72 Hours in Sicily
"That's it. I've walked the baroque streets of Noto, marched to the crest of Mount Etna, and stared down at the world from the top of Taormina. My legs are asking me to take a break. It occurs to me that I've used the Don Arcangelo all'Olmo villa as nothing more than a launching pad since Friday. The place could be the set of a Hollywood movie. On cue, Federica Musco, the villa concierge, sweeps into the parlor with a bottle of wine. "How did you like Siracusa?" she asks. I have no answer. I haven't been to Siracusa yet.
Hours later I've worked my way through its winding streets and arrived at a cave. This is no dark, bat-dunged cave. This one is full of pigeons, and it's in the center of Siracusa. I feel tiny in what Sicilians call the Ear of Dionysius. Wings flap. My stomach growls. Tomorrow I'll leave with another notch on my belt. But right now it's time to eat."
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