Writing about my experience on a day trip to Catania could prove cathartic. There'a also a chance that it won't and at some point I'll run screaming from the computer to seek solace elsewhere and sleep with the lights on for a week.
Quite a few personal nightmares converged in the one place, on the one day and if you want to hear about them, pull your chair a little closer to the monitor, and I'll begin.
Whilst on an out of season holiday in Malta, we made a last moment decision to take a day trip to Sicily. The price was reasonable, plus an up-grade to first class was only £10 extra, and the Catamaran, The Virgin Butterfly, looked at right tasty little number on which to travel. I'm not comfortable being on the sea and so being told that this was the quickest way to get there, I decided that it'd be okay, just as long as it was quick.
The young girl asked where we would like to visit on the island, and not fancying the longer journey round to Palermo, we plumped for Catanaia. She said about visiting Mount Etna, just a 40 mile trip from the port, but we'd decided against it being that everything would be done in a bit of a rush and a hurry, and besides, we both enjoyed seeing people's various lifestyles and being Mafia country, we thought it'd be a more than interesting chance to soak up the atmosphere. She warned us that there wasn't much to see other than shops. We said it was okay. She warned us again that it might be a bit boring there. We assured her it'd be fine.
Rule number one: Listen to those that know what they're talking about.
The Virgin Butterfly (no connection to Sir Richard) was large, modern and quite full of tourists. First class wasn't, hurrah! It was indeed quick. It was comfortably furnished, although the violent pink and dull grey interior was something that I knew would stay with me for the rest of my days. The staff were friendly and polite. They didn't speak much English but we were getting by. After about a 2 hour bumpy journey, we arrive in the port of Catania. The young hostess asked us to get our passports ready as the Sicilian Police would be boarding soon, and not to move around once they were on the boat. A tad surprised by this, we waited with our passports and then two policemen appeared. Both clutching machine guns. One chewing on a cigarette looking for all the world like Clint Eastwood in a bad mood, the other scowling; and very effective it was too. The hostess asked us again to not move whilst she collected the passports. I didn't need telling twice. Our passports were taken off of us, handed to the police and we were informed we'd be getting them back when we left. We didn't particularly like this idea but it's not as if we felt in a position to complain.
The police disappeared downstairs, and we were informed to go straight out of the docks, do not hang around this part of the city. Getting off the boat, I was exceedingly jealous of the Mount Etna visitors who simply boarded a coach and sped away. We walked to a taxi and asked for a lift to the town, but because we didn't have any Italian Lire on us (intending to exchange currency when we arrived), he refused to give us a lift to the bank. We had to walk out of the docks. Quickly.
Sicilian comments were being lobbed our way (they don't speak straightforward Italian) followed by raucous laughter, so no eye contact was being made on our purposeful trotting up the main drag. It wasn't feeling good to be there. At the top of the road stood a bloke tossing an apple in his hand and this was starting to take on the air of a heavily cliched B movie. As we drew level, he pulled out a flick knife which he worked with precision timing, throwing the apple up and catching it on the blade just level with the side of my head. For such two freaked out individuals, my hubbie and I kept a remarkable composure and didn't miss a beat in our step. Only when we were out of his ear shot did we manage to say anything to each other. Basically, it was "Oh Sh1t".
Rule Number Two: Always take some currency of the country you are travelling to.
Walking out onto a normal looking street was a relief. We managed to find a magnificent specimen of a bank and walked in. The place ground to a halt. They all stood and stared as my husband walked across the large, marbled floors to one of the tellers. (I swear that what I say is no word of a lie or exaggeration). He managed to change up some currency and we left, all of this done in almost complete silence.
We walked down into the town which was mostly a dirty grey and black, being that it was built from the volcanic rock from Mount Etna. We'd hit the town at siesta time. The shops were all closed. Nothing was open except for the occasional coffee bar, and the only one we thought we'd try didn't have any seats, the coffee was drunk standing up at a bar. People stopped talking when we walked in so we drank up and left.
Rule Number Three: Always check the timetables for when you'll be arriving at your chosen destination.
Walking down into what looked like a main square, we could see a long line of market stalls. Yippee! They were practically deserted. Yippee! I could see loads and loads of books, therefore, a book market. Joy of Joys and Yippee!! The people here looked pleased to see us, then slightly amused when they realised we couldn't communicate or read the books. More people were stopping to watch us but we were getting a bit blase to that by now. It was only when I noticed that a lot of these books appeared to be about the Mafia, and the word "Mafia" either with a big red cross over it or a line struck through it, that I realised this was an Anti-Mafia bookfair in a Pro-Mafia town. (Catania used to average 3 murders a day to Palermo's 5). Having been the only people near them for the last 5 minutes or so, we smiled sympathetically and left.
Dear God, only 7 more hours to go.
We found one hotel that was open and serving food. We stayed there for as long as we could, avoiding eye contact with any of the staring locals, and not being able to help but listen to a heated discussion going on between a group of elderly gents in the middle of the dining room. My highlight was getting myself locked in the ladies for 10 minutes.
Leaving the hotel we walked around and found a proper market. At least this was a bit more cheerful. Lots of jokey comments and laughter flying around. All the woman were covered up and mainly dressed in black, and they too seemed to be taking an inordinate amount of interest in us. It didn't take too long for the penny to drop that we were probably the subject they were laughing about. The staring was now blatant ogling which was very uncomfortable. It also came from vast age ranges, from a young kid who looked no more than 12 to old men. It was becoming clear that I was the main cause for attention. I was wearing tight jeans and high shoes (no, not white ones) in total contrast to the local women who wore dark shapeless clothing.
Rule Number Four: If you're travelling to a staunchly religious country, THINK about the clothes you wear unless you like this kind of attention. And even then, think again.
Desperate to find a longer jacket or something to cover up the tightness of my clothes, hubbie pulls me into a department store as soon as it opened. Seriously considering spending £500 on a coat, (I almost seriously considered letting him) he asked the shop assistant why people were staring. She pointed at my hair (auburn) and eyes (green) saying the word "unusual" then pointed at my clothes and just laughed as if to say "What do you mean, why??"
I didn't look like a cheap tart, I wasn't wearing anything I wouldn't have worn to do the shopping in (well, maybe no heels), but to the Sicilians, the clothes were provocative and I'd walked into Chauvanism City.
Rule Number Five: At times it is okay to go over your budget if you need to purchase an emergency item.
For the remaining 4 hours, we walked around the town, found some interesting roman remains in the centre of a roundabout, went into a church to find two women weeping, wailing, beating their breasts and crawling up the nave of the church on their knees, came out and walked into the middle of an argument between two guys. One was screaming invectives and went running off into a house while the other legged it up the road, and hubbie and me ran off another way. Thankfully this led us to a lovely little park, where we sat and shivered for the remaining hours, content to be on our own, and staring at the huge Mount Etna 40 miles away but looking as though it was just outside town.
We caught a cab back to the docks early and waited on the boat. It was cold, it was windy and as much as I hated the sea, I'd never felt so grateful to be on it. The passports were returned by the machine-gun wearing police while we played another game of Statues. Settling down to watch the on board entertainment, I was aware that the boat was struggling though the waters, this wasn't just bumpy, this was slamming down hard. Nausea was threatening and so I decided to close my eyes, ears and mouth and stay that way until we got back to Malta. I was like this for hours. If hubbie hadn't felt so ill, I'm sure he'd have been delighted. The storm was bad. Very bad. An "I want my mummy" bad. In an effort to cheer me up, hubbie whispered, "It's okay, I can see the lights of Malta." I looked. They were up there, then down there, and up there and down there. Even though it was pitch black outside I could see waves breaking over the top of the boat as we seesawed our way through. I felt too sick to open my mouth and tell him what I thought of his effort to make me feel better.
The return journey took 4 hours. I was incapable of standing without swaying, I didn't want to see what it was like downstairs in tourist class, and I just wanted to be carried off on a stretcher to die quietly somewhere. No chance. Tourist class had to be walked through to get off the boat. I won't say how bad it was downstairs...
Rule number six: Take eyeshades and a nose plug in case of roughweather journies.
Tips for travelling to Catania.
**Only go if you have to. **They intensely dislike being called Italian, they are Sicilian and proud of it. **They won't speak English to you - imagine Paris with a more threatening atmosphere - so go armed with some knowledge of the language. **Know that as a tourist you will be a target for being ripped off. **Chauvanism is a lifestyle here, taking offence is fruitless. **Ogling appears to be compulsory, if you don't like attention, dress appropriately. **Go to Mount Etna, go to Mount Etna, go to Mount Etna.
More details
Family Friendly
Evaluate this review
How helpful would this review be to someone making a buying decision? Rating guidelines
This product has not yet been reviewed. 
