Trapani Salina and Mozia
May. 5th, 2014 10:05 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
blatherskiteFor our final day in Sicily, we agreed that we should do something with relatively low stress, with a shorter day and an early return home. We chose to visit the salt-production facilities ("the salina") just south of Trapani, on Sicily’s western coast. In addition to the salina, there's also a short boat jaunt to an island formerly owned by an expat Englishman, Joseph Whitaker, who had discovered ancient ruins on the island and begun to excavate them. He made many significant archeological discoveries; specifically, he found an extensive set of Phoenician ruins from around the 7th century BC and earlier. At its peak, the island’s population is estimated to have reached more than 10 thousand people. As was the case in many other parts of Sicily and the central Mediterranean, many regional cultures fought over ownership of such key locations, with the goal of controlling key trade and supply routes. This led to many wars, large and small, over the centuries, and eventually to destruction of the Mozia settlement.
The only problem with our plans proved to be an unexpected (and unannounced) local holiday. I suspect this is one of those things where the local people know the holiday well, and feel no need to remind each other of the details. When we drove down the hill from our B&B after breakfast, we found the main path through town blocked off, and hordes of people walking into town, accompanied by an unending stream of cars driving up the alternate route that we were forced to take. We had no idea what this was about until Shoshanna recalled that it was May first, and we both agreed it was probably a May day celebration. (We subsequently confirmed this.) Sicily has a great many such surprises, and next time, we'll do a much better job of researching local holidays. As in so many previous cases, we found that a little patience behind the wheel of the car and being willing to take detours when necessary made a potentially serious frustration into a minor inconvenience.
Amusingly, as we drove past Erice on our way to the salina, we saw that despite its nearly vertical slopes on the northern, eastern, and southern sides, the western side had a relatively gentle slope down towards the sea -- a dramatic contrast to the Masada-like ascent and descent we endured during our visit on the previous day. I understand that the switchback system probably evolved from old livestock and cart tracks, but wouldn't you think that a modern highway engineer, faced with the challenge of creating a reliable road system to reach the city, would have chosen the simpler and easier seaward approach from the west? Apparently, non c'è la mentalitè.
We found the salina site with no problems, and got there early enough to beat the mad rush of other tourists, which means that we found a good parking spot right near the site. Although I prefer to sleep late when I’m on vacation, since I can’t do that during the rest of the year, I’ve learned that it’s better to sacrifice some sleep and get on the road early to avoid the worst crush of tourists.
As we left the car, we were accosted by an authoritative-seeming man who requested a fee of one euro for the parking. There was no sign stating that we had chosen the paid parking lot, but he did such a good job of seeming credible, and the fee was so low, that we handed him a euro. I suspect he was simply supplementing his income rather than actually collecting a legitimate fee, but I can admire a good con job if nobody gets hurt.
The salina was interesting, but not so much that we both wanted to pay another dozen euros for the tour and museum; my thought was that we'd already seen salt operations a few years earlier in Provence, and Shoshanna wasn't horribly upset at the prospect of missing the museum. So we contented ourselves with a quick browse of the gift shop and purchasing a batch of sea salt for our friends and family.
Instead we chose to focus on the Whitaker museum. There was a pleasant 10-minute boat ride through a carefully marked channel, the care being necessitated by the fact that the Phoenicians had constructed a causeway to the island through the shallow waters, and most of the rocks remained in place to this day. The rocks near the surface force boats to navigate around this area to avoid the risk of running aground. The island itself is relatively small (less than 1 km on a side, so you can walk entirely around it in an hour or two), and is pleasantly covered in a range of vegetation, including figs, olives, palms, and a wide variety of lowlying vegetation that is capable of surviving the dry environment and the probably high salinity of the soils. Our most amusing discovery was that the local terrestrial snails seem to love the ubiquitous wild giant fennel. Most of the fennel plants have their own colony of snails perched precariously amidst the flower stalks. The only other plants that seemed to host snails were occasional large agaves.
We had a pleasant stroll along the shoreline of the island and through the interior. The museum itself was a pleasure, easily one of the best we saw during our trip. The excavations and ruins out in the wilderness surrounding the Whitaker estate and the museum buildings are well-signposted and well-described, and Whitaker and his successors have done a remarkable job of collecting artefacts from the ruins. There are all the usual things you'd expect from a site where the youngest parts are more than 2500 years old: pottery fragments rebuilt into pots and other objects with a range of ages and styles, as well as a few intact pieces; various corroded bits of bronze and iron; a few pieces of jewelry that had been buried with its owner; and column bases or capitols and other ornamental stonework. One of the highlights of the collection is a nearly complete, larger than life statue of a youth, which is known as “the Giovanni” (the Italian word for "young"). it reminded me powerfully of Michelangelo's David. There were several intact smaller sculptures of faces that showed a skillful ability to capture the personality of the subject, and several elegant vases, pitchers, and bowls. It's a nice reminder of how skilled supposedly "primitive" craftsmen were.
Driving home at the end of the day was simple and straightforward, right up to the point were we arrived below Scopello and ran into both the people leaving from the day’s celebrations and people still trying to get there before everything was over. The roads, which are too narrow at the best of times, were a disaster as a result of illegally parked cars that further narrowed the road, oblivious pedestrians wandering in the middle of the road and paying no attention to the cars around them, confused and overstimulated dogs that were wandering in and out of the cars and people, and steep slopes with blind turns. Somehow Shoshanna managed to navigate us through this mess.
We both agreed there was no hope finding parking anywhere near the town itself, and that we'd need to stretch our legs before spending another 20 hours traveling the following day, so we drove back to the B&B, parked, changed into cleaner clothes, and walked back into town. We had no idea whether it would be possible to get a table for dinner in town, but because we had seen a waiter from the Trattoria standing outside the door, watching the crowds, we had some hope that most people were only there for the day, not for dinner. We arrived at the Trattoria around 6:30, and asked whether a table might be available. They offered to reserve a table for us at 7:30, which was early enough, so we reserved a table and set out to see what all the fuss was about.
We wandered into the tiny piazza that forms the heart of Scopello, and found that apart from a tiny farm stand and a vendor selling roasted nuts from a cart, there were no overt signs of any kind of celebration. Yet despite this, hundreds of people had descended on this tiny town on a Friday for no apparent reason other than to throng the three short streets and do the passeggiata thing (i.e., wander so that they could be seen, or sit and sip drinks while watching the other people). There were about four shops selling souvenirs, and we exhausted their browsing possibilities in about 15 minutses, so we decided to join the locals in people-watching. We rented a table in the piazza by buying a beer, which we shared, and settled in to enjoy the show.
As in other cities where we've gone to watch the wanderers, it's a good show. Everyone is out there strutting their stuff, while also keeping an eye on the competition. There's a wide range of fashion sense, some of it questionable (stilletto heels so thin and high that the shoes would have crippled a ballerina, even if they hadn’t been walking on an uneven cobblestoned piazza) and some of it demonstrating that if you've got the right body language and attitude (poise), you can carry off just about any wardrobe.
My favorite sight was a group of late-teen or early-20s boys, showing off their best strutting clothes and admiring one guy's new tattoo. As they stood around doing the male-bonding thing, a much younger boy (probably around 8, and seemingly the brother of at least one of them), ran up and flung himself into the arms of a couple of the boys for a big hug. Then he stood back a bit while the older boys resumed their dialogue, unconsciously emulating their postures and listening carefully to their conversation.
After a half hour or so, we wandered over to the Trattoria, and had another lovely dinner: two dishes that we shared. We had taglietelli alla norma (a signature Sicilian pasta dish based on rosé sauce with sautéed eggplant) and the grilled pescespada (swordfish). We also asked for a side order (a contorni) of french fries, because we were both suffering from potato withdrawal and wanted something crisp and salty after a day in the hot sun. All of the food was lovely, washed down by a shared beer, the standard Moretti brand that is simple and unostentatious. All in all, a fine last meal in Sicily.
By the time we were done, we were more than full, and had no need of dessert. Night had fallen, and the sun had set behind the mountain we were climbing on our way home, so we had a lovely starlit walk up the hill to the B&B: a crystal-clear crescent moon that fell below the rim of the mountains as we climbed, combined with rich, deep blue skies above us, fading to black behind us to reveal a scattering of light all along the Golfo Castellamare. Purely lovely.
The only problem with our plans proved to be an unexpected (and unannounced) local holiday. I suspect this is one of those things where the local people know the holiday well, and feel no need to remind each other of the details. When we drove down the hill from our B&B after breakfast, we found the main path through town blocked off, and hordes of people walking into town, accompanied by an unending stream of cars driving up the alternate route that we were forced to take. We had no idea what this was about until Shoshanna recalled that it was May first, and we both agreed it was probably a May day celebration. (We subsequently confirmed this.) Sicily has a great many such surprises, and next time, we'll do a much better job of researching local holidays. As in so many previous cases, we found that a little patience behind the wheel of the car and being willing to take detours when necessary made a potentially serious frustration into a minor inconvenience.
Amusingly, as we drove past Erice on our way to the salina, we saw that despite its nearly vertical slopes on the northern, eastern, and southern sides, the western side had a relatively gentle slope down towards the sea -- a dramatic contrast to the Masada-like ascent and descent we endured during our visit on the previous day. I understand that the switchback system probably evolved from old livestock and cart tracks, but wouldn't you think that a modern highway engineer, faced with the challenge of creating a reliable road system to reach the city, would have chosen the simpler and easier seaward approach from the west? Apparently, non c'è la mentalitè.
We found the salina site with no problems, and got there early enough to beat the mad rush of other tourists, which means that we found a good parking spot right near the site. Although I prefer to sleep late when I’m on vacation, since I can’t do that during the rest of the year, I’ve learned that it’s better to sacrifice some sleep and get on the road early to avoid the worst crush of tourists.
As we left the car, we were accosted by an authoritative-seeming man who requested a fee of one euro for the parking. There was no sign stating that we had chosen the paid parking lot, but he did such a good job of seeming credible, and the fee was so low, that we handed him a euro. I suspect he was simply supplementing his income rather than actually collecting a legitimate fee, but I can admire a good con job if nobody gets hurt.
The salina was interesting, but not so much that we both wanted to pay another dozen euros for the tour and museum; my thought was that we'd already seen salt operations a few years earlier in Provence, and Shoshanna wasn't horribly upset at the prospect of missing the museum. So we contented ourselves with a quick browse of the gift shop and purchasing a batch of sea salt for our friends and family.
Instead we chose to focus on the Whitaker museum. There was a pleasant 10-minute boat ride through a carefully marked channel, the care being necessitated by the fact that the Phoenicians had constructed a causeway to the island through the shallow waters, and most of the rocks remained in place to this day. The rocks near the surface force boats to navigate around this area to avoid the risk of running aground. The island itself is relatively small (less than 1 km on a side, so you can walk entirely around it in an hour or two), and is pleasantly covered in a range of vegetation, including figs, olives, palms, and a wide variety of lowlying vegetation that is capable of surviving the dry environment and the probably high salinity of the soils. Our most amusing discovery was that the local terrestrial snails seem to love the ubiquitous wild giant fennel. Most of the fennel plants have their own colony of snails perched precariously amidst the flower stalks. The only other plants that seemed to host snails were occasional large agaves.
We had a pleasant stroll along the shoreline of the island and through the interior. The museum itself was a pleasure, easily one of the best we saw during our trip. The excavations and ruins out in the wilderness surrounding the Whitaker estate and the museum buildings are well-signposted and well-described, and Whitaker and his successors have done a remarkable job of collecting artefacts from the ruins. There are all the usual things you'd expect from a site where the youngest parts are more than 2500 years old: pottery fragments rebuilt into pots and other objects with a range of ages and styles, as well as a few intact pieces; various corroded bits of bronze and iron; a few pieces of jewelry that had been buried with its owner; and column bases or capitols and other ornamental stonework. One of the highlights of the collection is a nearly complete, larger than life statue of a youth, which is known as “the Giovanni” (the Italian word for "young"). it reminded me powerfully of Michelangelo's David. There were several intact smaller sculptures of faces that showed a skillful ability to capture the personality of the subject, and several elegant vases, pitchers, and bowls. It's a nice reminder of how skilled supposedly "primitive" craftsmen were.
Driving home at the end of the day was simple and straightforward, right up to the point were we arrived below Scopello and ran into both the people leaving from the day’s celebrations and people still trying to get there before everything was over. The roads, which are too narrow at the best of times, were a disaster as a result of illegally parked cars that further narrowed the road, oblivious pedestrians wandering in the middle of the road and paying no attention to the cars around them, confused and overstimulated dogs that were wandering in and out of the cars and people, and steep slopes with blind turns. Somehow Shoshanna managed to navigate us through this mess.
We both agreed there was no hope finding parking anywhere near the town itself, and that we'd need to stretch our legs before spending another 20 hours traveling the following day, so we drove back to the B&B, parked, changed into cleaner clothes, and walked back into town. We had no idea whether it would be possible to get a table for dinner in town, but because we had seen a waiter from the Trattoria standing outside the door, watching the crowds, we had some hope that most people were only there for the day, not for dinner. We arrived at the Trattoria around 6:30, and asked whether a table might be available. They offered to reserve a table for us at 7:30, which was early enough, so we reserved a table and set out to see what all the fuss was about.
We wandered into the tiny piazza that forms the heart of Scopello, and found that apart from a tiny farm stand and a vendor selling roasted nuts from a cart, there were no overt signs of any kind of celebration. Yet despite this, hundreds of people had descended on this tiny town on a Friday for no apparent reason other than to throng the three short streets and do the passeggiata thing (i.e., wander so that they could be seen, or sit and sip drinks while watching the other people). There were about four shops selling souvenirs, and we exhausted their browsing possibilities in about 15 minutses, so we decided to join the locals in people-watching. We rented a table in the piazza by buying a beer, which we shared, and settled in to enjoy the show.
As in other cities where we've gone to watch the wanderers, it's a good show. Everyone is out there strutting their stuff, while also keeping an eye on the competition. There's a wide range of fashion sense, some of it questionable (stilletto heels so thin and high that the shoes would have crippled a ballerina, even if they hadn’t been walking on an uneven cobblestoned piazza) and some of it demonstrating that if you've got the right body language and attitude (poise), you can carry off just about any wardrobe.
My favorite sight was a group of late-teen or early-20s boys, showing off their best strutting clothes and admiring one guy's new tattoo. As they stood around doing the male-bonding thing, a much younger boy (probably around 8, and seemingly the brother of at least one of them), ran up and flung himself into the arms of a couple of the boys for a big hug. Then he stood back a bit while the older boys resumed their dialogue, unconsciously emulating their postures and listening carefully to their conversation.
After a half hour or so, we wandered over to the Trattoria, and had another lovely dinner: two dishes that we shared. We had taglietelli alla norma (a signature Sicilian pasta dish based on rosé sauce with sautéed eggplant) and the grilled pescespada (swordfish). We also asked for a side order (a contorni) of french fries, because we were both suffering from potato withdrawal and wanted something crisp and salty after a day in the hot sun. All of the food was lovely, washed down by a shared beer, the standard Moretti brand that is simple and unostentatious. All in all, a fine last meal in Sicily.
By the time we were done, we were more than full, and had no need of dessert. Night had fallen, and the sun had set behind the mountain we were climbing on our way home, so we had a lovely starlit walk up the hill to the B&B: a crystal-clear crescent moon that fell below the rim of the mountains as we climbed, combined with rich, deep blue skies above us, fading to black behind us to reveal a scattering of light all along the Golfo Castellamare. Purely lovely.