Town of Paterno on Mt. Etna (left); A few thankyou's from kids (below); Public market in Paterno (bottom)

Sicily
By Stan Morse
March 24, 1998

The train leaves Rome on a sunny-but-cold spring day. Within minutes we're passing vineyards, olive groves and fields of row-crops. An occasional orange tree, ripe with fruit, graces a farmhouse yard. The crumbling shells of ancient stone buildings dot the edges of some fields.

We parallel an ancient aqueduct, most of its arches fallen to piles of stone. But one can still picture what it was like during the Roman Empire. It was an amazing engineering accomplishment for the technology of that time, and remains a testament to ancient Rome's ingenuity and glory. I think about what the world might be like if the Romans had managed to hold that empire together, rather than letting it splinter and eventually disintegrate.

As we move south the terrain becomes hilly and rocky. Tunnels are frequent along the rugged coastline. Every few miles a cove will seemingly materialize as we exit a tunnel, filled with a huddle of red-tile-roofed cottages wedged between the cliffs and the sandy shore of the Mediterranean.

We finally reach the tip of Italy's "boot". For the crossing to Messina, the train is broken into segments and loaded into the belly of a ferry. I cannot leave the car in my wheelchair, so I sleep during the 40-minute crossing, stretched out on three seats.

Once across, we head south down the coast. Mt. Etna soon looms to the right. Ash from recent eruptions paints the uppermost cone a dirty white. Etna has obliterated civilization from her skirts several times over the centuries, yet the Italians have always rebuilt, replanted, and renewed their tenuous tenancy with the mountain.

After passing through several small towns, comprised mostly of stone-and-stucco buildings with red-tiled roofs, we reach Catania, one of Sicily's larger cities. I'm picked up by Bob and Anita, with whom I'm staying. They rent a house in one of the small "villagios" along the southern shore. Bob works at the nearby American naval airbase, Anita works at the American school.

The next day (Friday) I go to school. I'm scheduled to speak to several groups of students, describing my adventures and the purpose of my trip: to write a book about someone in a wheelchair circling the earth. The kids -- first through twelfth grades -- are enthusiastic. They seldom see disabled people, so I'm unique. They ask about everything from how I use the bathroom to how I was injured. By the end of the day, I'm happy, even if a bit exhausted. Meeting with the kids has made this a worthwhile stop.

On Saturday Anita takes me to the outdoor market in Paterno. A long section of street has been blocked and vendors have set up stalls. It's basic merchandise: clothing, cooking items, knickknacks, shoes, foodstuffs and other daily necessities. I seem to be the only "tourist", and my wheelchair draws open stares. I try not to stare back.

We buy two rotisserie chickens, olives, bread and orange soda. After a short drive through narrow, twisting cobblestone streets we reach the remains of a Norman castle and have a picnic lunch, overlooking the town which runs up the flanks of Mt. Etna.

On Sunday, my throat is sore. I go to school on Monday and put in a full day speaking to the kids, but I'm losing my voice.

I have to stay home on Tuesday, knowing that if I push myself I'll get laryngitis. The weather turns nasty. A cold rain falls and my adventure suddenly seems rather bleak. But then, Anita comes home with a huge pile of handmade thankyou's from the kids. I'm deeply touched by the work they've put into their cards and letters, and no longer so concerned that I'm sick. I've made an impact, and that's what this trip is all about.

By Wednesday, I'm well enough to take the train to Palermo. There is a sheeting, cold rain blowing in from the north. Winter, it seems, isn't ready to entirely release her grip.

All the way across the island the wind and rain continue. At the northern coast, waves are crashing against the shore, sending white spumes of saltwater high over the rocks.

It will be a rough night on the ferry.