The climb to Taormina seemed endless. At the beginning, the coach passed easily through coastal towns where we could catch glimpses of the sea, but then we began to climb. And climb. And climb until the bus was prevented from going further. A caravan of mini vans took our group of 28 travelers the rest of the distance to our hotel, which was as it turned out, not at the peak of beautiful Taormina.
For most of our time in Taormina it rained, sometimes softly but often with a vengeance. Despite the weather, the draw to this part of Sicily was obvious: it’s beautiful. And crowded with tourists, even in March.
In Taormina we learned about Greek theaters and ancient city streets.
We learned about the power of Mount Etna.
We learned granita topped with crema and accompanied by a brioche was a great way to start the day.
We learned it takes days, not hours to make an authentic pizza dough. That last one? That was amusing. My paternal grandfather who left nearby Linguaglossa in 1903 always insisted that pizza was not Italian. Maybe not in 1903, but certainly it was in 2025.
Nearing the end of our time in Sicily in the same area as my family’s origins created a special connection and emotional connection. So many unasked and unanswered questions and places left to explore another time. My grandfather may never have wanted to return to the Sicily, but I certainly do.
After An Educator's Journey 