Small Islands of Europe, South

Am just back from a lovely two-ish weeks of traversing the European continent--in fact, smallish islands at the extreme ends of the European continent. From Sicily to England, it has been quite a journey.

Traveling by sleeper train is clearly the choice for the discriminating voyageur. The one airborne leg of the journey was rather unbearable: Ryanair + Sicilian airport + terrorist/victim passengers + tepid spleen sandwich = not so fun.

The Paris-Rome train was arguably more comfortable, but it was the Grosetto-Siracusa line that captured my heart. Our neighbors included both knife-wielding mafiosi and self-taught throat singers. The whole train curled itself onto a boat at one point. But, best of all, there was a FULLY FUNCTIONAL CHAMBER POT in the cabin. La dolce vita indeed.This image has been altered to protect the identities of the individual(s) concerned

But before the chamber pot there was a dose of utter relaxation in Tuscany. S managed to produce her usual range of delicacies with a cigarette in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. Plus a bun in the oven, as they say (don't worry, it's good for milk production according to Sicilian folklore. Or possibly French. Or Russian. Whatever).

And of course there was many a fine film, from Shakespeare to anime. Also got to watch the classic sheep-zombie movie for what must be the 5th time (and I didn't even have to lobby for it! Sometimes good ideas win through on their own merits).
And discovered this instant classic (mgmgggmmm hhh...of course ....I was terribly...terribly...drunk....)It was all just too exciting for some of our companions
After catching our train with plenty of time to spare, it was off to Sicily, where we soon found ourselves surrounded by this sort of thing:

Little Roger was so adorable he made everyone want to revert to childhood. So we created an EPIC sandcastle, grinding the blood of the slaves into the mortar (really, I have scars).

After some sun-soaked days and a bit of Sicilian family drama it was another journey across bitter, oil-soaked plains and lunar, mafia-infested mountains to the decaying splendor of Palermo and more of the exceptional Paterno hospitality. Professor A delivered a series of impromptu lectures on development, social enterprise, and the meaning of life to a rapturous audience of local youths while small children shot us with air guns.

My pictures do not nearly do it justice, but Palermo is a fascinating place where each layer of history has been melted into the others by the African sun. (here, setting.)