Valle dei Templi and Macalube
Apr. 29th, 2014 09:45 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
blatherskiteHaving learned from past lessons, we decided to hire a guide for the temples. Sara, our hostess, suggested a friend of hers with the delightful name of Hilaria. We spoke to her over the phone, and arranged where to meet her ("a small blonde woman wearing a multicolored coat"). She called back just as we were leaving and told us she'd been booked to give a tour in Italian and would we mind joining that tour. We agreed, and set off. Domingo had suggested a parking lot near the start of the site, but Hilaria suggested meeting her at the far end of the site, near the temple of Juno. The site map suggested there was parking near the temple, but as we've found with many tourist sites in Sicily, the map and signage are not of the finest quality... There was no parking to be found, and we had to return to the first lot.
Having lost 10 minutes fruitlessly searching for closer parking, we ended up at the far end of the site from our guide. This led to a 15-minute power march uphill to meet her before she had to begin her tour. (Although the site is technically a "valley", because it lies below the steep hills below Agrigento, it's actually on a tall and long ridge that slopes gently but noticeably upward to the east.) We arrived sweatily at the temple in plenty of time, but then faced the problem of finding our guide. Shoshanna veered uphill, and I continued on, and eventually we found her, standing with an Italian family, with four kids ranging in age from about 10 to about 4. After taking a moment to catch our breath, we set off.
Hilaria spoke mostly Italian, but spoke slowly and clearly enough that our combination of Italian, knowledge of French cognates, and knowledge of things Greek let us figure out most of what she was saying. Plus, she was happy to answer questions in English and threw in occasional English translations, although many of them were for things we'd already figured out.
The temples were constructed during the period of Greek dominance of Sicily, before ca. 406 BC, when the Carthaginians sacked and burned the site. This was part of the longer-term process that eventually brought the Carthaginians into conflict with the Romans and led to the Punic wars over dominance of this part of the Mediterranean. (A gross oversimplification, but broadly correct.) Our guidebook notes that many of the red streaks on the stones resulted from the Carthaginian fires.
Most of the ruins really are ruins, with not much standing, but some parts are really well preserved ("really" being relative, of course) given that they're 2500 years old and were sacked. The Temple of Concord is best preserved, at least in part because it was subsequently adopted as a Christian church and probably repaired. Because the main rock used for the structures was sandstone, the Greeks knew that Mediterranean rains would quickly erode the stone, so they coated most of the surfaces that were not built with more decorative materials such as marble using a sort of plaster. Though the golden and toast-brown sandstone is lovely in its own right, particularly when seen from enough distance to soften the outlines and conceal the damage caused by time, Hilaria reminded us that the original plaster would have been brightly colored, with white for most of the surfaces, and blue and red highlights. The monolithic architecture is impressive enough, particularly the temple of Zeus, which was close to the size of a soccer field when it was still standing. Mostly it now does the Ozymandias thing, reminding us of the transience of even the most important things we build with our hands. Ideas, of course, last longer because they are passed from heart to heart and renewed with each new generation.
Hilaria was knowledgable and energetic,and was particularly good with the kids. The two younger ones, in particular, were a handful... clambering over everything, insisting on holding her hands, taking constant videos of her with their cell phones. Eventually, she'd had enough and taught them the "cut!" gesture film directors use to indicate the end of a scene. They were actually quite good about taking direction.
After the tour, we found a nice shady olive grove in the middle of the temple of Zeus, and sat down in the shade (me) and sun (Shoshanna) for a small lunch. We do such compromises well, we two.
We'd originally intended to visit the botanical gardens on the site, but it was already early afternoon, the weather was turning towards rain faster than the morning forecast had suggested, and we wanted to get to the Macalube site before the weather changed and made it difficult to see the site. We headed off into the countryside, and despite the reassurances offered by the tourist brochures, the signposting was appalling. For major intersections, there was often (but by no means always) a sign; for minor intersections, and particularly the crucial ones closest to the site, nada. As a result, we ended up on a one-lane cart track in the middle of nowhere, and almost got bogged down in the mud. fortunately, Shoshanna was driving this leg of the trip, and she's far better with a standard transmission than I am.
Another word in favor of GPS: we'd never have found the place without it.
Macalube isn't large (perhaps only a hectare and a bit for the actual volcanelle area), and it's well concealed by the gently rolling grasslands that surround it. It's also no Yellowstone: there are no sky-high eruptions in evidence, nor are there any towering mounds. But there is a large deposit on the northeastern side that greatly resembles a lava flow, heaped up about 3 feet tall uphill of the main active area. The active principle here is based on a layer of salt water trapped between two layers of sandy clay and heated by a volcanic source. When the water is heated sufficiently, trapped gases (mostly methane) build up enough pressure to force water to the surface, carrying a slurry of suspended clays.
Mostly what you see is an expense of sun-dried cracked mud, punctuated by small hillocks -- typically not much more than a metre across, and usually smaller, and usually only a couple inches above the surrounding surface. Here and there are small openings that seethe and bubble and periodically emit a flow of slurry that dries as it moves downslope, gradually coming to resemble a flow of lava. Ther's no sulfur smell, but possibly a faint metallic tang. In hindsight, it reminded me strongly of a grade-school diorama of a geyser field. I suspect that over time, the mounds build up in height, and possibly clog, leading to true eruptions. But mostly, it's a quiet sort of display, cool mostly for what it represents (cool geology and the lingering effects of vulcanism far from Aetna) than for any overt spectacle.
As the weather was starting to turn, with threatening clouds building in the distance, we decided to call it a day. We came home with our boots caked in clay, because even when you step carefully on what appears to be a dry surface crust, sometimes you end up sinking an inch or two. By the time we got home, the clay had dried like iron, and the next morning, Domingo smiled knowingly about our "souvenir of Macalube", and handed us a narrow screwdriver and wire brush to remove the hardened residues.
That night, we planned to go for dinner at Trattoria Caico, at the far end of the Lungomare (the stretch of waterfront properties that would probably be a boardwalk in North America). To our surprise, the strip that had seemed deader than the Jersey shore during the winter on Saturday night had suddenly, on Sunday night, exploded into life. A street market had sprung up all along the shore, with vendors (mostly Black African immigrants) selling a range of costume jewelry (some of it actually quite nice), plastic doodads, bootleg music, and all kinds of miscellaneous junk. A great many poor-quality knockoffs, including "Adidas" shoes with only two stripes and what appeared to be the Yves St. Laurent logo with the Y replaced by a V. But the best of the best was the "silk" "Burberry" scarf Shoshanna bought to go with the fake Burberry jacket she bought in Xian a few years ago. The vendor wanted 15 euros for it, and we said no. To help Shoshanna's bargaining position, I pointed out the soft inner lining of her coat to the vendor. "Touch, this," said I. "This is real Burberry. That scarf isn't." Amused the hell out of me, but clearly he had no idea what I found so funny. Shoshanna eventually returned and bought the scarf for 5 euros.
We stopped at Ragno Oro, a gelateria that also served coffee, for a pre-dinner espresso and some people watching. In addition to all the people crowding the streets, the roads were bumper to bumper with cars going in both directions. Mostly guys driving their dates around, but also a few families. The gelateria was playing "greatest hits of Geoff and Shoshanna's high school years" (Styx, Led Zeppelin, Dooby Brothers, Bob Seger, Queen), so we both rocked out and lip-synched, undoubtedly to the great amusement of all the local teens, who were all out parading themselves like peacocks.
We eventually wandered off to Caico, and arrived just before the 8 PM rush. Many tables were already reserved, and we got one of the last open tables. I had a lovely pasta with eggplant and rosé sauce for my primo, and Shoshanna had ravioli stuffed with fish,so we shared a bit. I've got to say, there's nothing like fresh pasta. It's going to be awfully hard returning to dried President's Choice. Nothing against the Prez, but dried isn't even remotely in the same league as the real McCoy (you should pardon the mixed ethnic metaphor).
Our table was not in a prime location, since it was right next to the two doors into the kitchen, but from a people-watching perspective, it was prime real estate. In addition to getting to watch the two very busy waiters, we got to watch the owner and his two sons (who I'd estimate at around 8 and 6 years old). The owner mostly played traffic cop, directing traffic and taking an occasional order when the waiters were clearly overwhelmed, and his two kids mostly played around underfoot, until the male waiter got fed up and started putting them to work. They carried order forms back to the kitchen, and bused a few tables, one dish or a couple wine glasses at a time. Mostly they just shadowed the two waiters, playing at the job and possibly even learning something along the way. The male waiter was primarily in charge of uncorking the wine, and did so with the ease of long practice, making it seem no more difficult and time-consuming than twitching the head off of a dandelion.
Ended our day with a leisurely saunter home along the now mostly deserted lungomare.
Having lost 10 minutes fruitlessly searching for closer parking, we ended up at the far end of the site from our guide. This led to a 15-minute power march uphill to meet her before she had to begin her tour. (Although the site is technically a "valley", because it lies below the steep hills below Agrigento, it's actually on a tall and long ridge that slopes gently but noticeably upward to the east.) We arrived sweatily at the temple in plenty of time, but then faced the problem of finding our guide. Shoshanna veered uphill, and I continued on, and eventually we found her, standing with an Italian family, with four kids ranging in age from about 10 to about 4. After taking a moment to catch our breath, we set off.
Hilaria spoke mostly Italian, but spoke slowly and clearly enough that our combination of Italian, knowledge of French cognates, and knowledge of things Greek let us figure out most of what she was saying. Plus, she was happy to answer questions in English and threw in occasional English translations, although many of them were for things we'd already figured out.
The temples were constructed during the period of Greek dominance of Sicily, before ca. 406 BC, when the Carthaginians sacked and burned the site. This was part of the longer-term process that eventually brought the Carthaginians into conflict with the Romans and led to the Punic wars over dominance of this part of the Mediterranean. (A gross oversimplification, but broadly correct.) Our guidebook notes that many of the red streaks on the stones resulted from the Carthaginian fires.
Most of the ruins really are ruins, with not much standing, but some parts are really well preserved ("really" being relative, of course) given that they're 2500 years old and were sacked. The Temple of Concord is best preserved, at least in part because it was subsequently adopted as a Christian church and probably repaired. Because the main rock used for the structures was sandstone, the Greeks knew that Mediterranean rains would quickly erode the stone, so they coated most of the surfaces that were not built with more decorative materials such as marble using a sort of plaster. Though the golden and toast-brown sandstone is lovely in its own right, particularly when seen from enough distance to soften the outlines and conceal the damage caused by time, Hilaria reminded us that the original plaster would have been brightly colored, with white for most of the surfaces, and blue and red highlights. The monolithic architecture is impressive enough, particularly the temple of Zeus, which was close to the size of a soccer field when it was still standing. Mostly it now does the Ozymandias thing, reminding us of the transience of even the most important things we build with our hands. Ideas, of course, last longer because they are passed from heart to heart and renewed with each new generation.
Hilaria was knowledgable and energetic,and was particularly good with the kids. The two younger ones, in particular, were a handful... clambering over everything, insisting on holding her hands, taking constant videos of her with their cell phones. Eventually, she'd had enough and taught them the "cut!" gesture film directors use to indicate the end of a scene. They were actually quite good about taking direction.
After the tour, we found a nice shady olive grove in the middle of the temple of Zeus, and sat down in the shade (me) and sun (Shoshanna) for a small lunch. We do such compromises well, we two.
We'd originally intended to visit the botanical gardens on the site, but it was already early afternoon, the weather was turning towards rain faster than the morning forecast had suggested, and we wanted to get to the Macalube site before the weather changed and made it difficult to see the site. We headed off into the countryside, and despite the reassurances offered by the tourist brochures, the signposting was appalling. For major intersections, there was often (but by no means always) a sign; for minor intersections, and particularly the crucial ones closest to the site, nada. As a result, we ended up on a one-lane cart track in the middle of nowhere, and almost got bogged down in the mud. fortunately, Shoshanna was driving this leg of the trip, and she's far better with a standard transmission than I am.
Another word in favor of GPS: we'd never have found the place without it.
Macalube isn't large (perhaps only a hectare and a bit for the actual volcanelle area), and it's well concealed by the gently rolling grasslands that surround it. It's also no Yellowstone: there are no sky-high eruptions in evidence, nor are there any towering mounds. But there is a large deposit on the northeastern side that greatly resembles a lava flow, heaped up about 3 feet tall uphill of the main active area. The active principle here is based on a layer of salt water trapped between two layers of sandy clay and heated by a volcanic source. When the water is heated sufficiently, trapped gases (mostly methane) build up enough pressure to force water to the surface, carrying a slurry of suspended clays.
Mostly what you see is an expense of sun-dried cracked mud, punctuated by small hillocks -- typically not much more than a metre across, and usually smaller, and usually only a couple inches above the surrounding surface. Here and there are small openings that seethe and bubble and periodically emit a flow of slurry that dries as it moves downslope, gradually coming to resemble a flow of lava. Ther's no sulfur smell, but possibly a faint metallic tang. In hindsight, it reminded me strongly of a grade-school diorama of a geyser field. I suspect that over time, the mounds build up in height, and possibly clog, leading to true eruptions. But mostly, it's a quiet sort of display, cool mostly for what it represents (cool geology and the lingering effects of vulcanism far from Aetna) than for any overt spectacle.
As the weather was starting to turn, with threatening clouds building in the distance, we decided to call it a day. We came home with our boots caked in clay, because even when you step carefully on what appears to be a dry surface crust, sometimes you end up sinking an inch or two. By the time we got home, the clay had dried like iron, and the next morning, Domingo smiled knowingly about our "souvenir of Macalube", and handed us a narrow screwdriver and wire brush to remove the hardened residues.
That night, we planned to go for dinner at Trattoria Caico, at the far end of the Lungomare (the stretch of waterfront properties that would probably be a boardwalk in North America). To our surprise, the strip that had seemed deader than the Jersey shore during the winter on Saturday night had suddenly, on Sunday night, exploded into life. A street market had sprung up all along the shore, with vendors (mostly Black African immigrants) selling a range of costume jewelry (some of it actually quite nice), plastic doodads, bootleg music, and all kinds of miscellaneous junk. A great many poor-quality knockoffs, including "Adidas" shoes with only two stripes and what appeared to be the Yves St. Laurent logo with the Y replaced by a V. But the best of the best was the "silk" "Burberry" scarf Shoshanna bought to go with the fake Burberry jacket she bought in Xian a few years ago. The vendor wanted 15 euros for it, and we said no. To help Shoshanna's bargaining position, I pointed out the soft inner lining of her coat to the vendor. "Touch, this," said I. "This is real Burberry. That scarf isn't." Amused the hell out of me, but clearly he had no idea what I found so funny. Shoshanna eventually returned and bought the scarf for 5 euros.
We stopped at Ragno Oro, a gelateria that also served coffee, for a pre-dinner espresso and some people watching. In addition to all the people crowding the streets, the roads were bumper to bumper with cars going in both directions. Mostly guys driving their dates around, but also a few families. The gelateria was playing "greatest hits of Geoff and Shoshanna's high school years" (Styx, Led Zeppelin, Dooby Brothers, Bob Seger, Queen), so we both rocked out and lip-synched, undoubtedly to the great amusement of all the local teens, who were all out parading themselves like peacocks.
We eventually wandered off to Caico, and arrived just before the 8 PM rush. Many tables were already reserved, and we got one of the last open tables. I had a lovely pasta with eggplant and rosé sauce for my primo, and Shoshanna had ravioli stuffed with fish,so we shared a bit. I've got to say, there's nothing like fresh pasta. It's going to be awfully hard returning to dried President's Choice. Nothing against the Prez, but dried isn't even remotely in the same league as the real McCoy (you should pardon the mixed ethnic metaphor).
Our table was not in a prime location, since it was right next to the two doors into the kitchen, but from a people-watching perspective, it was prime real estate. In addition to getting to watch the two very busy waiters, we got to watch the owner and his two sons (who I'd estimate at around 8 and 6 years old). The owner mostly played traffic cop, directing traffic and taking an occasional order when the waiters were clearly overwhelmed, and his two kids mostly played around underfoot, until the male waiter got fed up and started putting them to work. They carried order forms back to the kitchen, and bused a few tables, one dish or a couple wine glasses at a time. Mostly they just shadowed the two waiters, playing at the job and possibly even learning something along the way. The male waiter was primarily in charge of uncorking the wine, and did so with the ease of long practice, making it seem no more difficult and time-consuming than twitching the head off of a dandelion.
Ended our day with a leisurely saunter home along the now mostly deserted lungomare.