Ratso's Europhile

2004: We're All Russo's on This Bus

by Carl Russo

2

Catania, Sicily's second city, is made of rough black blocks sliced from the lava that oozed over the eastern coast in 1669. The buildings hold the sun's heat after dark as if the stone were still cooling from that catastrophic eruption. With all trips toward Etna's summit cancelled, and lacking the wherewithal to hire a maniac with a jeep, I bought a ticket for the next morning's Circumetnea Railway, which, as the name says, rings the volcano, but at a safe distance (during most centuries, anyway).

The morning sun was filtered through brown smoke but already gave the promise of the heat to come. I boarded what rightly qualified as a choo choo train, a grimy orange car pulling an identical car, at least half a century old but with enough guts to climb. Soon we (that is, the conductor, two Brits and me) were out of Catania's sprawl and chugging through the island's classic terrain of rocky hills studded with prickly pear cactus and laced with vineyards, with dabs of purple morning glories providing seasonal color. The on-and-off privilege let me stop at any town to check the highlights: the brutish Norman castle and next-door church in Adrano, a luscious wild mushroom and garlic stew in Randazzo, the decaying edifici of Linguaglossa (photo above).

Missing in action was the grand mountain itself, exploding invisibly behind grey-white clouds several miles away.

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