself the true pope, excommunicating his Roman Catholic counterpart, canonizing the dictator Franco, and claiming frequent religious visions. Followers with deep pockets financed a spectacular church in the nearby village El Palmar de Troya. Soon thousands lived in the Palmarian Catholic Church compound, attending mass in Latin and swearing off alcohol and TV. Women wore head coverings and ankle-length skirts and were encouraged to have as many babies as they could, ten or more if they could manage it. Soon word leaked out that the whole enterprise was (surprise!) a hotbed of illicit sex, brain washing, and money laundering. Scandal followed scandal. A particularly juicy one occurred in 2016, when the third Palmarian pope, Ginés Jesús Hernández, denounced the sect as a hoax and took off with his girlfriend, former Palmarian nun Nieves Triviño. Next they posed nude for a magazine cover. Later they were convicted of breaking into the cult’s compound carrying weapons and lockpicks, and of assault for brawling with two Palmarian bishops who caught them. I couldn’t make this stuff up.  Ginés Jesús Hernández and Nieves Triviño posing beneath a headline calling her the "Mata Hari" of the Palmarian Church. Rich and I discussed trying to visit the cult compound. But it required being “decently dressed” and acting like I wasn’t aghast at the whole set-up, and I wasn’t sure I could pull it off. In the end, we decided to skip it. “The group is not what it was,” a man in Utrera told me. “It is losing power, money, and members.” Well, thank heaven for that. In more cheerful religious news, archeologists are beside themselves with joy now they’ve proved a ramshackle building in downtown Utrera is a rare 14th century synagogue. It’s on Calle de los Niños Perdidos, the Street of Lost Children, so called because the building later served as an orphanage, and babies were often left on the doorstep. You can’t go inside, but you can stand on a barstool and peer through a crack in the door to glimpse the interior. If these walls could talk… Of course, there are lots of walls with secrets in this 5000-year-old town, as Rich and I discovered in the medieval crypt of Santiago Mayor. A guide took us underground among old tombs and dusty heaps of architectural elements removed during nineteenth-century renovations. “At that time workmen uncovered three mummies inside this wall. You can’t photograph them, but you might like to see?” He flung back the curtain with a flourish. I didn’t even try to sneak a shot because A) I’m a good citizen, B) it was really creepy, and C) I figured, rightly, I could find a photo online. As we were leaving, the man in the ticket booth asked, “Going to lunch? Because I know just the place for you. It’s right around the corner. My wife makes the tapas there.” Mentally tossing aside my own list of restaurants, I said, “Perfecto.” And it was. El Ambigú was the kind of modest place you could easily overlook, but it had great food and a nice view of a little plaza. The waitress, pleased to discover we lived in her home town of Seville, nodded approvingly as I ordered merluza (hake) in roasted pepper sauce, and bacalao dorado, salt cod with scrambled eggs and onion garnished with matchstick potatoes. — one of my favorite comfort foods. A little girl got up from a nearby table, carefully carrying a napkin full of meat scraps and placing it on the ground for a skinny gray cat. Many European cafés treat stray felines as vermin, but our waitress smiled at the cat, telling me, “We’ve adopted him.” I don’t know why vultures are said to frequent this locale, but I can tell you why it appeals to me. A few years ago Rich took an eight-week university course on happiness and said it all comes down to this: gratitude and helping others. I like the way Utreranos count their blessings and take time to show kindness to stray cats and random visitors. And that makes Utrera my kind of town.  Utrera (population 51,229) can be reached in half an hour by train (roundtrip tickets cost around $10) car or bus. I WON'T BE POSTING NEXT WEEK For the next few days I'll be busy buying turkey, organizing games, rearranging furniture, and visiting my wine merchant. After that, I'll be recovering on the couch. I'll be back posting the first week of December. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! STAY TUNED FOR MORE OUT TO LUNCH POSTS! LEARN MORE ABOUT MY 2023 NUTTERS' WORLD TOUR AND THE GREAT MEDITERRAEAN COMFORT FOOD TOUR Now an award-winning Amazon best seller WANT TO STAY IN THE LOOP? If you haven't already, take a moment to subscribe so you'll receive notices when I publish my weekly posts. Just send me an email and I'll take it from there. enjoylivingabroad@gmail.com Be sure to check out my best selling travel memoirs & guide books here. PLANNING A TRIP? Enter any destination or topic, such as packing light or road food, in the search box below. If I've written about it, you'll find it.  They say "What happens at Ozama stays at Ozama," but I am about to tell you all about my visit. I’m not saying the experience left me scarred for life, but my first visit to Seville’s Casa de la Ciencia (House of Science) was sufficiently unnerving to make me bolt out the exit, shuddering and vowing never to return. This was in 2012, when I’d just started this blog, and I went directly home and composed a post titled “The Little Science Museum of Horrors.”  Casa de la Ciencia in 2012 “The main hall is filled with exhibits that look like they belong in the laboratory of a mad scientist,” I wrote. “Yes, those are stuffed armadillos, and the jars hold baby armadillos, a clutch of bats and a chipmunk, suspended in some viscous liquid. Egad! Moving on...” The setting — the gorgeous Peruvian pavilion built for the Ibero-American Exposition of 1929 — provided an incongruous backdrop for a collection that just kept getting more and more grisly. Birds on a slab with toe tags, like corpses in an avian morgue. A buzzard with its beak scotch-taped shut. “Torture?” I mused. “Gang initiation gone wrong? A warning to others not to talk?” A rare Iberian lynx lay with its eyes sewn shut, surrounded by skulls. The whole creepy atmosphere soon sent me fleeing, with Rich hard on my heels. I spent the next decade trying not to think about Casa de la Ciencia, but then last year I learned the museum had been completely revamped. Like kids daring each other to visit an old house rumored to be haunted, Rich and I egged each other on. We should go. It was a museum for kids. How bad could it be? Last Thursday we finally ventured inside.  Casa de la Ciencia in 2023 The House of Science 2.0 turned out to be far less horrifying than the original (admittedly a low bar) but curiously challenging to navigate. Giant plywood models of crystals, life-size reproductions of whales and their skeletons, enormous photos of poisonous insects, and a fake cave at the head of the basement stairs all jostled for attention. Much of the floor space was devoted to huge posters with simple graphics and lots of academic verbiage. Science was never my best subject, and this was like walking around inside the pages of my high school science textbook, if all the topics were jammed at random into a single, mind-numbing chapter.  Being a good sport, Rich volunteered for the photo op at the crystal exhibit. “Let’s start upstairs, with the Antarctic exhibit,” I suggested. It was a subject that Rich has been (let’s call it by its true name) totally obsessed with ever since he read about Sir Ernest Shackleton’s ill-fated yet inspirational effort to cross Antartica in 1912-1915. Shackleton’s ship, Endurance, was crushed by ice floes, and the story of how he kept his men alive, rowed a tiny boat across the stormiest sea on the planet, and mounted a rescue operation reads like an edge-of-your-seat thriller. The museum’s Antarctic exhibit, on the other hand, managed to suppress any hint of drama. It gave the impression of being written by career scientists who had secured government funding, traveled south, collected a bunch of specimens, turned in reports, and headed off to the corner bar for a round of well-earned cervezas. There were tiny models of the base camp, an emergency suit for survival in the coldest place on earth (-144 Fahrenheit on a brisk day), two penguins, and a handful of bones and shells. Even Rich couldn’t find reason to linger.  Artifacts from Antartica. The creatures floating in jars brought back memories of my first visit to the museum. After touring the other exhibits, Rich and I descended into the basement to view the mineral collection. There were allegedly 200 specimens, but I can’t confirm this because somewhere around rock #35, my eyes completely glazed over.  To be fair, not all the rocks displayed were quite as exciting as this specimen. As we stumbled back upstairs I said, “Take me to lunch or lose me forever.” Knowing we were likely to need some serious recombobulation after any visit to Casa de la Ciencia, we’d already planned to visit one of Seville’s most delightful eateries, Casa Ozama. Where the House of Science was intended to stimulate the mind, Ozama was a feast for the senses, and I, for one, was ready to indulge. Luckily for us, getting there required nothing more strenuous than a 14-minute walk across gorgeous Maria Luisa Park.  Maria Luisa was the princess who gave the vast pleasure gardens of the Palace of San Telmo to the city for a public park in 1893. (Thanks for that, Your Highness!). The park’s centerpiece is the Plaza de España, a romantic curved building designed as headquarters for the 1929 Expo and used as a film location for such movies as Lawrence of Arabia and Star Wars. During the time I’ve lived here, the plaza’s delightful little moat has been fully restored, so you can row around it if you’re feeling energetic. I prefer to stroll past it to the far side of the park, where Casa Ozama awaits in a magnificent 1912 mansion. There was a huge amount of buzz when Casa Ozama opened in 2021, during the waning days of the pandemic when nobody was 100% sure we should be dining out at all. The attitude seemed to be that if we were going to risk our lives in a restaurant, it might as well be here, in this gloriously over-the-top homage to the pleasures of life. Tenderly escorted to a table on the second floor beneath an enormous smokey mirror, Rich and I settled in, opened our menus, and began discussing our options. At the back of the menu they’d printed the restaurant’s motto: “What happens in Ozama stays in Ozama,” apparently to offer additional encouragement to excess. As if any more were needed. After some serious discussion we agreed to begin with the cogollo a la brasa, grilled lettuce heart topped with a sauce of avocado, chicken, and parmesan cheese. After that the sea bass from Conil de la Frontera topped with salsa sanluqueña featuring the manzanilla (fortified wine) for which the port of Sanlúcar is famous. For a side dish, we were curious to try the boniato al carbon, charred sweet potato. To accompany the meal we’d have a simple white verdejo wine. But before any of that appeared, we were presented with a complementary dish of pâté de foie gras to alert our taste buds and tummies that something wonderful was about to happen. It was easily the best meal I’d had in recent memory. “Why don’t we eat here more often?” I asked Rich in a haze of post-prandial bonhomie. “The prices.” Ah, yes. You’ll have gathered Ozama is not dirt cheap by Seville standards — although if we were in New York or San Francisco, we’d have easily spent the same amount just going out to breakfast in a diner. (See the menu here.) The cost bracket encourages us to view the restaurant as a place for special occasions; until now, we’d always been there for birthday celebrations and business dinners. Today, it had provided a safe haven in which to recover our equilibrium after the return visit to the House of Science. And that, for me, was absolutely priceless.  STAY TUNED FOR MORE OUT TO LUNCH POSTS! LEARN MORE ABOUT MY 2023 NUTTERS' WORLD TOUR AND THE GREAT MEDITERRAEAN COMFORT FOOD TOUR Now an award-winning Amazon best seller WANT TO STAY IN THE LOOP? If you haven't already, take a moment to subscribe so you'll receive notices when I publish my weekly posts. Just send me an email and I'll take it from there. enjoylivingabroad@gmail.com Be sure to check out my best selling travel memoirs & guide books here. PLANNING A TRIP? Enter any destination or topic, such as packing light or road food, in the search box below. If I've written about it, you'll find it.  Behind me, in the red frame, you can see one of the stars who hung out here at Casa Curro in Osuna: Peter Dinklage who played Tyrion Lannister, aka the Imp, in Game of Thrones. “Good writers borrow,” said Oscar Wilde. “Great writers steal.” I don’t claim to be a great writer (that’s for future historians to decide, and I probably don’t want to know which way they’ll vote). But the instant I read about an expat writer who occasionally hopped on a train simply to visit another town for lunch, I said to Rich, “Brilliant! I’m stealing that idea!” I decided to start with a small but mighty metropolis an hour from Seville: Osuna, named for the osos (bears) that once roamed the surrounding forests. Sadly, the trees were all felled long ago to build Spain’s legendary armada, and the bears, to which the Spanish nobility had exclusive hunting rights for centuries, have been teetering on the brink of extinction. Happily, osos now have protected status and show signs of making a comeback. .  Not all Spanish bears are adapting seamlessly to modern life. Humans had to remove the plastic bin from this one's head in Léon. These days Osuna is pretty much bear-free, but it still has a lot to offer, thanks in large part to the lavish spending of one Juan Téllez-Girón. His grandfather had been given the town a century earlier (it’s how they said “thank you for your service” back in those days). When he inherited the title and the town in 1531, Juan decided to put Osuna on the map by attempting to create the largest and most dazzling display of Baroque excess ever seen. Did he succeed? Many believe he did. Baroque’s breathtaking flamboyance, theoretically a reflection of the glory of God, was actually invented to lure Catholics back to the True Faith by eclipsing the sober message of the Protestant Reformation. You have to wonder what Jesus would have thought about all the lavish, gold-encrusted curlicues and plaster swags of the Baroque era. Or the grim severity of the Puritans, for that matter. Today, Osuna remains a small town of 17,622 souls with an abundance of gorgeous old buildings. When I first Googled it, I learned UNESCO had named San Pedro street, home of Osuna’s ducal palace, the second most beautiful street in Europe. Then more recent articles revealed that — hold on to your hat! — a year ago UNESCO bumped Osuna’s San Pedro street up to the number one slot. Way to go, Osuna! Naturally, I was agog to learn who had been displaced. Somewhere there was weeping, gnashing of teeth, and town officials berating one another. What had happened to tarnish the ousted street’s luster? Did a Starbucks sneak in when no one was looking? Had the mayor’s brother-in-law replaced the cobblestones with asphalt? Alas, I have been unable to discover any details; Wikipedia, Google, ChatGPT, and BARD all shrugged their metaphorical shoulders at my questions. But enough of the past; I suspect what you really want to know is what today's most beautiful street in Europe looks like. But Osuna is so much more than just a pretty street. In 2014, as a local newspaper headline put it, “Osuna Is on the Map of the Seven Kingdoms.” The wildly popular TV show Game of Thrones arrived to film a scene in the town’s oversized bullring, and everyone got caught up in the excitement. The news they needed 550 extras was thrilling in a town with 37.5% unemployment, the worst in a nation ravaged by the 2008 recession. Who'd pass up a few extra euros — to say nothing of the bragging rights? “Word got out that the producers wanted ladies with dark hair,” recalled Osuna mayor Rosario Andújar Torrejón. “So some of the girls bought dye to color their hair while they waited in line.” During the twenty days it took to film the seventeen-minute gladiatorial fight in Daznak’s Pit (Season 5, Episode 9), Osuna was thronged with actors, crew, media, and fans. An American called Lyssie wrote about sneaking into a cast party with a friend. “The guard was Spanish and was keeping out anyone who didn’t look like they belonged, but no identification was necessary to enter. A plan was starting to form in our minds. What happens when two English-speakers walk confidently into a Game Of Thrones party like they belong there? The guard steps aside, no questions asked, and lets you into the private, open-bar birthday party of Emilia Clarke, aka Daenarys Stormborn.” The party was held at Casa Curro, a traditional tapas bar that became a hangout for the cast and crew. Owner Teresa Jiménez, who knew nothing about the show, was encouraged by a friend to come up with dishes named for the characters; together they invented tapas such as the Khaleesi, a spinach and avocado salad with berries and honey. When Clarke arrived for her birthday celebration, Jiménez recalled, “We give her a Khaleesi tapa. She says, ‘Me? I'm a tapa?’ She liked it!” In the restaurant's guest book, Clarke scrawled, “Thank you so much for such glorious food! Fit for a queen!” So that’s where Rich and I ate lunch, sitting on the very barstools that had supported the hindquarters of the show's stars. And Clarke was right; Casa Curro serves wonderful food. We tried three dishes: a tender grilled alcachofa (artichoke) topped with ham bits and a sliver of paté; delicate rosada, or pink fish, a more appetizing name than its original one, cusk-eel; and secreto iberico, the “secret” Iberian ham cut taken from between the shoulder blade and loin. (These days it’s no more secret than Victoria’s Secret, but in olden times the cut was prized as rare). Of course, our rapture over the food may have stemmed from the fact we’d worked up an appetite hiking all over town. Arriving on the early train, we’d walked to Calle San Pedro and toured the ducal palace, now the Hotel Palacio Marqués de La Gomera where the Game of Thrones cast stayed. We grabbed a second breakfast at the Café Tetuan, then headed uphill to the sixteenth-century university and the vast complex next door, Colegiata de Osuna, a convoluted network of 16th century chapels, churches, sacristies, and burial chambers. Throughout the Colegiata, the official pamphlet explained cheerily, “the concept of death is omnipresent.” This is especially true in the crypt, where every day feels like Halloween, with skeletons dancing on doors, skulls watching you pass, and tombs lurking in the shadows. “All the Dukes laid to rest in Osuna are to be found in the sepulcher,” observed the pamphlet, “with the exception of the 12th Duke of Osuna, Mariano Tellez-Giréon, who inherited the title from his brother Pedro after he died from heatstroke chasing his lover’s carriage.” Pedro was 34 at the time of death, and it’s to be hoped that his short life was a merry one. Having lunch in Osuna was an idea well worth stealing. And I expect it’s the first of many days Rich and I will spend exploring outlying towns within easy reach of Seville. It’s a good reminder that we don’t always have to jump on an airplane or travel long distances to find grand culinary and cultural adventures. There are countless cities, towns, and villages that are, like Osuna, an hour’s easy train or bus ride from home. Who knows? The best meal of your life may be right around the corner, just waiting for you to discover it.  Osuna is 54 miles east of Seville. The train takes just over an hour and with the senior discounts of our Gold Cards, the fare was $7.50 each way. STAY TUNED FOR MORE OUT TO LUNCH POSTS! LEARN MORE ABOUT MY 2023 NUTTERS' WORLD TOUR AND THE GREAT MEDITERRAEAN COMFORT FOOD TOUR Now an award-winning Amazon best seller WANT TO STAY IN THE LOOP? If you haven't already, take a moment to subscribe so you'll receive notices when I publish my weekly posts. Just send me an email and I'll take it from there. enjoylivingabroad@gmail.com Be sure to check out my best selling travel memoirs & guide books here. PLANNING A TRIP? Enter any destination or topic, such as packing light or road food, in the search box below. If I've written about it, you'll find it.  Rich enjoying lunch on a balcony overlooking Seville's Alcázar palace in 2021. I know I shouldn’t play favorites, but of the five meals a day enjoyed by Sevillanos (breakfast, second breakfast, lunch, afternoon snack, dinner) my hands-down preference is for the midday meal. Here in southern Spain, lunch o’clock rolls around about 2:00 PM. It is NOT about inhaling a sandwich at your desk or (shudder) gulping fries while driving down the freeway. It’s meant to be a hearty, leisurely meal at home with the family, or if that’s not possible, in a cozy restaurant surrounded by people murmuring with pleasure over the menu del día. Which is why my two luncheon disasters hit me so hard this week. Wednesday’s catastrophe involved a couple of fresh, ready-to-cook poultry burgers Rich bought at our favorite market stall in Plaza de la Encarnación. All I had to do was peel off the plastic wrap and drop them into the heated pan. You can imagine my shock when I flipped over a patty and discovered a disk of scorched plastic — how had I missed it?!? — seared into its underbelly. My kitchen rang with cries of horror and the clang of metal as I scraped the sizzling mess into the trash.  For a moment there, I felt like I was in an episode of I Love Lucy. Soldiering on, I tossed together a salad, and Rich and I sat down over this modest repast to plan the following day’s lunch. This was intended to provide a dashing first entry into my new project for this blog, something I’m calling “Out to Lunch.” The idea is to blend the quirky lunacy of the Nutters’ Tour with the mouthwatering culinary adventures of the Mediterranean Comfort Food Tour. Yes, it’s true some definitions of the phrase “out to lunch” also suggest a certain daft inattention. I refer you to the paragraph above about Wednesday’s plasticized poultry patties. Enough said. I was planning to call this week’s post “Out to Lunch with the Peacocks.” One of the peculiar charms of Seville is the muster of peacocks living in the gardens of the Alcázar, the ancient palace that still serves as home to Spain’s royal family when they’re in town. The peacocks have become wise to the ways of visitors and have a knack for being on hand whenever a leftover scrap of croissant or sandwich needs a good home. The food in the café is modest, hardly more than snacks, but the setting is incomparable: the gorgeous pleasure garden built in 1365 by the notorious king Pedro the Cruel. On Thursday, filled with pleased anticipation at visiting this favorite corner of the city, I walked through the palace into the grounds only to be brought up short by padlocked gates. Days earlier, a windstorm had knocked down massive tree branches and toppled an ancient pillar near the entrance to the gardens, causing the entire area — including the café — to be cordoned off as a public hazard. Rich asked a workman when it was likely to reopen and got an eye roll and shrug. “I can’t believe it,” I exclaimed. “This garden has been open for 658 years and it closes down four days before I want to write about it? What are the odds?” I made a beeline for the exit and stood, lost in thought, among the heaving mass of visitors milling about between the palace and the cathedral. Time to take stock of my options. There were at least 100 eateries within ten minutes easy walk. If I wanted to write about a place with magical, only-in-Seville character… “Something old-school?” suggested Rich. “Casa Morales?” Perfect! Minutes later we strolled into this long-time favorite, which stands just steps from the northwest corner of the cathedral at Calle Garcia de Vinuesa, 11. True, Casa Morales is sadly lacking in peacocks, but the excellent food and homey atmosphere have been charming guests since the current owner’s great grandfather opened his doors in 1850. The main bar is very congenial, but for me it’s more fun to slip around the corner and go in the unmarked side entrance to the “secret” back room, presided over by the enormous clay tinajas once used to store wine. One of my favorite dishes anywhere, and especially at Casa Morales, is tortilla de patatas, a fluffy yet dense omelet with potatoes and onion. Now, I know what you’re thinking; isn’t a tortilla that thin flatbread we find wrapped around tacos and burritos? Not in Spain. The name simply means “small cake” and each culture has its own version. To avoid confusion, the Spanish omelet is generally shown on the menu as tortilla de patatas or tortilla de españa. On days when I get to Casa Morales too late to grab a seat, or even to elbow my way to standing room at the bar, I have a backup just a few yards away: Bodega Díaz-Salazar, Calle Garcia de Vinuesa, 20. Here, in 1908, wine merchant Ángel Díaz-Salazar began distributing the best vintages from his Ciudad Real vineyard. In the 1940s it became a wine bar frequented by writers and artists. Today it serves traditional food, but wine is still very much the heart of the experience. And don’t worry, this is Spain; if you decide to have a glass of vino at lunchtime, nobody is going to raise an eyebrow or hand you a card for the Betty Ford Clinic. They’ll be too busy sipping their own glass of Rioja or ordering another beer to notice what you’re doing. When I first arrived in Seville, more than twenty years ago, eateries like these were everywhere. I was told there were 3000 tapas bars in the city, and I saw one on just about every block, offering tortilla de patatas, colo de toro (stewed bull’s tail), carrilladas (pork cheeks) and other traditional dishes prepared by someone’s grandmother using recipes learned from her grandmother’s grandmother. Today, brash new foodie restaurants are popping up everywhere. Some are wonderful, but none offer the same feeling of stepping back in time to a more civilized age, when lunch was savored slowly as the run-up to a nice, long siesta. Call me crazy. In fact, call me “out to lunch.” But in my opinion, we should all be checking out the old-fashioned eateries around us, wherever we may find ourselves, at home or abroad. NASA and Einstein say that time travel is theoretically possible but that most of us won’t ever experience it. I disagree. Just drop in for lunch Casa Morales — or any of a hundred other classic Seville tapas bars — or the oldest bar in your town — and you can revisit the past. Of course, time travel to the future is fun, too. Right now Seville’s trendy restaurants are outdoing each other with outrageous décor and cutting-edge gastronomy. Some are old friends, and in selfless service to my readers, I’ll be checking out the newer ones for this blog. The Spanish like to say, “Desayuna mucho, come más, cena poco y vivirás,” which roughly means “Eat a big breakfast, more at midday, have a light dinner, and you’ll live a long life.” What a wonderful excuse to enjoy a splendid lunch as often as possible! Who’s with me? STAY TUNED FOR MORE OUT TO LUNCH POSTS! LEARN MORE ABOUT MY 2023 NUTTERS' WORLD TOUR AND THE GREAT MEDITERRAEAN COMFORT FOOD TOUR Now an award-winning book and Amazon best seller  WANT TO STAY IN THE LOOP? If you haven't already, take a moment to subscribe so you'll receive notices when I publish my weekly posts. Just send me an email and I'll take it from there. enjoylivingabroad@gmail.com And check out my best selling travel memoirs & guide books here. PLANNING A TRIP? Enter any destination or topic, such as packing light or road food, in the search box below. If I've written about it, you'll find it.  Rich and I were doing our best to act casual while eavesdropping on a nearby guide in the Roman amphitheater of Syracuse, Sicily. “Let’s get out of here,” I yelled as the jackhammers started thundering overhead. Again. Rich pantomimed agreement and we shot out the door. We were staying in an otherwise delightful Airbnb in Syracuse, Sicily. It was sheer bad luck the neighbors directly above had chosen that week to smash up their old stone floors and tear out walls. Yes, of course we complained to our landlady, who explained it was nothing to do with her. Crashing masonry, pounding sledgehammers, and buzzing power tools resounded from early morning until late afternoon, occasionally rising to thunderous roars that rattled our light fixtures and made me wonder if they’d brought in elephants to do the heavy lifting. On the upside, we had plenty of motivation to start early and spend all the daylight hours exploring Syracuse. Like most visitors, we began at the city’s southern tip, on the island of Ortygia, where winding streets, ancient stone houses, and quaint tavernas create a sense of seamless storybook charm. But our luck was out in Ortygia too; our first day coincided with the arrival of a massive cruise ship, and the island was overrun with merrymakers.  This gigantic cruise ship arrived at Ortygia the same time we did. So Rich and I skedaddled north to check out the sprawling archeological site with its Greek and Roman ruins. You can’t tell the story of Syracuse without talking about the ill-fated, ill-considered, astonishingly boneheaded attack launched against it by Athens in 415 BC. By then Syracuse had become the dominant economic and military power in their corner of the Mediterranean, which annoyed the Athenians so much they decided it was time to give Syracuse its comeuppance. Normally the Athenians would have sent a modest force for this kind of job, but infighting among political factions resulted in radical and illogical choices. (Oh, those goofy ancients! How lucky we are not to have that sort of irrational decision-making today!) Athens committed nearly their entire fleet and 30,000 men, then put three ideologically opposed leaders in charge (because that always works out well). Syracuse was stunned by the massive attack, but luckily their ally Sparta sent one of their most kick-ass generals (not that Sparta had any other kind) to sort things out. Eventually he trapped the Athenian fleet in the harbor, enabling Syracuse to sink the invaders’ ships and capture the survivors. Most were sold as slaves, but 7000 prisoners of war were sent to work and live under horrific conditions in Syracuse’s stone quarry. Athens was depleted and demoralized, their enemies were emboldened, and the region’s balance of power shifted forever. Other than that, the plan worked perfectly. On the way to the archaeological site, I noticed an ultramodern building that looked like an upside-down ice cream cone. What fresh nuttiness was this? I soon learned the shape was meant to represent a teardrop, as this was the Basilica of the Madonna delle Lacrime (Our Lady of the Tears), built to house the city’s miraculous weeping statue.  The Basilica of the Madonna delle Lacrime (Our Lady of the Tears). Photo: Simone Tinella It all started in 1953, when a relative gave a modest plaster Virgin to newlyweds Antonina and Angelo Lannuso. Soon the bride became pregnant, and preeclampsia caused her to suffer convulsions and temporary blindness. Late one night she woke up, realized her sight had been restored, and saw Mary’s plaster face weeping. Antonina called in family members, who at first assumed she was hallucinating but then agreed the statue really was crying. (Watch videos of the Madonna weeping here.) As you can imagine, the town went wild. Scientists confirmed the liquid was consistent with the composition of human tears. The pope declared the event “real.” Antonina’s baby was born healthy — on December 25. It was all heady stuff.  Antonina and Angelo Lannuso with the Madonna delle Lacrime. The statue has long since stopped weeping but is still on display in the ice cream cone — sorry, tear-shaped basilica. People used to catch the statue’s tears in handkerchiefs and treat them as relics, but now they just have priests bless bits of cotton which are tucked into holy cards and sold. Oh yes, I bought one and it’s been in my purse ever since. Not that I believe in asking for miracles, of course, because I am a modern and skeptical woman. But let me just tell you about the rich experiences that have occurred since I started carrying around the blessed cotton.  For a start, we left that apartment in Syracuse, returning to Catania. What a relief to my eardrums! I visited Catania’s Museo Storico dello Sbarco in Sicilia 1943 (Museum of the 1943 Sicily Landing), which proved surprisingly interesting and deeply moving. If you paid attention in high school or know the book and/or movie Operation Mincemeat, you’ll appreciate how crucial the Allied invasion of Sicily was to winning the war. It succeeded in large part because the British convinced Hitler the invasion was happening in Greece, an elaborate deception involving a dead tramp dressed as an officer, fake papers, and a lot of nail-biting, cliff-hanging suspense.  What I hadn’t really considered properly was how it must have felt to be in Sicily — especially Catania, which was bombed 87 times — during the six-week invasion. The tour gives you a dramatic glimpse of the experience. First you mill around in a model of a Catania square. Suddenly the air raid siren sounds and docents rush you into the bomb shelter. Sitting in near darkness with strangers, you hear planes approaching then bombs exploding, closer and closer. The shelter begins to shake, a little at first, then harder until your teeth are rattling. It’s highly effective and deeply disturbing, especially because I couldn’t stop thinking of all the people in Israel, Gaza, Ukraine, and elsewhere who are experiencing this very same thing right now for real. Catania offers visitors a rich array of experiences, including a vast, sprawling street market in the Piazza Carlo Alberto. One day Rich and I lunched there at a café then picked up supplies including a two-liter bottle of wine for 3 euros or $3.16. (It was a lot more drinkable than you might think.) (Yes, it was!) As we strolled homeward past fishmongers and piles of glistening vegetables, stall owners were packing up for the day, chatting and whistling. A woman with a microphone began singing the lead-in to a song. Wait, I knew this one, it was … “Volare,” she belted out. “Oh, oh…” And then, to my astonishment, the entire marketplace joined in. The young guy selling swordfish, the old lady buying tomatoes, the people sitting over lunch in the café, the delivery guys pushing carts — everyone suddenly burst into song, laughing and grinning at each other in sheer delight. Yes, of course Rich and I joined in. It was magical. Afterwards Rich kept muttering, “I can’t get that song out of my head.” “Don’t fight it,” I said. “We’ve gone nearly forty years without something we considered ‘our song.’ I think this is may be it. OK, I agree, 'Volare' is kind of an earworm and could get annoying. But look at it this way: at least it’s better than listening to the jackhammers in that Syracuse apartment.” “Amen to that.”  The street singer who turned "Volare" into our song. AND THAT, MY FRIENDS, MARKS THE FINAL CHAPTER OF NUTTERS' TOUR OF SICILY 2023. YEP, WE'RE HEADING BACK TO SPAIN TOMORROW. Thanks for joining me on this long, zany journey. It’s been a hell of a ride. I won't post for a week or two while I catch my breath and settle back into my life in Seville. But don't worry, there are lots more looney adventures, travel tips, and mouthwatering culinary experiences coming up. I’ll keep you posted! In the meantime, feel free to browse through my previous posts about THE NUTTERS' WORLD TOUR WANT TO STAY IN THE LOOP? If you haven't already, take a moment to subscribe so you'll receive notices when I publish my weekly posts. Just send me an email and I'll take it from there. enjoylivingabroad@gmail.com And check out my best selling travel memoirs & guide books here. PLANNING A TRIP? Enter any destination or topic, such as packing light or road food, in the search box below. If I've written about it, you'll find it.  Mt. Etna is Europe's biggest and most active volcano. I had a great view of it from a rooftop in downtown Catania.  Sometimes it gets a bit frisky. I never saw it like this, but it's not uncommon.  And every once in a while Etna really decides to go wild. This was 2021. “Rich, I’m in trouble,” I said a few mornings ago. “So far our stay here in Catania has been delightful, but I can’t think of a single moment that counts as a Nutter experience. What am I going to write about this week? If I just prattle on about good food and pleasant weather, even I will fall asleep, let alone my readers.” “Well, there was the drive-by soaking,” he suggested. The day before, a prankish young teen on a motorbike, who happened to have an open water bottle in his hand, decided to douse us as he roared past. The little scamp. “Actually, considering how hot the day was, I found it kind of refreshing.” “Hey, I know,” I said. “I can talk about the vomitorium!” Like most kids, I grew up hearing gross jokes about such chambers, said to be popular among ancient Romans seeking relief from extreme overindulgence. I certainly never expected to visit one. But on my first morning in Catania, on Sicily’s southeast coast, I was touring the ruins of the Greek-Roman theater when I saw a faded sign. “Wait, what?” I exclaimed. “We’re standing in an actual vomitorium?” Yes, and it wasn’t at all what you’re thinking. Turns out the term actually refers to the series of passages designed to let crowds disperse quickly from an amphitheater or stadium after a show — literally “to spew forth.” The idea that it meant rooms used for regurgitation? A total myth. I know, shocker of the year. We’ve all walked through countless vomitoria and never even knew it.  What a Roman vomitorium actually looks like Clearly Catania was going to prove educational in unexpected ways. For instance, you can’t spend any time here without learning how precarious it feels to live in a city built on the lower slope of an active volcano. For 500,000 years Mt. Etna has loomed over the landscape, belching smoke, just waiting its chance to explode again. As recently as 2021 there was an eruption lasting six months that disgorged so much lava the volcano grew 100 feet in height. Yikes! It's easy to picture these thing happening in the ancient world, but lately we’ve all been reading such alarming headlines as “Italy plans for mass evacuation as quakes continue around supervolcano; Campi Flegrei area near Naples has been jolted by more than 1,100 earthquakes in a month.” Still, whatever catastrophe may lie ahead for Naples, it’s likely to pale in comparison to what happened to Catania back in 1669.  Catania, 1669, in a fresco by Giacinto Platania; note the castle on the western edge. Over several earth-shaking months in 1669, erupting lava from Mt. Etna covered 15 square miles, wiping out whole villages, destroying farmland, eventually pouring into the city’s western edge and flowing up to the very walls of the Castello Ursino (Bear Castle). I imagined what it must have been like for the residents standing on the parapets looking down at the vast river of molten rock advancing toward them, filling the moat, and surging against the building’s foundations.  The rough rock you see at the left is hardened lava from 1669. When that kind of disaster happens, who you gonna call? No question it’s St. Agatha, the virgin martyr and patron saint of Catania. She was a tough cookie who knew all about standing her ground under extreme pressure. At age 15 Agatha decided to devote her life and virginity to Christianity, rejecting the amorous advances of the Roman governor Quintianus. Enraged, he had her tortured and (here’s the gruesome part; better send the kids out of the room) had her breasts torn off. She was sentenced to be burned at the stake, but an earthquake disrupted the proceedings, and she died in prison in 251. A year later she was credited with stopping an eruption of Mt. Etna, earning the city’s eternal devotion. Today she is invoked against volcanic activity, earthquake, fire, and breast cancer, and is the patron saint of bakers. This last might seem a stretch until you learn about the pastries called minnuzzi di sant'Àjita. “It means Saint Agatha’s tits,” a Sicilian told me. I quickly stepped back to avoid the bolt of lightning that might be expected to greet these profane worlds, but evidently God was busy elsewhere and didn’t notice. Minnuzzi are made of sponge cake soaked in liqueur, stuffed with ricotta, chocolate drops, and candied fruit, then topped with pistachio marzipan and a candied cherry. I never got around to trying them, but they certainly sound heavenly.  Minnuzzi di sant'Àjita St. Agatha isn’t the only one providing Catania with miraculous protection. In front of her cathedral there’s a primitive elephant carved of lava rock; whenever Mt. Etna's ready to blow, it's said to wake up and alert the residents. As you can imagine, I take a good hard look at it every time I cross the plaza, but so far I've never seen it stir. Earlier in its career, during the eighth century, the elephant supposedly came fully alive, carrying the sorcerer Heliodorus on its back as far as Constantinople. At the time Heliodorus was in hot competition for the job of Catania's bishop and took up the Dark Arts to outshine his pious rival, Leo (later St. Leo the Wonderworker). Heliodorus made himself hugely popular by performing magic for the townspeople. This infuriated Leo, who eventually secured the bishop’s job and promptly had Heliodorus burned alive in the nearby thermal baths. Now is that any way for a saint to behave? I ask you. By popular demand, the sorcerer’s magic elephant remained in the city and was eventually placed in front of St. Agatha's cathedral. Major renovations were made in the 18th century, adding fancy carvings, an obelisk, and a fountain. Legend says the men of the town demanded another addition; they complained the statue's gender neutrality was an insult to their virility, so the sculptor gave the elephant a robustly masculine anatomy.  Can Catania's elephant predict eruptions? Now, those of you who paid attention in zoology class may be thinking, “An elephant — in Sicily? They only live in Asia and Africa, right?” Not in prehistoric times! Apparently back then Sicily was home to miniature elephants about the size of a Shetland pony. Their skulls, which without the tusks look like oversized human heads, have a large hole — a nasal cavity — in the forehead, giving rise to the legend of the cyclops, one-eyed giants living on the slopes of Mt. Etna.  You can see how miniature elephant skulls like these could inspire the cyclops myth. “I guess there have been some nutty things going on around here,” I admitted, when Rich and I had reviewed all we’d learned in Catania. But thinking back over my time in the city, the thing that struck me most vividly was the energetic, buoyant spirit of the people. Everyone seemed to have a bit of extra zip in their step, a little more sparkle in their eye. Maybe this is what comes of living on the flanks of a live volcano, I mused. At the end of every day, I suspect people breathe a sigh of relief and give each other high fives, rejoicing that they'd survived another day without being engulfed by molten lava. Or shaken by earthquakes. Or torn asunder by a lascivious politician. Or trapped by a cyclops. I like this attitude and have decided to adopt it. “Made it alive through another day,” I remark to Rich every evening as I pour us each a glass of vino. “Let’s celebrate that little miracle.”  Hanging out in a town on the slopes of a smoking volcano. What, me worry? JUST JOINING US? THE NUTTERS' WORLD TOUR SO FAR RIGHT NOW: SICILY Enna: Sicily's Belly Button and Home of the Cereal Goddess Agrigento: "The Devil Made Me Write It!" Palermo: The Good, the Bad & the Nutty SUMMER 2023: CALIFORNIA SPRING 2023: SPAIN WANT TO STAY IN THE LOOP? Subscribe to receive notices when I publish my weekly posts. Just send me an email and I'll take it from there. enjoylivingabroad@gmail.com And check out my best selling travel memoirs & guide books here. PLANNING A TRIP? Enter any destination or topic, such as packing light or road food, in the search box below. If I've written about it, you'll find it.  The mountaintop town of Enna, Sicily You have to love the impish sense of humor that prompts a train station to fill its waiting room with sturdy wooden benches then labels them, “NON SEDERTI QUI (PLEASE DON’T SIT HERE).” As if any further taunting were needed, this train station — and, coincidentally Rich and I — stood at the base of a mountain that was 3054 feet high and famously difficult to ascend. Naturally the area was utterly devoid of taxis or buses. I could almost feel the mountain chuckling deep in its interior. Its sheer cliffs had defeated countless would-be invaders from the 14th century BC until the invention of artillery and aerial warfare. Had Rich and I met our match? “I am not walking up the mountain,” I mentioned to Rich casually but emphatically, recalling last week’s adventure involving a grueling hike that ended with shimmying through a chain link fence. “Don’t worry. We’ll find a ride,” he said, fiddling with his phone, which inexplicably refused to function. Eventually we joined forces with the two other stranded passengers milling about the station. A cab was summoned, and we drove up to Enna, the highest and most central point of Sicily, affectionately known as its umbelico (belly button). Speaking of bellies, mine was growling to remind me I’d given it nothing but a cookie for lunch on the train. Sadly my hopes of immediate food acquisition were quickly dashed. “Here we eat at eight o’clock, not before, never before,” said my hostess at the cozy B&B in the center of town. I groaned inwardly. It wasn’t even 5 pm yet. “Here are the best restaurants.” She gestured towards business cards in neat stacks on a table. I grabbed a handful, and Rich and I went out to explore the town. We strolled about, enjoying the impressive baroque buildings, the charming old stone houses, the cobbled streets, and the general atmosphere of tidiness and friendliness. Wandering into the Church of St. Claire, I found a sign demanding SILENCE and a docent who spent the next twenty minutes chattering nonstop in Italian. I managed to grasp that this was a shrine to those who died in WWII as a result of bombing by the Allies. Our guys. It was a rather lowering feeling, and I had to resist the impulse to apologize. Emerging into the twilight, Rich and I happened upon one of our hostess’s recommended restaurants, but it was a pizza place so we continued on in search of heartier fare. We hit another of the recommended places. Pizza again. We passed another and another, all pizza parlors. Eventually we found a charming, old-fashioned trattoria with dim lighting and white table cloths. I opened the menu. “Nothing but pizza?!?” I exclaimed. “Where are we — in the Twilight Zone?” An English-speaking waiter took pity and directed me to an eatery offering fish, meat, even (gasp!) vegetables, so in the end we dined well. The next morning at breakfast our hostess told me there was a food festival in the main square. I made a beeline for it. “Are you kidding me?” I exclaimed on arrival. “A pizza competition? Really?” Local chefs were busy pulling pies out of ovens, judges were nibbling, frowning importantly, and pronouncing opinions, and members of the crowd, presumably cronies and bigwigs, were happily receiving the leftover slices. Somehow Rich managed to sneak a hand in and snag one. It was the best pizza I’d ever tasted. The slim, delicate crust was lightly brushed with olive oil and hint of local cheese topped with a sliver of prosciutto and fresh herbs. “Maybe this town is onto something,” I said. I don’t need to tell you pizza is popular. Americans are the world champions, consuming a hefty 28.6 pounds per person per year, with the average Italian downing 17 pounds, about twice as much as other Europeans. By my calculation, Enna’s residents consume their own body weight in pizza every month. I wondered why it was so extraordinarily popular here. Was it a natural outgrowth of Sicily’s long association with Naples, which created modern pizza in the 18th century? Or did the roots go back much, much further? By 400 BC, Enna was the site of the most important sanctuary of the fertility goddess Ceres, who gave us agriculture (and hey, thanks for that, ma’am!) as well as the word “cereal.” Later generations came to know her as Demeter, mother of Persephone, who was abducted by Pluto. No, not Mickey Mouse’s dog, I mean the god of the underworld, aka Hades. Ceres’ ancient temple no longer exists, but her story lives on in Enna’s Museum of Myth, the first entirely multi-media museum in Italy. According to legend, Persephone was carried off from Enna itself, or possibly from the shore of nearby Lake Pergusa. Enraged, Ceres went searching for her daughter in a chariot drawn by snakes. Inexplicably, this detail was left out of the museum’s presentation (possibly due to truth issues). Without Ceres around to oversee the earth’s fertility, the land was devastated; onscreen, the images shifted from waving wheat to scorched earth, interspersed with scenes of hell, which apparently looks like this.  The Museum of Myth's multimedia depiction of the ancient underworld Humans begged other gods for help, and eventually Pluto/Hades was persuaded to let Persephone return to the earth’s surface. But he craftily got her to eat six pomegranate seeds to fortify herself for the journey, condemning her to spend six months a year with him. And that’s why we have the seasons. I think it all made a bit more sense a few thousand years ago. My point is that Ceres was pretty hot stuff around Enna for a long time, which suggests one possible explanation for the obsession with grain-based foods. Or maybe it’s just that the residents know a good thing when they taste it. The Museum of Myth, the Rock of Ceres, and the city’s castle occupy the highest, most impregnable part of the mountain. Looking out from the castle tower, you can understand how the original Sicani held it for 1000 years. When attacked, all you’d have to do is stand at the edge and drop rocks; when technology improved, you’d shoot arrows or pour a little boiling oil. Frankly, I don’t know how any invader even got that far. I would imagine that the few soldiers who didn’t die of cardiac arrest or pass out from the heat on the way up sensibly opted to slip away among the trees to wait quietly for events sort themselves out rather than do any serious storming.  The Rock of Ceres and, at right, the Museum of Myth as seen from the tower of the castle. Throughout its long history, Enna was usually lost through treachery rather than battle. The first to take the castle by force were the Romans, who snuck in through the sewers. You can imagine the pep talk. “Guys, we’re going in at night. It’ll be cooler and no one will see us, so none of those pesky arrows or boiling oil. On the downside…” Enna may not be the easiest place to get to, but it’s worth the effort. If only so you can brag about visiting Sicily’s belly button — and of course, eat some of their legendary pizza.  JUST JOINING US? THE NUTTERS' WORLD TOUR SO FAR RIGHT NOW: SICILY Agrigento: "The Devil Made Me Write It!" Palermo: The Good, the Bad & the Nutty SUMMER 2023: CALIFORNIA SPRING 2023: SPAIN WANT TO STAY IN THE LOOP? Subscribe to receive notices when I publish my weekly posts. Just send me an email and I'll take it from there. enjoylivingabroad@gmail.com And check out my best selling travel memoirs & guide books here. PLANNING A TRIP? Enter any destination or topic, such as packing light or road food, in the search box below. If I've written about it, you'll find it.  Many believe this letter was the work of the Prince of Darkness. Was the letter in the photo above actually composed by Satan? It was discovered in 1676, clutched in the hand of Sister Maria Crocifissa della Concezione (Sister Mary Crucified of the Conception), as she lay collapsed on the floor of her Sicilian convent, covered in ink and gibbering incoherently. As anyone would be, after spending the night fending off the Devil’s advances. When she could talk, Sister Maria Crocifissa said Beelzebub forced her to write the letter, composed of strange characters and symbols, in an unsuccessful attempt to persuade her to abandon her faith and follow him. Naysaying cynics suggest Sister Maria Crocifissa might have been schizophrenic. But the Church took her seriously, launching a 100-year study of the incident that ended in nominating her for sainthood. Her body remains in the convent chapel, an object of veneration, but the letter is kept in the cathedral of Agrigento, where Rich and I are now. Yes, of course I made a beeline to see it. Sadly, the original is stored in the archives, so I could only view the copy. But still!  Scholars struggled for centuries to decipher the bizarre document, but it remained a mystery until 2017. That's when Sicilian scientists announced they’d translated the letter using a military codebreaking algorithm they found on the Dark Web (so obviously totally legit and reliable). They said the letter was composed of scrambled Latin, ancient Greek, Arabic, and Runic alphabets, all languages the nun knew from her work as a linguist. The text attacked Christianity, saying God was invented by man. It described God, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit as “dead weights” and said, “This system works for no one.” Sister Maria Crocifissa rejected the message and the messenger, causing Satan to depart howling with frustration. And although I am rarely one to have sympathy for the Devil, I must confess I have frequently felt very similar sentiments here in Agrigento.  Where most restaurants post a menu, this Agrigento eatery displays a defibrillator. Should I be worried? This ancient, once-powerful town on Sicily’s southern coast looks charming and has great stuff to see and do, but it is mind-bogglingly difficult to navigate. There’s practically no dependable information available on anything, starting with the location of tourist information offices, which appear on maps but nowhere else. Supermarkets have proven equally elusive. Our first afternoon in town, GPS led us out of the old center into increasingly dubious and deserted neighborhoods. As the sky began to darken, we were surrounded by scattered garbage and feral cats and decided we didn’t need provisions that badly. Later, I learned all the supermarkets and greengrocers had fled to the suburbs. In the center, a few tiny mini-marts are the only option. How I miss Palermo’s farmers markets! What’s truly staggering is how difficult it is to visit Agrigento’s main claim to fame: The Valley of the Temples. This is the largest archeological park in Europe, visited by somewhere around a million people a year (nobody has verifiable numbers, of course). The centerpiece, the Temple of Concordia, is one of the best-preserved ancient Greek temples on the planet; it impressed UNESCO so much they based their logo it. The Valley of Temples is considered a must-see for anyone visiting Sicily. But they sure don’t make it easy to get there. The site is just two miles from the city, and yes, there is a shuttle, but the bus stop is so shabby and poorly marked we kept bypassing it during our search. When we finally realized we were looking right at it, we discovered there was no schedule posted at the bus stop — or online either. Foreign visitors milled aimlessly about in the stunning heat, frowning at their phones in bewilderment.  The helpful information board at the bus stop When the bus finally arrived and we were on our way, I said to Rich, “What is it about withholding information in this town? Some form of omerta? If we tell you, we’ll have to kill you?” The Valley of the Temples was truly spectacular. Of course, it isn’t really a valley but a ridge; the Greeks loved to place their temples high on windy outcroppings. Why? “Think about the air passing through these columns. Think of it like a wind instrument,” says architect and travel writer Sarah Murdoch. “As the air passes through these columns, it would produce vibrations that you can’t hear. But the Greeks had the idea that the vibration, once it passed over the Greek city, would create a sense of peace and harmony amongst the people.” Wow, can we bring that architectural concept back now? After tramping across the site for hours under the sweltering sun, Rich and I weren’t thrilled by the prospect of the long walk back to the entrance followed by a wait of indeterminate length for the shuttle to the archeological museum. Consulting his GPS Rich announced, “I can get us there another way. There’s a path.” “Is this going to be like the hunt for the supermarket?” I asked skeptically. “Of course not.” I could see the path and the archeological museum a mile away. “Won’t there be a fence? I am not climbing a fence.” “Of course not.” “If there is a fence at the end of this long, hot walk, I am sitting down until you return with bolt cutters.” “It won’t come to that.” It very nearly did. We trudged alone through olive groves, the sun breathing down the back of my neck like a dragon.  After a small eternity, we found ourselves close to the archaeological museum and — you guessed it — our way was blocked by a high chain-link fence. Eventually we discovered the fence had a small gap, maybe ten inches wide, where others had slipped in and out. “Perfect!” cried Rich enthusiastically. He began wriggling through to find himself standing on top of a six-foot wall. “No problem!” He shinnied down using parts of the adjacent gate for footholds. “Now you!” I can never decide whether squirming through that gap was the best or worst moment of the day. I kept expecting to hear my trousers ripping as I fell to my death, or at least to a broken ankle. When I made it safely to solid ground, I knew I’d feel tremendously euphoric if I ever managed to catch my breath again. I’ll say this for Agrigento: it keeps you on your toes. Even our apartment has its challenges.  Polished marble stairs with no handrail; what could possibly go wrong? Airbnb never mentioned this apartment has four different levels joined by smooth marble stairs completely lacking in handrails. I don't dare risk wearing my slippers on them. If I get up in the night, I have to put on my sure-grip sneakers, my eyeglasses, and all the lights, turning what's normally a quick trip into a major production. Yes, here in Agrigento, I am really living on the edge. My life is all about survival now. I can’t buy healthy groceries. The stairs in my apartment are a fatal accident waiting to happen. I'm in a constant state of ignorance and bewilderment. But I am heartened to discover that I can still sneak through a fence without getting caught, something I haven’t undertaken in decades. Who says travel doesn't keep you young?  Have I finally found my niche in life? JUST JOINING US? THE NUTTERS' WORLD TOUR SO FAR RIGHT NOW: SICILY Palermo: The Good, the Bad & the Nutty SUMMER 2023: CALIFORNIA SPRING 2023: SPAIN WANT TO STAY IN THE LOOP? Subscribe to receive notices when I publish my weekly posts. Just send me an email and I'll take it from there. enjoylivingabroad@gmail.com And check out my best selling travel memoirs & guide books here. PLANNING A TRIP? Enter any destination or topic, such as packing light or road food, in the search box below. If I've written about it, you'll find it.  A pigeon enjoys an afternoon snack of grapes at Palermo's Capo market. Note to self: wash grapes well before eating. On our first morning in Palermo, Sicily, Rich bounded out of bed with the unbridled joy of a man who knows he’s having ice cream for breakfast. I’d read about the Sicilian tradition of starting the day with scoops of gelato stuffed into brioche, and as Rich kept pointing out, I owed it to my readers to dig deep into this subject. We found a café and tried to place our order. “Brioche con gelato? Now? Well, yes, you could,” said the proprietor, in the dubious tones of one who acknowledges that yes, you could wear pink to Don Corleone’s funeral, but are you sure you want to? “It’s not for breakfast?” I asked incredulously. How did I get this so wrong? “When is it eaten? Later in the morning?” “Yes. Morning, lunch, afternoon. Any time.” Except, apparently, now. We ordered croissants instead. This was my first hint of just how slippery I’d find Sicily’s culinary traditions. Palermo is famous for its street food, which is sold in carts and hole-in-the-wall eateries all over town, and I soon learned what people really prefer for breakfast is pani ca' meusa (in proper Italian, pane con la milza).  A vat of milza, breakfast of champions: boiled cow spleen, lung, and trachea. To make milza, you boil up cow spleen, lung, and trachea, fry them in pig lard, and tuck them into a bun, possibly sprinkling cheese on top. Everyone assures me this meal will give you the strength to get up and do what needs to be done. Did I try it? Oh, hell, no. There are some things at which even I draw the line. But those raised here love this kind of stuff. Frequently conquered and perpetually impoverished, Sicily has spent centuries getting creative with obscure animal parts. Whenever I see gusts of smoke rising from a grill, I know it’s stigghiola, lamb or goat guts rolled around a skewer or leek and cooked over the flames. Another common sight is a large, cloth-covered basket known as a panaru, inside of which is frittola. Nobody seems to know exactly what ingredients make up frittola, but the prevailing theory is cartilage, lard, and some kind of meat. Street vendors dip their hand under the cloth, extract a greasy blob, drop it onto oiled paper, and pass it over to you. Mmmmm. I’ve had ample opportunity to observe all this as our Airbnb apartment is in the heart of Capo, one of the city’s largest street markets, built a thousand years ago to serve the new Arab overlords. Since then it has been a favorite with everyone from families to princes to pirates and has sustained generations of pickpockets. These days Capo has reinvented itself as “a bustling agri-food trading hub,” catering to tourists as well as locals. There’s constant hubbub. Vendors shout out their wares, delivery boys whistle and sing, bands play, fireworks explode (mostly at night, but on Sunday at 9 am) (nope, no idea why), weddings are celebrated, religious statues are carried through, and astonishing amounts of fresh produce and street food change hands. I love the sprawling, shouting, chaotic vitality, and so did Sicily’s renowned artist Renato Guttuso. He painted another old Palermo street market La Vucciria so vividly that it is now among the most beloved works of art on the island.  Renato Guttuso's 1974 painting, La Vucciria, captures the colorful chaos of the city's markets. I was determined to see Guttuso’s painting, now displayed in the 14th century Steri Palace. We went there the first morning, right after our croissants, and I was slightly dismayed to discover viewing the painting could only be done in the context of a gruesome guided tour of an Inquisition prison. The building housing the prison, the painting, and a few other random artifacts started out as home to Palermo’s nobility; 200 years later it was surrendered to the Spanish when they became Sicily’s newest overlords. As this happened during the Inquisition, the palace was soon filled with prisoners who created elaborate graffiti using scrapings from terra cotta floor tiles and their own bodily fluids. (You do not want to know the details.) Eventually everyone in those cells was executed in the palace’s front garden, on the spot now occupied by the Strangler Tree, said to have grown to its enormous proportion thanks to all the blood soaked into the soil. Yes, eventually I saw Guttuso’s painting, which was marvelous, but emerging into the sunlight of late morning, I realized the grisly tour had left me a bit demoralized. Rich said he knew just what I needed to recombobulate: brioche con gelato. Apparently it's typically eaten as a second breakfast. The day proved typical of our time here in Palermo: the delightful, the delicious, and the deeply disturbing all jostling for attention. On the positive side I reconnected with a bookseller I’d met during a brief visit here in 2016. Retired accountant Pietro Tramonte presides over the Biblioteca Privata Itinerante (Private Traveling Library), a warren of 75,000 books in a back alley near the marina. For those who love to read, he says, “the paper material is like cheese on macaroni.” I showed him the photo of us from seven years ago, and he was delighted, posing for more pictures and then taking us out for coffee. Another wonderful experience was lunch with a Palermo couple in their home, arranged through EatWith. Piera and her husband Rino gave us a warm welcome and platters of scrumptious food. Soon all four of us were talking at once, waving our hands around for emphasis, and laughing together like vecchi amici (old friends). Inevitably, talk turned to one of the island’s most famous exports: the mafia. “More dangerous than ever,” said Rino. “They do not affect our days, our lives directly, but they are deep inside industry and government.” I’d heard about the anti-mafia movement, started in 2004, that included local businesses placing a sticker on their window to indicate their refusal to pay “pizzo,” extortion money. So far I have only seen one such sticker, and I can only assume everyone else who posted them now sleeps with the fishes.  Is it me, or does posting an anti-mafia window sticker seem like asking for trouble? To be fair, Palermo’s blood-curdling side was evident long before the mafia, as witnessed by the Cappuchin Catecombs. Here we found 8000 dead bodies hanging from the walls, hooks in their backs and a wire around their chest to keep them from toppling forward onto us. Many appeared to be screaming. Frankly, it was all I could do not to scream myself. The oldest were 17th century monks, some wearing heavy ropes of penance around their necks. In the 19th century it became fashionable for prosperous citizens to pay the Capuchins to place deceased relatives in the catacombs. Families would visit, dust the corpse, and replace any clothing that had rotted. They had to keep paying the Capuchins, and if they fell behind, the bodies would be removed and set aside until the account was paid up in full.  Not the most peaceful way to spend eternity. Photo: Juan Segal, Flicker “Sicily is a Nutters’ paradise,” a friend wrote to me some months ago, and boy, was she right. Palermo is eccentric, rich in history, and quirky in nature. I just love this ancient city. But in a few days, we’re off to another part of the island where, among other things, they claim to have an actual letter written by the Devil himself. More on that next week.  Ice cream: it's not just for breakfast anymore! Apparently you put vanilla ice cream through a potato ricer, add a strawberry topping that looks like tomato sauce, and buon appetito! Rich has already volunteered to be a taste tester. JUST JOINING US? THE NUTTERS' WORLD TOUR SO FAR SUMMER 2023: CALIFORNIA SPRING 2023: SPAIN WANT TO STAY IN THE LOOP? Subscribe to receive notices when I publish my weekly posts. Just send me an email and I'll take it from there. enjoylivingabroad@gmail.com And check out my best selling travel memoirs & guide books here. PLANNING A TRIP? Enter any destination or topic, such as packing light or road food, in the search box below. If I've written about it, you'll find it. |
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