A Not So Lonely Planet

by Karina Kennedy

  Chapter 29

  How Not to Be a Prize

  Caffé Del Duomo, Catania: Saturday, 12:05 p.m.

  I should: enjoy sitting in the cute little outdoor café on the square, drink my caffè latte, and eat my traditional Sicilian pastry without asking any questions.

  Instead I: wonder aloud why every pastry shop on every street corner in Catania is selling this same pastry, which I saw nowhere in mainland Italy.

  “Minnuzzi di sant’Àjita are traditional pastries of Sicily,” says Akio. Luigi points to a plate on the bar counter that has two minnuzzi sitting next to each other.

  “What do they look like?” he asks me. It seems painfully clear. Two white, perfectly shaped mounds with bright red cherries in the center of each.

  “Breasts,” I say reluctantly.

  “Sì, esatto. Little breasts!” says Akio.

  “I’m eating a little breast?” I ask with a smile, as I take another bite of mine. “Feels kind of dirty,” I joke. “Why breasts? Where are the pastry penises?” Both of the brothers laugh as I lick the cherry off.

  “St. Agata is the patron saint of Catania,” explains Luigi. “When she refused the affections of a rich and powerful man, her breasts were cut off.” Suddenly, I stop smiling. The sanguine cherry in my mouth now tastes vile, the seed of misogyny. I spit it into the potted bush next to us. Both brothers stare at me, wide-eyed.

  “Are you kidding me? Every pastry shop in Sicily has breast-shaped pastries because some rich asshole got his ego bruised and hacked off some poor girl’s tits? That’s awful. It’s not a joke.”

  “Yes. Is awful,” Akio agrees. They’re both looking quite sheepish.

  “But is in honor of her. The city loves St. Agata,” says Luigi.

  “Okay, well let’s cut off your dick then and we can honor you by making pastry penises and selling them in all the shops,” I suggest. He winces at the suggestion.

  “No, is not the same,” says Akio.

  “It’s exactly the same,” I protest.

  “No. Nobody want to eat a penis . . . is ugly, not beautiful and delicious.”

  “Mine is,” says Luigi. He raises his eyebrows with a smile. “Actually, mine also,” says Akio. “But mine is more beautiful,” says Luigi.

  “Mine is more delicious,” says Akio. I look at both of them, trying to keep my mad face on. I fail, cracking up.

  Since I’ve no “Woman of Influence” for Sicily yet, I decide Agatha’s story needs more investigation and ask the boys to take me to the library. As we leave the café, I forget to check my phone. I’m now a woman on a mission.

  Biblioteche Riunite Civica e A. Ursino Recupero, Catania: Saturday, 1:31 p.m.

  Every now and then, the very lucky traveler, not afraid to stray from the worn and beaten paths of tourists, will stumble upon a magical, breathtaking place the locals keep to themselves. The United Libraries of Civica and A Ursino in Catania is stunning both inside and out. As we walk into the Sala Vaccarini, we enter what feels like a two-story ballroom with an ornate domed and frescoed ceiling. Walls are lined with towering antique, dark wooden bookshelves, and row upon row of antique books ensconced safely behind glass. High, round windows let in natural light, and there is currently an exhibit of paintings on display. To my delight, they’re all various artists’ portraits of St. Agatha. This is a sign. Some are more modern interpretations. In one she seems to be wearing a Madonna-like bra. And I don’t mean the mother of Jesus. I need to find out who this woman was.

  Because most of the books are locked away, we must get a bibliotecario (librarian) to help us find a few books with information on Agatha. And because these books are very old, we must use white linen gloves when handling them. I can’t type any notes on my tablet’s touch screen while wearing these gloves, so I decide to let the boys handle the books. The books are all in Italian, so the brothers read them to me. Like everything else between them, this quickly becomes a contest. Each brother tries to find the best picture, the juiciest facts or bits of story.

  NOTES ON ITALIAN WOMAN OF INFLUENCE: Saint Agatha

  1. Believed to have been born in 231 to a rich and noble Sicilian family.

  2. Notable for her beauty, she became a consecrated virgin, choosing to remain celibate and dedicating her life to Jesus, the Church, and prayer.

  3. Many men still made unwanted advances, and Quintianus, a high-ranking diplomat, continually made proposals trying to force her to marry him.

  4. During the persecution of Christians by the Roman Emperor Decius, many Christians were imprisoned. Quintianus had Agatha arrested and brought before a judge.

  5. Quintianus thought she’d renounce her beliefs, but she only reaffirmed her commitment to God and prayed for courage.

  6. She was sent to Aphrodisia, the madam of a brothel. Here she suffered assaults to force her to drop her vows (saint of rape victims). She did not.

  7. To intimidate her, Quintianus imprisoned Agatha and tortured her: stretched on a rack, burned, whipped, sliced with hooks.

  8. Finally her breasts were cut off, and she was imprisoned with no food or medical care (saint of breast cancer patients). It is believed Agatha had a vision of St. Peter, who healed her wounds.

  9. Quintianus then had her rolled naked over burning coals (saint of fire victims) and ordered her burned at the stake. It is believed an earthquake saved her from this fate (saint of earthquake victims).

  10. Although she’s a well-respected martyr and official Catholic saint, there are no reliable specifics about her death. She’s thought to have died in prison around age twenty.

  Rifugio Sapienza, 10,000 feet up: Saturday, 4:25 p.m.

  I’ve had the entire drive up Mt. Etna to mull over the gruesome story of Agatha. Men still do such horrible things to women who reject them, and they get away with it. It’s only now that some of the richest, strongest, and most famous sexual abusers have begun to fall that women are finding the courage to speak out. Will it take another thousand years to stop it completely? I realize with a mixture of guilt and gratitude how new, precious, and hard-won my own sexual freedom actually is. I have the freedom to travel alone. The freedom to choose (more than once, if I like). I have the sexual freedom of a man. Almost. I will not take this for granted.

  From my vantage point at the outdoor picnic table, I look through the open doorway at the brothers, buying a late lunch for us inside. Neither of them has backed me into any dimly lit corners or become aggressive in any way. They’re good boys, who probably don’t even fancy me that much. It’s just a game. A competition to please their father, like everything else.

  Right now, they’re arguing over which wine to order for our little lunch at this rustic restaurant and lodge where we stopped to hike. It is more like an alpine ski hostel. But thankfully there’s no snow. I look out and take a deep breath. There are huge swatches of wooded areas with beautiful trees that make marvelous shushing noises as the wind blows. A pristine haven on an active volcano that has erupted many times, killing over 35,000 people. Good place for a picnic. A faint buzz brings me back from my mental flight. A message!

  Estou bem sem você,

  Como uma rosa sem espinho.

  Como uma festa sem vinho.

  Eu estou bem.

  Spanish? I see Akio coming out with the food so I quickly cut and paste it into my translation app. Apparently it’s Portuguese.

  I am fine without you,

  Like a rose without a thorn.

  Like a party without wine.

  I am fine.

  Another song? I quickly search this online but don’t get far.

  “Hungry?” asks Akio. “The kitchen is closed. I make us a picnic from the shop. Luigi is picking some wine for us. He takes forever always.”

  “You balance those trays like a professional,” I say, slipping my phone back into my bag. He places items around the table: fruit, cheeses, meat, bread, olives, etc.

  “Since I was eleven I worked as a waiter. My zia has a restaurant.” />
  “That why you want to become a chef?”

  “No. She only serves traditional Italian, boring things.”

  “Where I come from ‘traditional Italian’ comes from a jar, gets dumped into a pot, and warmed up.” I laugh. He looks bewildered as he peels an orange.

  “But this is sad. Cooking is choosing fresh gifts from the earth, from God, and combining them together in perfect portions and in wonderful ways to create something new and delicious.” He lights up as he speaks.

  “Sounds like alchemy.”

  “Sì, I am an alchemist,” he grins proudly. I feel a pang in my stomach, remembering I’ve given away the book Will gave me. “Cooking is a combination of science, imagination, and art,” Akio continues earnestly. “Creating with food is the truest and most intimate form of art because it is always temporary. The act of appreciating it consumes it.” I watch him slice a small melon. “It will not hang on the wall of a cold museum to be stared at by strangers for years. It is an act of artistic expression to be created and enjoyed together.” His enthusiasm is catching. I watch him gift wrap a small chunk of melon with a paper-thin piece of prosciutto. Like a sculptor he carefully inserts a toothpick through an olive, then an orange wedge, and finally into the prosciutto-wrapped melon. His eyes sparkle as he proudly holds his en plein air mini masterpiece toward me. I reach for it. “You must take it all at once.”

  “That’s a huge bite!” I laugh.

  “Trust me,” he smiles. I put the whole thing in my mouth. As I bite through the salty ham, the sweetness of the melon explodes across my tongue. The crisp, sweet acid of the orange cuts through the tangy vinegar of the meaty, green olive. It’s wonderful.

  “È buono, sì? The flavors, they dance together, like a tango in your mouth. It is wonderful.”

  “Akio, you are wonderful,” I smile. He blinks his long, beautiful eyelashes at me, flashes his dimples, and then suddenly leans in and kisses me gently on the lips. It’s not a greedy kiss, but he lingers long enough to taste the olives and oranges. He sits back.

  “Sorry,” he says, a bit shyly. I smile but say nothing.

  “Non è niente,” I say, blushing a bit. I have now been kissed by two brothers. “Actually, it’s not nothing. It was very nice but . . . .” This could get dicey. I like them both. I’m not going to come between them. I notice, across the yard, Luigi emerging with a bottle of wine and three glasses.

  “Here comes your brother,” I say. Akio is suddenly very busy with the food as Luigi approaches.

  “Here is the wine,” Luigi says. “They had to go to the cellar to find the one I wanted.” He shows me the label.

  “Petite rouge—it’s French?”

  “French name, only for the sexiness. The soul is Italian.” I immediately think of Frantonio.

  “From Valle d’Aosta in North Italy . . . .” He goes on, but my brain is drifting. What song is this new one, and what does it mean?

  On the way down the mountain, I make the mistake of trying to search the song lyrics again. The winding road, wine, lunch, looking down at my phone . . . soon I’m on my hands and knees vomiting in the grass by the side of the road. Wasn’t I just doing this a week ago? I flashback to the party mobile with Yin and Yang. Maybe I should get a punch card. After your tenth roadside vomit, you get free breath mints and a smack in the head.

  “How long is the ride home?” I ask from my hands and knees.

  “Home?” Akio asks, surprised.

  “Not home, Taormina,” says Luigi.

  “You cannot miss Taormina. The most beautiful beaches in the world.”

  “I’m from the Florida Keys,” I remind them. “You don’t have beaches with ruins.”

  “You’d be surprised,” I say. “It’s after five, how far is Tasca D’Almerita?”

  “Around an hour,” Luigi says.

  “You say that for every destination,” I complain.

  “From here, one hour and twenty minutes,” Akio says, using his phone. “I want to take you to dinner at my friend’s restaurant. He is the chef for one of the most exclusive spots in Sicily. This vineyard is amazing.”

  “Well, I can’t say no to that,” I say, wiping the vomit from my chin.”

  “Maybe he can get us rooms,” suggests Luigi.”

  “Spend the night?” I ask.

  “Sì. If we are lucky. The hotel is very beautiful and the view è mozzafiato e romantico,” assures Luigi.

  “Romantic? That’s not the point. I’m not on a date,” I say.

  “Yes, you are on a . . . come si dice in America? A double date,” smiles Akio. Luigi laughs and winks at me. God help me.

  “We’re not going to spend the night,” I say.

  Tasca D’Almerita, Regaleali Estate: Saturday, 9:15 p.m.

  I should have: stuck to my guns and insisted we drive home so I could get some much-needed rest and work on my book.

  Instead: I’m wowed by an amazing dinner on the terrace of an exclusive vineyard hotel, Tasca D’Almerita. Normally you must book ages in advance for a table or room here, but Akio knows the chef so we are special guests. I’m impressed not only by the food, and the fantastic wine, but also by Tasca D’Almerita’s sustainable mission. Stunning photos of their breathtaking vineyard landscapes are embellished with quotes reflecting the ideals of caretaking, respect and the building of a better environmental future. The vibe is both traditional and progressive. I love it.

  Three glasses of wine and a complimentary grappa later, we have checked into rooms (separate ones) and are enjoying cocktails in the hot tub on the terrace at sunset. I fleetingly wonder if this was what Akio had in mind all along when he told me to pack my bathing suit and a change of clothes for “the beach.” But as I sink into the blissful hot water and sip my drink with a little umbrella, I decide not to care.

  Yes, more alcohol. But, this cocktail has ginger in it and is actually helping my stomach. The ancient hills blanketed with flourishing green vineyards and laced with roses of every color are now a soft shade of lavender under a majestic sky of dark purple clouds and the waning light of a magenta sun. How do people who live and work here see this living painting every day and not just stop what they’re doing and stare? How do you function in an ordinary life surrounded by extraordinary beauty? Then I remember where I grew up. I’m surrounded by beauty every day at home. How quickly it becomes the unnoticed wallpaper of your life. I vow to stop and stare at my next Key West sunset.

  “Is not the water too hot?” Akio asks me from his seat on the edge of the tub. Only his legs are in. Luigi sits on the other side of me in similar fashion. They also have cocktails with umbrellas, and they keep scooping handfuls of water onto their bare chests to make sure I’m getting the full effect of their glistening pecks and abs. I’m not a prize, I remind myself. Sip. Akio smiles and slides down into the water next to me. I feel his foot touching mine. Sip.

  “Or are we too hot for you?” Luigi laughs as he slides down into the water on my other side. Sip. His muscular thigh touches my leg under the water. His gorgeously broad shoulder touches mine. Sip. Sip.

  “Is this why you cannot choose?” asks Akio, sliding closer to me. Sip. His long, curly eyelashes blink at me. Sip, sip. This is not working.

  “We can flip a coin,” Luigi suggests as my eyes follow a drop of water from his sandy blonde hair, down his neck, across his collarbone, and down his chest. Sip. I’m rapidly losing conviction. I Date like a Man. Right? If a man were sitting here with two sisters, there would be no debate. He would fuck them both. Probably together. Sip, sip. So why did I care? Maybe I don’t date like a man. Maybe not all men are mansluts. Then I remember; it’s a game to them.

  “This competition is ridiculous. I’m not a prize to be won! Surely you see what this fruitless, endless quest to please your father is doing to you both? He’s never going to be happy. Trust me. I know fathers like him. You’ve got to stop caring so much what he thinks and just be who you are. Live your own lives!” The heat and alcohol are maki
ng me light-headed and the sexual tension is making me crazy. Both brothers stare at me, stupefied. They look at each other and then back to me.

  “You are right,” Akio says. “We care too much what father thinks.”

  “It’s always been like this,” admits Luigi.

  “Aren’t you tired of it?” I ask. They both nod. “You need to get the hell out of that house. Akio, you need to go to some fancy cooking school in France, and Luigi, you need to join the air force. Work with each other, not against. You’re brothers! You’re supposed to be best friends.”

  “You have a brother?” asks Luigi.

  “Or sister?” asks Akio.

  “No,” I admit. “But I wish I did. I had a best friend, she was like a sister.”

  “What happened?” asks Luigi. I think about Laurel, everything we shared surviving Catholic high school together, college, and then how it all came to a screeching halt. Now we only text occasionally. But, for now I have escaped Laurel, Rosalie, Will, and all my tricky old relationships, and I don’t want to think about any of that now. I give a quick, bogus answer.

  “Competition,” I shrug. “What you have is too valuable. Don’t risk it.”

  Akio stares at me, transfixed. “You are wise and beautiful, Marina Taylor,” he says, taking my hand. “I know,” I say.

  “You are smart and sexy,” says Luigi, taking my other hand.

  “This too is true,” I say. My jokes are my last line of defense.

  “Allora, I have una buona idea,” says Akio. “Each of us, we kiss you and then you will be able to choose one.”

  “No. I think you’re missing the point here,” I say as I stand abruptly. All the blood rushes to my head. Dizzy, I lose my balance and start to slip. Both brothers catch me. My heart pounds. They help me out of the tub. I peel myself out of their arms and grab a towel, wrapping myself up like a burrito.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I need coffee.”

  “We will come,” they say in unison.

  “You will stay!” I order. They look like sad puppies, but obey.