By Sarah White
When you sign up for a package tour, your trusted organizer plans the itinerary, down to what time in the morning to board the bus. The promise hangs unspoken: Nothing bad will happen—but nothing unexpected will happen, either. You accept that trade-off.
From my two-week trip to Sicily in October 2023, there stands out just one memory of the unexpected. It was the midpoint of the trip. October 10th. “Following breakfast, take a scenic drive along the beautiful Sicilian coast to Agrigento,” the itinerary said, “to visit the Valley of the Temples, a 6th-century Greek colony with the best-preserved Doric temples outside Greece. Later, transfer to Ragusa for an overnight stay.” Departure at 8:00 am; tour begins at 9:30.
The first hour of the drive passed in friendly conversation. Then Cathy started handing out bottles of water from a cooler. It was getting warm on the bus. The temperature each day had been in the mid-80s and sunny, and today promised to be warmer, as we dipped further south across the triangular island. It was getting very warm. By now it was clear: the air conditioning was not working. Some of us began feeling faint in the airless bus.
Cathy, the organizer, promised to arrange a replacement bus. The twelve of us tourists debarked at Agrigento’s visitor center and met our guide, who led us through the 3.6 square miles of grand temples, talking history as he went. At the back of our little gaggle, there was Cathy, working her phone. “Barbara, l’autobus!” Barbara was Cathy’s transportation provider. The calls continued. Repeatedly, I had heard Cathy’s “Barbara, dimmi…” tell me, how are you coming with those buses?
Two hours and 5000 steps later, the tour released us through a gate into a parking lot, nothing in sight but a gas station. Cathy had been busy with other calls, as well. I had overheard her saying, “But how will we find it? How will I know where you are?” Now, she turned to our group. “Well, it’s bad news, good news,” she said. “Barbara doesn’t have a replacement bus for us yet. But I have arranged a surprise lunch. Would you like to walk to a farm nearby to eat, or wait at the visitor’s center? Your choice.” The temperature was now well into the 80s and the sun was full overhead. The visitor’s center was nearby and air-conditioned. The walk to the farm would take fifteen minutes. Even so, we were hands-down in favor of the unexpected farm lunch.
A young man materialized at Cathy’s side and led us into a narrow farm lane, stone walls taller than our heads on either side. The dusty lane curved as it descended slightly, limiting our sightlines. Uncertainty mounted; only our trust that the surprise would be a good one kept us going.
The young man spoke about this land, his family’s farm, as we walked. He told us that he and his siblings and cousins were starting new businesses here—food products, and a restaurant. Suddenly we came to a break in the wall to our left and stepped through a wire gate. A broad field dotted with low, gnarled trees spread out before us, widely spaced.
Now the young man explained what we saw: orange trees, with sweet grafted onto bitter rootstock for greater hardiness. Decorative lightbulbs were strung among the trees, leading us toward an open-air living room. Straw bales covered with throws circled a fire-bowl; random pieces of weathered wooden furniture stood here and there under the trees.
And then the long table appeared, under the biggest orange trees, with sails hung to extend and deepen their shade. And on it, a white tablecloth covered with round olive-green placemats, white plates and silver cutlery, pink-tinged water glasses and tall wine goblets. Glass bottles of icy water beaded with condensation. Big bowls of tomato salad, boards laid with bruschetta, and smaller bowls of the traditional olive-eggplant salad waited for us.
A wave of food followed; simple, room-temperature, and delicious. Roasted potatoes covered in minced herbs, marinated mushrooms sprinkled with pomegranate seeds, roasted smoked mozzarella slices, crusty brown bread. Refreshing white Grillo wine. We dug in. The young man brought out the chef to meet us, his beautiful black-haired cousin Lara.
There was a pause, and we walked about in twos and threes. Lara and her assistants worked in a staging area masked by a bamboo screen that hid coolers and crates and work counters. This lavish meal was coming from what was essentially a camp kitchen.
We returned to the table for a melon salad with mint, and finished off the meal with little glass jars filled with gelato over crumbled anise cookies, topped with bitter-orange marmalade made on the premises. It was a scene out of Anthony Bourdain.
But there’s Cathy, still with her phone to her ear, “Barbara, dimmi…” Tell me, the bus? When will it be here? After two hours of lunching, it’s still not sorted out. Finally, Cathy said, “well, it’s bad news, good news. Barbara has two vans for us in place of the bus. The good news is they fit down the farm lane—we won’t have to walk back up to the parking lot. The bad news is they won’t be here for another hour.”
No one was the least bit upset. This had been the pleasantest delay imaginable. We had in various combinations walked, napped, and idly conversed. Here, for an afternoon at the midpoint of our tour, we have exchanged DOING for BEING. It is as if we escaped time’s wheel for an afternoon. In the warm grove, among the islands of shade, we had no agenda and no desire for one.
A package tour promises each day an itinerary like a syllabus for a class, packed with things that edify and entertain. It was an extraordinary gift, Cathy’s surprise farm lunch, that gave respite from expectations of any kind.
©2024 Sarah White
True Stories Well Told 