Salina Cat-Color Race-Riot Punch-Up
After Vulcano, we ferried past Lipari to Salina, where all the salt used to come from. You know, when I was a young idiot I thought the Roman soldiers who got paid in salt were using it to improve the taste of mashed-bee pie or whatever ancient people ate. But salt is a wonderful preservative and more valuable in that respect. Kind of like how the Chinese figured out packing vinegared rice around fish would keep it from rotting. And you thought the Japanese invented sushi…
Anyways, a beach made of rocks is fun even as it carries a grave risk of shattered ankle bones and patellae. The rocks look like giant beans. You probably want to eat them. Don’t. It hurts like hell. I got one stuck in my jaw and they had to yank it out with a sort of catapult thing they used to destroy the Knights Templar of Malta.
We did a lot of things in Salina, but the photos only tell you that there is a huge spider there and that I punched a kitten in the guts. Take that asshole! (Trust me, she had it coming.) We were walking between towns and I was delivering a lecture on stochasticity and the Vatican, as is my habit, when we decided that walking blows. We stuck out our thumbs and were immediately picked up by a priest and his – I don’t know – life partner? Petya called him ‘Padre’, but I just said ‘walking blows’, and then, when he dropped us off with a ‘Dios te blesses’ or some such Italianism, I said something like ‘you too’ or ‘safety first, man’, I don’t remember.
We sat in the town square, drinking beers on a bench, willing one or more of the children running wildly around without leashes to step in a big pile of dog crap several meters in front of us. Then it started getting dark so we took some charming night photos.
In our room on Salina, I counted over 32 religious effigies – priests and christs and other deities the natives seem to worship. Petya told one old woman that we have two black cats and the woman leaped up from her seat to arrange an auto-da-fe. This is when I punched the kitty in the belly, after which i climbed on top of a bust of what I think must have been Saul of Tarsus, crying, “I have a dream that one day a cat may be judged not by the color of his fur, but by the content of his character!”
Before we left the island we popped into a shop so I could introduce Petya to canoli. Mmmmmm...