A postcard from Sicily
Mount Etna erupted today. Which sounds dramatic, eliciting images of lava sliding down the streets setting fire to the city. But really it was just an inconvenience as it meant my flight was cancelled. Getting back to London was not straightforward, but in the end I plotted a route back via Naples overnight for my final, if unexpected, leg of the great European train journey of Summer 2026. Brussels to Berlin to Munich, overnight to Rome, overnight to Messina -- the whole train loaded onto a ferry, forward-back-forward-back slotting the carriages in like Tetris. Onwards to Syracuse and Ortigia.
With an extra day and a volcanic eruption on my hands I sought out a good vantage point to see the mountain, with hopes of catching a glimpse of fiery orange sprouts. But all I could see from the top of the Chiesa di San Nicolò l’Arena was its lower reaches disappearing into cloud and perhaps smoke. I looked down in the other direction over the fading Baroque façade of the Monastero dei Benedetti di San etc., the opulent “they did their best to create heaven on earth, just in case it wasn’t there at the end” one-time home of Catania’s Benedictines.
In the afternoon I returned to the Lido Scoliera D’Armisi. It was there that I had found peace and relaxation. Tucked below Catania Centrale, perched on wooden stilts atop the aftermath of 1669’s more violent eruption -- porous folds of now black basalt slipping into the sea with a searing hiss and a cloud of steam. Accessed via a vast arched tunnel beneath the train tracks, past a noticeboard of black and white photos of bathers gone by, I paid my €7 for a lounger and an umbrella (€6 without the umbrella) and slotted in amongst the Italians. Ordinary folk, relaxing into the afternoon, many of them reading. Some with little cabins I imagine only the longest standing locals come to own. Bodies of all shapes and sizes, few with the torsos we’ve been told to see as beautiful. Leathery skinned women, heavy chested men.
I lay reading Patti Smith’s Just Kids and find myself transported, in awe of the lives they lived in New York in the late 60s/70s. Totally unrestrained, open, free, unconventional, non-conformist, authentic. Creative. Reflecting on the parallels to life now -- to my own life -- to the self-imposed tyranny of self-judgement and the artificial belts-and-braces of what and who people like us are meant to be. I marvel at their creation -- their art -- and observe that every email I write, every pitch deck I prepare, every memo I compile – comes at the price of a poem or a painting or a story. Therin the source of a gnawing guilt. For now, company building is my art. But that is a team sport.
“I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately.”
“I wish I had tons of money, then I’d be free. // Free to do what? // Everything.”
The planks of the lido patform stretch out over the now-frozen lava, to a blue wooden railing that holds in its rows of blue-netting loungers shaded by blue-white striped umbrellas. Red metal stairs -- bubbling, not rusting -- reach down into the water. Salty, warm, gently rolling.
I swam out to the floating platform and hauled myself up. In the distance a big white hotel on water with a yellow chimney had exited the port and was heading on to disgorge its temporary inhabitants on some other portside town. A man was shooting a waterpolo ball at the bobbing goals off to the right. Shoot. Swim. Fetch the ball. Swim. Repeat. I thought to go over and play the goalie. I held myself back, shy, feeling awkward, my mind making excuses. An old, overweight man popped up next to me, struggling to board the platform. He motioned for help. I gave him a boost, soft flesh absorbing my uneager hand. I dived off as he succeeded, navy speedo lying face down on the boards from the exertion.
I swam to the goals and joined Lorenzo. How old are you? How old are you? 26. I used to play. I said. Many years ago. We had 10 shots each. Lorenzo scored 4. Certain to beat him, I got 3. His grandmother had a cabin here. He came down for the afternoon, when he’d finished work at 14:00. He was tired from swimming two kilometres yesterday. It was nice to meet me. Ortigia is expensive.
I was proud I swam over.
The sun has disappeared behind the railway tracks’ concrete walls where the trains go clickety-clack, and the Sicilians are departing. London is calling. It is time to go.