I’m always a little wary of relaxation with an itinerary.
It seems contradictory.
You travel thousands of miles to get away from schedules, obligations, and the demands of everyday life.
Then someone hands you a schedule.
Breakfast at eight.
Departure at nine.
Lunch at one.
Relaxation from three to four.
MANDATORY.
I’ve always thought that if relaxation requires an appointment, someone has misunderstood the concept.
But Sicily changed my mind.
Actually, Sicily changed quite a few things.
And it began with a villa.
Not just any villa.
Don Arcangelo all’Olmo.
Our home for eight extraordinary days on the eastern coast of Sicily, in the shadow of Mount Etna.
Now, I should explain something.
I had very little to do with planning this adventure.
That responsibility belonged to Trish.
My wife.
My traveling companion.
My best friend.
And, when we leave the country, my Cruise Director.
I say that affectionately.
Trish possesses a remarkable talent for organizing travel. Every reservation, connection, accommodation, and detail receives her personal attention.
She has elevated organization to an art form.
I, on the other hand, have elevated carrying the luggage to one.
It’s a wonderful arrangement.
She handles the details.
I handle the camera.
Occasionally, I’m even informed where we’re going.
Viva la différence!
Which, of course, is French.
But we were in Italy.
I was still adjusting.
Our arrival at Don Arcangelo all’Olmo was unlike checking into any hotel I’ve ever visited.
There was no lobby filled with strangers.
No line at the reception desk.
No little plastic card that might or might not open your door.
And no room numbers.
Imagine that.
We were personally escorted to our accommodations.
Our host simply said, “This is your room.”
Not Room 444.
Not the Deluxe Garden View King with Complimentary Wi-Fi.
Your room. With an old-fashioned key!
“Breakfast is served outside under the trellis from eight to nine. This afternoon, we’ll have wine and hors d’oeuvres in the garden at seven-thirty. Dinner is at eight in the main dining room.”
And that was that.
Welcome home.
I’ve stayed in some wonderful hotels over the years.
Beautiful hotels.
Luxurious hotels.
Hotels where the towels are so thick you wonder how anyone manages to dry them.
But I have never thought of a Marriott as home.
No matter how luxurious the accommodations, hotels have a way of reminding you that you’re temporary.
You’re a reservation.
A confirmation number.
A name attached to a credit card.
And eventually, a checkout time.
This was different.
There was something deeply personal about the villa.
Something that couldn’t be measured in stars.
The stonework.
The arches.
The weathered walls.
The beautiful old doors.
The courtyards overflowing with greenery.
And the olive trees.
Oh, those olive trees.
Magnificent, ancient, wonderfully twisted sculptures that happen to be alive.
Their enormous trunks looked as though someone had spent centuries tying them in knots.
Nature’s version of modern art.
Except nature got there first.
And did a considerably better job.
Some of the trees looked old enough to remember when Sicily was ruled by the Greeks.
I didn’t ask.
At their age, it’s impolite.
I wandered the grounds with my camera, fascinated by the details.
A fountain emerging from an ancient-looking stone face.
Brick towers standing proudly against a brilliant blue sky.
Windows framed by volcanic stone.
Vines climbing walls as though they had been given permission centuries ago and never received instructions to stop.
And inside?
Room after room of architectural surprises.
Vaulted ceilings.
Graceful arches.
Beautiful furnishings.
Antiques.
Books.
Artwork.
Warm colors.
And an unmistakable sense that generations of stories had passed through these spaces.
Nothing felt manufactured.
Nothing felt temporary.
The villa wasn’t trying to look old.
It was simply comfortable with its age.
There’s something rather appealing about that.
Especially at my age.
Every morning, we gathered outside for breakfast beneath the trellis.
No rush.
No hurried cup of coffee before racing off to the next obligation.
Just the pleasure of being somewhere beautiful, surrounded by people who were becoming friends.
And in the evenings, there was wine.
And hors d’oeuvres.
And conversation.
Lots of conversation.
One of the unexpected pleasures of our stay was the company.
Trish and I were traveling with a group of people who, like us, had been drawn to Sicily by its history, culture, beauty, and promise of adventure.
We arrived as fellow travelers.
We quickly became friends.
It’s remarkable how that happens.
People from different backgrounds, with different experiences, suddenly find themselves sitting together beneath ancient trees, sharing stories, laughing, and discovering how much they have in common.
Good food helps.
Wine doesn’t hurt.
And Sicily provides both with considerable enthusiasm.
The villa was extraordinary on its own.
But the people?
They were the finishing touches.
Like the last few brushstrokes on a masterpiece.
Although comparing our group to a Picasso might be a little dangerous.
Picasso had a tendency to put people’s eyes in unusual places.
Still, you get the idea.
What made this experience special wasn’t simply where we stayed.
It was how we lived while we were there.
For eight days, we weren’t rushing through a destination.
We were becoming part of its rhythm.
Breakfast beneath the trees.
Exploring the countryside.
Returning in the afternoon.
Gathering in the garden.
Sharing dinner.
And looking forward to doing it all again.
There was something wonderfully civilized about it.
Something that made me wonder whether, in our determination to make life more convenient, we’ve occasionally made it less enjoyable.
And that brings me to something I’ve come to believe rather strongly.
Everyone should have the opportunity to travel.
Not simply to see famous landmarks.
Or collect photographs.
Or add another country to a list.
But to experience how other people live.
How they think.
How they celebrate.
How they preserve their history.
How they gather around a table.
How they find joy in the ordinary moments of life.
Travel has a remarkable ability to challenge our assumptions.
It reminds us that our way of doing things isn’t the only way.
That different doesn’t mean inferior.
And that some of life’s greatest pleasures are shared by people who don’t speak the same language.
Love.
Family.
Friendship.
Laughter.
A good meal.
A beautiful sunrise.
And the occasional glass of wine.
Or two.
Travel teaches appreciation.
And appreciation has a wonderful way of becoming gratitude.
For what we have.
For what others have created.
And for the extraordinary world we share.
Perhaps that’s the greatest gift of exploration.
We leave home hoping to discover something new about the world.
And sometimes return having discovered something new about ourselves.
Sicily certainly gave Trish and me plenty to think about.
And plenty to laugh about.
It also gave us stories.
Oh, do we have stories.
There are ancient villages to explore.
Remarkable people to meet.
History that stretches back thousands of years.
Landscapes that seem almost impossible.
And, of course, Mount Etna.
That magnificent, unpredictable mountain that apparently decided our vacation needed a little additional excitement.
Believe me.
She had opinions about our itinerary.
Strong ones.
But that’s a story for another day.
For now, I wanted to invite you into our Sicilian home.
To wander through its gardens.
Admire its architecture.
Imagine the generations who walked beneath those arches.
And perhaps sit for a moment beneath one of those magnificent olive trees.
Because what I remember most about Don Arcangelo all’Olmo isn’t simply how beautiful it was.
It’s how beautiful it made life feel.
For eight days, it was home.
And when we left, I realized something.
A hotel is somewhere you stay.
A home is somewhere you belong.
For a little while, in a beautiful corner of Sicily, we belonged.
I hope these photographs convey even a small part of what made the experience so memorable.
And I hope you’ll join me as our Sicilian adventure continues.
There is so much more to share.
Ancient history.
Extraordinary scenery.
Wonderful food.
A little romance.
Quite a bit of laughter.
And one very large volcano with absolutely no respect for travel arrangements.
Arrivederci, for now.
The best part of traveling isn’t always discovering where you’re going.
Sometimes it’s discovering how much a place can mean to you when it’s time to leave.
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