Sicily
On the ferry to the island.
Thirty minutes at sea.
I look ahead and see Sicily. I look back – and see Italy.
It’s enough to get me into an adventurous mood that grows stronger with every passing moment.
The ferry docks. I get on the bike and roll between the trucks toward the exit.
But something feels off.
The handlebars are stiff. Every turn feels dangerous.
I ride slowly, carefully pull over to a safe spot, and stop.
Well—no air in the front tire.
A silver screw pokes out of the tire like the teeth of a trap.
I inflate it to 35 psi, spit on it—no bubbles.
Air’s not leaking. That’s reassuring.
“I’ll fix it at the campsite,” I decide. Not now. Now I want to move forward.
I ask myself—what’s the route?
I decide to follow the coast and circle the island.
Sounds like fun.
The road winds through small towns, each one on the main street.
Another town. And another.
And there—it’s a motorcycle garage.
I stop. Walk in. Ten minutes, repair done, 10 euros.
I’m back on the road.
It’s 3 p.m.
Today I want to settle early.
The map shows a campsite, 33 minutes away, right on the coast.
I arrive—but at the entrance, silence.
No one around.
Three caravans scattered about.
A moment of hesitation.
Then a man in his fifties walks out to greet me.
“10 euros,” he says, straight to the point.
I pay cash.
Pick a spot, next to an orange grove.
The tent goes up—that’s it. My home for the night.
Quiet. Trees. A good place.
Time for the supermarket.
I buy three ribeye steaks and some chicken sausages.
On the way back, I gather dry branches for my little grill.
The fire catches easily.
On the gas stove, zucchini simmer.
Darkness falls.
The weather is pleasant.
The air is still.
I sit by the fire, thinking about tomorrow.
More riding through towns, the same unchanging scenery?
That’s not what I’m after.
I open my phone, read about the island, look for alternatives.
A mountain range. Etna. Palermo.
That’s where something is. That’s where the interest lies.
Mount Etna
At nine in the morning, I’m on the bike, heading toward the mountain.
The road winds through trees covered in bright yellow blossoms—almost glowing.
The lava—black and ancient—follows the road like a frozen river.
I climb up to a large plaza, packed with cars and groups of motorcyclists.
It’s the starting point for the hike up to the crater.
I look at the crowd, the lines, and decide to skip it.
I’m here for the road and the thrill, not for standing in line or walking in a group.
I turn around and descend.
I don’t need to touch the mountain—riding up here is enough for me.
The engine brakes on the descent, no need to touch the brakes.
I continue toward the Nebrodi Range, the Madonie Range, and finally—Palermo.
Once again, the yellow blossoms. Once again, that same feeling—
This is a journey, not a trip.
The road takes me into the mountains.
The flatlands give way to elevation, the landscape opens up.
I see the range in the distance—gray, wrapped in clouds.
Now—I’m riding through pure nature.
The road winds up to the summit, and from there—a view over the valley I came from.
Patches of dirt, then asphalt again.
Ahead—a walled city.
The road leads me straight to its stone gate.
I ride through it—
Narrow streets, paved with stone.
The houses—built from stone.
Amazing.
Rain and a Medieval Town
I wander through the town’s narrow alleys on the bike.
The sudden shift—from open asphalt to tightly packed stone—throws me straight into the Middle Ages.
I stop for coffee, open my phone, and read about the next leg of the route through the mountain villages.
Heavy rain begins to fall.
It’s 4:30 p.m.
Visibility drops to twenty meters.
I wipe the helmet visor with my glove, again and again.
Today I’ll go for a hotel—better than pitching a tent in this kind of rain.
I approach a town that looks like it was built in another era.
On the left side of the road, a restaurant.
I stop—hungry. And wet.
The restaurant is dim inside, but the door is open.
I walk in.
An older man, wearing an apron, comes out from the kitchen.
“The kitchen is closed. We open at eight,” he says.
I ask about a hotel nearby.
He points and says, “Just 200 meters ahead. Go there.”
Waiting at the hotel porch,
I sit outside until the man from the restaurant shows up—this time without his apron.
He unlocks the hotel door, turns on the lights, boots up the computer, and asks for my passport.
“Thirty euros. Breakfast at seven,” he says.
What a treat. Great room.
I unload the gear from the bike and head straight to the shower.
Hot water. Finally, I feel good.
A little after eight, I return to the restaurant.
I order steak, pasta, and wine.
The waiter brings a whole bottle.
I try to explain—just one glass, not the whole bottle.
He nods with a gesture that says, “It’s fine.”
Meanwhile, the place fills up.
Families, kids, grandparents—an authentic Sicilian evening vibe.
I feel like I’ve stepped into an old Italian movie.
After the meal, I walk over to the register.
The cashier holds a note and asks the waiter how much I drank.
He looks at the bottle and signals—one glass.
Now I get it—you pay based on how much you actually drink.
I like this method.
I head back to the room—full, warm, a smile on my face.
Tomorrow, I’ll ride toward Palermo.
I fall onto the bed, exhausted from a day packed with adventure,
and fall asleep within seconds.
A new morning in Sicily
I open my eyes.
Lying on my back.
It takes me a few seconds to remember—where am I again?
7:35 a.m.
Alright—shower, breakfast, and let’s go.
I shower, feel fresh, and pack the bike even before I eat.
I’m ready.
By 8:45, I’m back on the road.
Riding through mountain roads.
A light rain comes and goes—but it only adds to the beauty of the journey.
Golden hills, narrow and bumpy roads weaving through ancient stone villages.
It’s right around now that I begin to feel—
a surge of happiness.
The village from Cinema Paradiso
I’m heading toward a village called Palazzo Adriano.
The road, paved with stone, leads me into the heart of the village.
A busy café, a wide light-stone plaza that stretches toward a building that looks like an old cinema.
“Beautiful village,” I think to myself.
I walk into the café.
Order a double espresso.
Open Google, read a bit about the place—
and suddenly, a surprise:
This is where the film Cinema Paradiso was shot.
Suddenly, the place takes on a whole new meaning.
I loved that movie.
I think I’ve seen it several times.
I leave the bike next to the café
and go for a stroll through the stone alleys.
It’s rainy today.
“Maybe I’ll stay the night,” I think.
I keep walking.
When I return, I notice on the other side—across from the cinema—a lone motorcycle.
A solo rider, just taking off his riding jacket.
Of course I go over to say hi.
I’m impressed.
Someone like me—suddenly appearing out of nowhere.
Within seconds, a road conversation begins.
We walk back to the café together.
Another cup of coffee.
And exchange of stories.
“I’m Francisco,” he says.
I introduce myself too.
Francisco left the Netherlands a month ago, crossed France, continued into Italy, and made his way to Sicily.
“Last night I camped. It rained nonstop,” he says. “Tonight I’ll get a hotel.”
I tell him I want to do the same, but there are hardly any available rooms in this village.
Francisco mentions a town called Corleone that he wants to visit—it’s about 35 minutes from here.
“Let’s ride there together,” he offers.
Corleone… the name rings a bell.
While we sit, I look it up on my phone.
Interesting.
A small town in the heart of Sicily that became a global symbol of the mafia—mostly thanks to The Godfather book and films.
But it turns out the reality is no less dramatic than the movies:
Corleone was once a stronghold of Cosa Nostra, producing some of the most notorious mafia bosses.
In recent years, properties belonging to former mafia leaders have been confiscated and turned into museums, cafés, and educational projects.
Fascinating.
I feel excited about the upcoming ride to the town
Francisco rides ahead.
We ride together on a winding road toward the entrance to Corleone.
We stop in the main square.
A quick search—and we find two rooms in the center of town. Thirty euros each.
I ask the owner if it’s safe to leave the bikes on the street.
“Here, no one will touch a thing. You don’t even need to lock them,” he says.
Francisco takes him at his word and leaves his camping gear bag tied to the bike seat.
I leave my gear in the panniers and take only a small bag with what I need.
After a short rest in the room, we head out to explore the town.
There’s something different about this place.
It really feels like we’re inside a movie.
The way people dress—it’s exactly how I remember from films.
This town carries the scent of the past.
We visit the Mafia Museum, run by a local family with deep roots in the city.
Inside the museum’s restaurant, we eat a salad with cheese soaked in olive oil.
“Very tasty,” Francisco says.
My mouth is full—I just nod.
When the bill arrives, we’re surprised by the high price.
We laugh it off and head back to the center of town.
It’s eight in the evening.
The square is lively.
Down the street, a small night market is still open, with food stalls.
Elderly men sit on benches.
I notice—only men.
Quiet, watching.
“Come on, we have to try Sicilian pizza,” Francisco says.
We sit at a pizzeria packed with locals.
Order beer and two pizzas.
At the table next to us, four older men are chatting.
One of them asks where we’re from.
When he hears, he says he’s from Brooklyn—
Just recently returned to the town.
When he says “Brooklyn,” his accent sparks something familiar in me…
We walk back to the rooms,
passing by the motorcycles.
“No one touched a thing,” Francisco says.
In the morning, we meet in the kitchen.
I make us shakshuka for breakfast,
and Francisco won’t skip the watermelon—his favorite.
Then we head out for another stroll around the town.
“Funny there aren’t any tourists here,” I say.
“They’re all in Palermo or at the beach,” he replies, laughing.
A local man sits outside his house in shorts, shirtless.
He invites us for a beer.
Francisco says he met him yesterday while walking through town.
The man tells us he used to run nightclubs in Germany a few years ago,
and now lives here with his family.
A small boy comes down the street and whispers something to him.
The man gets up, steps into the house for a second,
then comes out with a coin in hand.
The boy runs straight to the nearby restaurant.
We glance back at the man. He smiles:
“Money for ice cream.”
Before we leave, he hands us two peaches.
We shake hands, smile, and return to our rooms.
Palermo and the Ride South
I ride to Palermo.
I need to buy a battery for my camera, maybe see a bit of the city—and then continue south.
Riding from Corleone to Palermo feels like flying.
The road slopes down toward the coast, the engine hardly works.
I brake using a low gear—letting the landscape set the pace.
Already at the city’s entrance, I feel the pressure, the crowds, the chaos of a big city.
I stop at a camera store, buy a new battery for the Canon, and sit down at a café.
I debate—should I stay? Explore the city a bit?
But the thought of hordes of tourists helps me decide—I’m heading south.
Back on the bike.
Riding along the coast.
The difference is clear—between the mountain villages I rode through in the past days,
and the southern cities and towns.
You can feel the shift in energy.
Families and children on the move—everyone flowing toward the beach.
Out of curiosity, I turn onto a road leading to the sea.
And yes—everyone’s heading to the water.
A stream of people, kids, adults—all out to enjoy the day by the shore.
I keep going.
The road hugs the coastline.
Evening approaches, and I start looking for a quiet spot to pitch my tent.
It’s hard to find—everywhere is full of people.
Eventually, I find an empty parking lot, tucked next to some bushes.
I set up the tent.
Go to sleep.
What I love about camping—
is that moment when I lay out the mattress, spread the white sheet, zip up the tent—
and it always feels like home.
Comforting.
I read a bit about the places I’ll pass through tomorrow.
Then close my eyes.
מגרש חנייה ריקA New Morning in Southern Sicily
I open my eyes.
It’s already light outside.
I step out of the tent in my underwear—it’s just me and the covered bike out here.
A small moka pot on the gas stove, first coffee of the morning,
and I’m back on the road.
Looks like I’ve left the towns behind.
Now I’m riding through open land—wild and untouched.
Soon I’ll reach the city of Marsala.
I’ll ride into town—and from there, continue toward the southeast of the island,
on my way back to the port where I first arrived.
.The City of Marsala
The road to Marsala reminds me of desert landscapes.
The city sits directly across from the shores of Tunisia in Africa.
The architecture is unlike anything I’ve seen on the island.
Even the people feel different.
I ride through the alleys of the old city, pass through the port,
and continue onto the road that circles the island.
I’m alone.
My motorcycle is the only vehicle moving on the road.
The scenery—dry, sandy, endless.
Where are the mountains? I wonder.
Toward evening, I spot smoke on the horizon—it’s Mount Etna.
While riding, I decide—I won’t take the same road back.
I’ll ride west of the volcano.
A Sweet Surprise in Bronte
The road leads me through open stretches of golden hills.
Quiet. Peaceful.
Suddenly, I notice orchards covering all the hills around me.
What are these trees?
I stop and check.
Bronte.
The town I’m approaching now—it’s the pistachio capital of Sicily.
Even at the city’s entrance, there’s a sweet, roasted scent in the air.
Everywhere you look—pistachio.
From creams and cookies, to pasta, jams, and even cheese.
This isn’t just a “local product”—
It’s pride.
Bronte pistachios are considered among the best in the world,
and the volcanic soil of Mount Etna gives them their unique flavor.
I stop at a local pastry shop.
Order a pistachio cake and a stuffed rice ball with pistachio.
The rice ball—decent.
But the cake?
Something else.
Something special.
I get back on the bike,
heading west of the volcano toward the port city of Messina—
where I’ll board a ferry to the shores of Calabria and continue toward Bari,
where another ferry will take me back to Greece.
The road passes through a village.
I ride past a small hotel on the right, and the thought crosses my mind:
Maybe I should sleep here tonight and catch the ferry early tomorrow.
Thirty euros for the night, including breakfast—
and I’m handed the key to a cozy, pleasant room.
Village Hotel
In the evening, I go out for pasta at a local restaurant.
The main street is alive—kids, teens, adults—
the simple rhythm of an Italian summer night.
On the way back to the hotel, I walk down the street,
thinking about everything I experienced today:
This morning I woke up in a tent, in an empty parking lot.
Then—Marsala, the eastern coastline, west of the volcano,
Bronte—the pistachio capital—
and now, here I am in a quiet little village, in a simple and lovely hotel.
It reminds me why I love traveling like this:
Every day is a surprise. Every day begins without a plan.
After breakfast, I get back on the bike.
In about an hour and a half, I’ll reach the ferry.
On the way, I stop again to photograph the volcano and the landscape.
There it is—the ticket office.
Ten euros—for me and the motorcycle.
We board the ferry.
Twenty minutes at sea. I start the engine.
Back on the mainland.
It tugs at my heart to leave the island.
So many experiences in such a short time.
בדרך אל החוף המזרחי
I ride east, toward the port of Bari.
The road is fast, but not a toll road—two lanes in each direction.
The urban zone is already behind me.
Smooth asphalt, the bike is quiet, and I’m flying at 120 km/h.
Golden hills in the landscape, wind on my face—it feels like freedom.
I start looking for a place to stop and pitch the tent.
No towns, no people—it feels safe.
I’m riding fast and miss a dirt path that looked perfect.
“Oh well,” I tell myself, “I’ll turn off at the next one.”
But I miss that one too.
Maybe it’s for the best.
I’m getting close to the eastern coast now.
The road goes through rundown towns.
The people here look and dress more like in North Africa.
Nothing about this view reminds me that I’m in Italy.
I stop to rest at a café.
The place feels like it was pulled straight from Algiers or Tunis.
The spoken language—Moroccan, maybe Tunisian Arabic.
A short espresso—and I move on.
A narrow road leads me to the coast.
I arrive at a campground inside a pine forest.
I look around, unsure.
The caravans look old, the place feels like a migrant camp.
Still—the area is shaded, close to the beach, and only two families are staying in this large site.
I decide to stay.
I find a spot near the showers, set up the tent, walk down to the sea, and come back to cook dinner.
Finally—I rest.
I have time to read, go through the photos I’ve taken.
A shower—and then sleep.
The pine forest blocks the sun, and I wake up late.
What time is it?
Almost nine.
I step into a long shower, then light the gas stove and brew coffee in the moka pot.
While it bubbles, I start packing my gear into the motorcycle’s panniers.
I sit on a chair, sip my coffee, and think to myself:
How nice this place is. Not what I expected when I arrived.
Remote, quiet, alone—just nature all around.
I decide to stay another night.
“Where am I rushing to?”
I ask myself.
Looking for a reason to justify the choice.
I pitch the tent again and feel a sense of relief.
I’m not heading to the port today.
Maybe it’s my mind playing tricks on me.
Maybe it’s the sadness of the journey ending—
and my brain is just looking for a reason to keep me moving.
But I stay.
As sunset approaches, I walk down to the beach, step along the shoreline, breathe deeply,
and reflect on two weeks of adventure-filled travel.
“I’m addicted to this,” I tell myself.
I love starting the day early.
Before going to sleep, I set my alarm for 6:00 a.m.
“Morning came fast,” I think to myself.
I pull myself out of the tent—
coffee, a quick run to the sea, a dip in the water, then back to the shower.
I put on my riding suit, fasten my helmet,
and hit the road—toward the city of Bari, and the ferry.
A Small Town Café – and a Cyclist
I choose to take the long road—the one that winds through the mountain towns.
In one of them, I stop to refresh at a café in the town center.
On the way out—
a guy is sitting at a table, right next to my motorcycle.
“Hello,” he says.
“Hi,” I reply.
We start talking.
He’s French.
A solo cyclist who made his way from France on an independent journey.
He invites me to sit, and we chat about the world, about movement, about the addiction to traveling.
“It was a pleasure meeting you,” I tell him.
We take a photo together,
I snap one of him with the motorcycle in the background,
we exchange phone numbers.
“I’ll write about this meeting in my blog,” I say.
And he smiles—
“I’m already looking forward to reading it.”
Ferry Back to Greece
4:00 p.m.
I’m standing in front of the ferry dock.
A line of camper vans and many motorcycles wait to board the ship.
I walk into the ticket office, check in,
and wait in line.
The scene reminds me of Carla and Marcia from Brazil—
I met them on the ferry on my way here.
I write to them in the WhatsApp group I created,
and they reply—they’re still on the shores of Calabria.
A police officer signals for me to move forward.
I ride up onto the deck,
lay out my mattress,
and sit facing the dock.
A loud horn.
The ferry leaves the port.
In 9 hours, I’ll arrive at the port of Igoumenitsa, Greece.
Midnight, June 27th, 2025
June 28th, 1965
Today, I turn 60.
I think about the sixty years that have passed,
and I realize—
I’m in the happiest time of my life.
Thank you for reading this post.
