Nestled on a hilltop on the south-east tip of the island of Sicily is the ancient town of Taormina, a settlement which dates as far back as 734BC.
The town lies on top of a hill, forming the last projecting point of a mountain ridge that extends along the coast from Cape Pelorus, the sheer cliffs of which drop seventy-five metres to the sea below. The town is known for the Teatro Antico di Taormina, an ancient Greco-Roman theatre still used today. Nearby lies Mount Etna, one of the world’s most active volcanoes, which is in an almost constant active state.
At the bottom of the narrow roadway that winds itself back and forth through a series of tight S-bends up the steep cliff face to the town, lies the Hotel Mazzaro Sea Palace. The hotel design follows the half-moon curve of the private cove in which it stands, with every bedroom overlooking the pebbled beach and the warm turquoise waters of the Mediterranean Sea.
It was this resort that had been chosen to host an annual conference of the European Transport Association, the industry representative body for Europe’s Cash in Transit security industry, one year. On this trip, I was accompanied by our group CEO who, apart from being a shrewd and successful operator, was a very likeable, convivial chap with an eye for the girls and a keen sense of humour.
We had landed at Rome’s Leonardo de Vinci International airport late Friday night off a direct flight from Johannesburg. Once through the normal formalities we picked up the first taxi in the line outside the terminal building.
With the luggage loaded into the boot, the overly friendly Italian driver, waving his hands and loudly expressing himself with gusto in his melodic Italian dialogue, opened the back doors of the saloon and we jumped into the seats before giving him the address of the small pension we were booked at in an old part of Rome.
The driver spoke virtually no English, but he certainly knew a thing or two about driving. We took off in a fashion that reminded me of our plane’s departure from South Africa and proceeded to hit the highway at 140 kilometres an hour at least. The journey from the airport into the city of Rome is about thirty kilometres and would normally take about forty minutes to complete on the highway. I think that we may have done it under twenty.
At one point, as we careered down the highway on the opposite side of the road to which I was accustomed, we noticed that the vehicle had lost its shock absorbers during its previous life and it felt like our bums were hitting the steel chassis every time we went over a bump in the road. To compound matters, without any warning and halfway into the city, the car’s lights went out. We were suddenly travelling at the speed of sound into the darkness beyond with no sight of the odometer panel, let alone the road in front.
Give the man his due, he didn’t skip a beat. Without so much as a minor reduction in speed, he forced the car to jolt, which sent shudders through our well-worn, upholstered seats, and the lights came back on (and stayed on for the balance of the hair-raising journey).
Once off the highway, we trundled along the cobbled lanes within the inner city. The ancient roads are narrow, and to make matters worse cars were randomly parked, on the pavement on one side, and on the road on the other side. The driver had to weave his way through all of this, sometimes coming within touching distance of a parked car or a building wall.
We spent Saturday on a half-day Christian tour of Rome, which while clearly not my colleague’s cup of tea, certainly introduced us to unique and ancient sights neither of us had referenced before and that were awe-inspiring at the very least. We made a point of visiting the Vatican, where we climbed the 320 steps to the top of the dome of St Peter’s Basilica. It was from this vantage point that I was able to stand in the vicinity of where my Mother had stood in 1944, just after the British occupied Italy, looking out across this most beautiful and ancient city and dreaming of what life would be like married to Peter Phillips, whom she had just met in Naples.
Equally sobering was the equivalent of paying sixty-five rand for a tot of Bacardi and Coke at a nearby Trattoria, which I guess at today’s rate, is likely to be more than double that.
On Sunday we took an internal flight to Palermo on the island of Sicily from where we were taken to the Hotel Mazzaro by bus. We arrived at lunchtime on a clear and cloudless day, with the sun beating down on the stunning scene before us. We booked in and were escorted to our bedrooms, which were located next to each other.
As if orchestrated, we simultaneously put our suitcases down in our separate rooms and stepped out to our balconies overlooking the paradise of a beach below. On the water was a very muscular and darkly tanned Italian, looking very much the part. He stood tall on a surfboard, paddling himself gently around the small bay, just off the edge of the beach, and keeping a keen eye on the guests.
On the beach, and the subject of his unabashed gaze, lay a number of topless damsels on white loungers under umbrellas. Many were quite young and suggestively unattached, while the others were older, plumper, and probably very attached.
My colleague and I looked at each other across the balconies. Shall we swim? my CEO asked. We changed into our costumes and off we sped, down the stairs, three at a time! We made our way down to the foyer of the hotel and to the walkway that led us out between the rows of white loungers neatly arranged on the beach. To our right lay the ladies we had seen from our rooms, and whom we had difficulty keeping our eyes off.
As our feet met the sand, my colleague broke into a run. Before I knew it, we were running at full speed towards the warm, calm waters of the Mediterranean Sea. Upon arrival at the water’s edge, we took three large, long jumps across the water before diving outwards into what could best be described as a pond, as there were no waves to speak of.
It was at this point in time that our combined acts of bravado, designed to impress those who chose to observe two athletic South African men swimming out to sea, turned into a nightmare.
As we plunged headlong into the inviting turquoise sea, our bodies instantly shrank with the intensity of the freezing cold water. As I caught my breath, I had a momentary cause for doubt because I had steadfastly believed that the Mediterranean was a warm ocean and what I was feeling conflicted materially with that conviction.
But that doubt lasted only a millisecond. Again, almost in unison, we jumped vertically out of the icy water and ran like the wind. So quick was our exit that it must have looked like we were running on water before we reached the beach and the warmth of our towels.
As we stood clawing at the minuscule warmth the towels offered and with chattering teeth, we heard the women behind us rolling about with laughter. We didn’t bother to look around to confirm our worst embarrassed fears as we were far more occupied with trying to warm up our bodies as much as our severely damaged egos.
We returned to our rooms, showered and changed before settling in at the bar to engage with other delegates on matters of the day.
Signiors, the friendly barman called, you should be careful not to swim in the sea, she is very cold in de winter, mi creda! [believe me], he exclaimed, raising his hands in a flurry.
Don’t we know it, came the subdued reply. Grazie anyway.