There’s no such thing as a direct flight from Los Angeles to Sicily. So we booked the next best thing: LAX to MUC (Munich) with a two hour layover and then a flight to CTA (Catania).

Our friends, Nancy and Peter, have relocated from Boston to Pozzallo, a beachfront community in southern Sicily. The plan: Nancy and Peter would meet us at the airport, take us back to their new home; we would toot around there for a couple of day, then head up the coast to Gela…and on to Agrigento.

Mount Etna had a different idea. We found this out when we deplaned in Munich and could find no information posted on the departure board for our connecting flight. That’s because…the airport at Catania was closed. Our flight would be diverted to Palermo—130 miles to the northwest.

Once out diversion flight landed, there was an interminable wait. There were not enough gates to accommodate all the diverted flights. We had await the arrival of a bus that would take us to the terminal. Once there, we were told, we should go to baggage claim, collect our luggage and await instruction to board another bus that would take us on to Catania (which was three hours away). We finally deplane the old-fashioned way: down a metal staircase. And then across the tarmac to a bus, which frantic passengers fought to board as though it was the last lifeboat available on the Titanic. We didn’t even try. Just stood with a few other calm souls and waited for the next bus, which soon arrived.

A “ding” from my cell phone. Peter had booked us a room in Palermo; he and Nancy would drive up the next day. Saved! No three-hour ride on a bus that might not be readily available to a city that was still an hour and a half from Pozzallo.

It was 6 p.m.Tuesday. We had boarded our flight at 5:30 p.m. Monday.

We were ready for dinner. And bed.

Our driver
It must be a simple matter for wily opportunists to spot an elderly (let’s be honest; that’s what we are) couple who look bedraggled, bewildered and are dragging their luggage toward the airport exit repeatedly asking each other “Where are the taxis? Do you see a sign?”

Before we knew it, we were being whisked to Hotel Florio Opera by Tony, who assured us he was a taxi driver and even had a business card to prove it. Well, not quite whisked; in fact, the route seemed quite circuitous, and ended up costing us not the 60 Euros Tony had quoted us but 85 (which translated to $98.25 in U.S. dollars).

At the hotel where Tony had unceremoniously left us standing on the sidewalk, the affable greeting of Salvio, the ponytailed innkeeper quickly turned to dismay. Apparently, he had reserved a room for us, as well as one for Peter and Nancy for Wednesday But, uh oh, this was Tuesday. A mix-up. Several phone calls later, we found ourselves once more in a black car, this time being driven (by by a real taxi driver or a friend of the innkeeper? Who knows?) to a hotel back near the airport—all this arranged by Salvio, who was, he assured us, doing his best for us. (Sigh.)

Our driver didn’t speak English. A long unpaved lane. A sign that I thought said “Golf.” An automated gate that slid aside to admit the black car…and us…and a very steep staircase. (Fortunately, our non-English-speaking driver lugged up our bags.) The place looked deserted. Too late for dinner, we were told. The kitchen was closed. Oh, well, sleep at this point was even more of a priority than food. We were shown to a bare bones room that reeked of cigarette smoke. I might have left the window open, but there was some kind of “event” going on nearby that be involved a very loud Karaoke contest.

Aargh!

Next morning, we were up and halfway dressed when there came a knock on the door. Our driver was waiting…to take us back to our hotel. Our hotel? Oh, yes. I remembered. Salvio had told us he’d send a driver to bring us back to Florio Opera for breakfast.

It was rush hour. Traffic was bumper to bumper.
We did not arrive back in time for breakfast.

Yet somehow, in that expressive, singularly Italian way of explaining things Salvio managed to convince me that although he had told taken care of the ride out to the substitute hotel room, we were somehow responsible for that ride to his hotel. To the tune of 70 more Euros.

And, oh, we had arrived too late for breakfast.
But we did have a room.
Basic. Clean. Unlikely it would have been anyone’s first choice…had there not been a shortage of hotel rooms in Palermo… because of Etna.

We discovered a small café next door in the lobby of Hotel Elite nextdoor (that looked like it might have been a much better place to stay—had it not be sold out!)

A croissant, a cappuccino for me.
A ham and cheese breakfast sandwich and a coffee for John.

Exhausted, we scurried back our room next door (up a stairway, through a fire door that required use of an electronic key, then down the hallway to our somewhat threadbare quarters.
Time for a siesta.
And then. Oh, joy.
My phone buzzed and boinged.

Peter and Nancy had arrived.

Finally. We would be with our friends.

Our vacation was about to begin!