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 pick us at the airport in Catania, take us back to their new home an hour and a half away; we would toot around there for a couple of days, then head up the coast to Gela…and on to Agrigento, Cefalu, and Milazzo, where we’d catch the ferry to Lipari.

Mount Etna had a different idea. We found this out when we deplaned in Munich. Our flight  was being be diverted to Palermo—130 miles to the northwest of where we were supposed to meet our friends. Because…Etna–one of the world’s most active volcanoes–was erupting, spewing so much gas and ash that the airport at Catania was closed.

Once our flight landed in Palermo, the plane just sat on the tarmac. There were not enough gates to accommodate all the diverted flights. Finally, a stairway was rolled up to the exit door. A bus  would take us to the terminal. Once there, we were told, we should collect our luggage; another bus would drive us Catania (three hours away). Mr. Penfire and I looked at each other. Then what?

A “ding” from my cell phone gave us the answer. Peter had booked us a room in Palermo; he and Nancy would drive up the next day. Saved!

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

We were ready for dinner. And bed. All we had to do was get ourselves to Hotel Florio Opera!

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 hauling their luggage toward the airport exit repeatedly asking each other “Where are the taxis? Do you see a sign?”

Before we knew it, Tony, who assured us he was a taxi driver and handed us a business card to prove it, had left us standing on the sidewalk in front of the hotel. The cost? Not the 60 Euros Tony had quoted, but 85 ($98.25 on my Amex card).

As we wrestled our luggage into the lobby and announced our arrival, the affable smile of Salvo, our ponytailed innkeeper quickly turned to a look of dismay. He had reserved a room for us, as well as one for Peter and Nancy for Wednesday. But this was Tuesday. A mix-up. We stood by, looking pathetic, as Salvo made multiple phone calls. Eventually, a driver arrived to take us to a different   hotel…back near the airport.

Salvo assured us we would be picked up in the morning and brought back in time for breakfast. Our driver didn’t speak English. By now it was dark. After a good long time on various roadways, we turned down an unpaved lane and stopped at a gate. Beside it, a sign. I thought is said  “Golf.” Was this a golf resort? The gate that slid aside and the car proceeded to the front of a sprawling Our non-English-speaking driver lugged our bags up the wide, steep stairway and into a deserted lobby. Too late for dinner, the desk clerk told us, as he handed us a room key. The kitchen was closed.

We pushed and dragged our bags to a room at the end of a very long corridor. We weren’t happy that the room smelled of cigarette smoke. Opening the window turned out not to be an option as there was an amplified “event” going on nearby; it sounded like a Karaoke contest.

Even so, we slept.

We were up and halfway dressed when there came a knock on the door. Our driver was waiting.

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 Salvo managed to convince me that although he had paid for our ride, the driver was expecting “something” from us. To the tune of 70 Euros.

The good news: Our room was ready.
Basic. Clean. With the shortage of hotel rooms in Palermo, we were lucky to have it.

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

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

Exhausted, we scurried back our room (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!