On the road to Menfi, Day 4, Tuesday, September 20, 2022

We started our day by putting our bags outside our door for pick-up before going up to the hotel rooftop for breakfast.

“Maintenant,” my French instructor at Ohio State, Mr. McDonald, would say as he started a new topic - or maybe he was just adjusting his thoughts. Sometimes he said instead, “Bon!” or “Alors!” It’s been almost fifty years and I can still hear these utterances in my head, sometimes even saying them to myself.

Francesca, being Italian, mind you, would say instead, “Allora!” Of course, she rolllllled her R, much pleasanter sounding and easier to mimic than the French R, which sounds like you have something caught in your throat that you just can’t seem to get out.

Allora! On the bus ride to Corleone, Francesca told us about her own personal experience with Cosa Nostra. The Mafia, as most Americans know them, started in Sicily during the transition from feudalism to capitalism there. In retaliation for her not ending a friendship when given an ultimatum by another family friend (“it’s him or me”), Francesca was blacklisted to the point that she had to move seven times in search of employment – once all the way to Canada. I read up some on the history in Wikipedia while we rode. Scary weird stuff.

Here's Francesca chatting with a trio of characters as we alighted from the tour bus.

Kathie and I skipped the anti-Mafia museum in Corleone and instead tried to get into the church next door (unsuccessfully). But I did snap a quick photo of a Fiat for Janie, who would give her left pinkie to have one again.

And here is a cool customer waiting for the bus, it looks like:

Lunch was to be at a state-owned farm out from Corleone. Our bus couldn’t get down the drive to the farmhouse where we were to eat, so Giuseppe, our tour bus driver, hiked down about half a mile in the midday sun and heat to get their 20+ year old compact, ferrying us down (and back up) in groups of four. Lunch was buono! Outside as we waited our turn to be ferried back to the bus, Francesca called one of our fellow tourists, a tall and slender white bearded gentleman, Donkey Shotie. Huh?? At least that’s what we all thought she said. We looked at her in bewilderment. She repeated it several times, not understanding why we might be confused. Finally, I realized that she was saying Don Chisciotte, Italian for Don Quixote. A little proud of myself for that one I was, being as deaf as I am.

As we waited for everyone else to arrive back at the bus, I took the photo above for Janie, looking up at the umbrella tree that provided us shade on a hot day.

In the Sunday post, I wrote that there were thirteen of us touristikas on this tour. Apparently, Francesca and Giuseppe had come up with nicknames for us. Why they did this I’m not sure, unless it was easier to remember each of us that way. Obviously, Italian folks are well acquainted with American cartoons and movies:

• Don Chisciotte and his wife, whose nickname I don’t recall. They were both lovely folks who hail from Santa Fe. She’s a retired educator/now realtor, but I imagined them both to be artists or writers. Kind and hippie-ish, artsy. I liked them.
• Tom and Jerry, two of the group’s husbands whose given names were, in fact, Tom and Jerry. Tom and his wife, from Owensboro, KY, and Jerry and his wife, from Naples, FL – why can’t I remember the wives’ nicknames?? I just remember that Tom’s wife was more than a little aloof but quite sickly, and Jerry’s wife had been dealing with his Parkinsonism for a decade. It seemed to cause him a lot of problems on this trip and it was so nice to see the other guys step in and help him walk around the ruins, giving his sweet wife a break.
• Barney (or John-Boy in Kathie’s mind) and Betty of Flintstones fame, nice enough folks from New Orleans.
• Another couple, the husband of which reminded Kathie of Alan Alda, lives in Destin, FL. I can’t remember their nicknames, but they were also such lovely people. At first, I was not impressed by the wife because I thought she talked too much (there’s my introvert perspective showing itself), but she turned out to be extraordinarily kind. And he was a helicopter pilot during the Vietnam War, airlifting troops out of hotspots. I could talk with him for hours. Salt of the earth, he would listen to any veteran talk about their combat experience in an effort to help lessen their emotional trauma. Nowadays he loses sleep due to shingles. Doesn't seem fair.
• Tweety Bird, a retired nurse and solo traveler from Boston, appeared to be on the spectrum and seemed to be upset by her nickname. I couldn’t blame her and wondered if the nicknamers realized how hurtful the nickname was. Granted, this tourist could be a bore, asking too many questions and relating everything to her own experience. And we didn’t always want to sit by her at meals. But her note to me on the group post card said, “Grazie for your friendship.”
• Thelma and Louise. That was Kathie and me. Francesca said they couldn’t come up with another nickname for us. Some of the other tourists called us “the sisters”. Someone else said we reminded them of the Saving Grace show. Never watched it, so not a clue how appropriate or not that was. At least it wasn’t Tweety.

While I was ambling on there about my fellow tourists we must have gotten lost, because it took us forever to get to our lodging. We were supposed to have a three hour hands-on cooking class but didn’t have time. We had an abbreviated session, from which I recall that I didn’t want that chef touching my food because he kept touching his face (gross, dude!) and to just cook the onions in with the tomatoes when making spaghetti sauce. What can I say? I’m not a cook.

I did enjoy their kitchen garden, though, and was intrigued by how they keep the yellow jackets away from the diners. Yes, that’s turkey they’re eating.

Dinner was good, though, and I really liked the sage cheesecake. Must look up that recipe. Hope it’s not hard to make.