You could say Elizabeth Gilbert made this happen.

I read Eat, Pray, Love right before this trip (yes, I am a walking cliche). At one point in the book, Elizabeth goes to Sicily. I found this to be one of the most exciting parts of her trip, especially when she went to Siracusa. It just called to me. I said to myself, I’d love to go there.

The next day I was on the phone with a friend. We were talking about my trip and she said she has a friend in Europe. “Maybe she’s in France? I can’t remember,” she said. She did some searching and got back to me. “My friend lives in Sicily and has a B&B, right near Siracusa. Would you like me to connect you?”

And that was how I met Valentina and Steve.

Valentina and Steve are a couple in their 50s. He’s British, she’s Italian, and they’re the perfect pair — intelligent, warm, so easy to talk to, with a bevy of stories and adventures. They met while living in Cambodia and now run said B&B in Sicily.

The home, mind you, is gorgeous. It used to be a monk convent back in the day, so there’s some juju going on. It’s about 5km outside Palazzolo Accreide, a gorgeous UNESCO-certified village I set foot in only once (shoutout to the greatest arancini on the planet). At their home, all is quiet except the call of the birds and the gentle purr of their four friendly cats (plus, occasionally, the murderous groan from pigs being fed in the distance; why their feeding time sounds like an episode of The Walking Dead, I will never know).

Valentina was an architect before, so the home is very tastefully designed and decorated, mostly featuring her artwork, stitching, and photography. The place just breathes home. Add Valentina’s two parents, who were also staying from Rome, and you have one big mixed happy family. And that’s exactly how I felt while staying there.

When I told people I was going to Sicily, I’d get these oohs and aahs. “There’s just something special about the place,” I’d hear. “I can’t explain it. There’s an energy to it.” There’s Goethe’s famous quote: “To have seen Italy without having seen Sicily is not to have seen Italy at all.” Turns out there’s like 20 more beautiful poetic quotes about the place. Everyone who visits becomes enchanted.

Well, Goethe was right. Sicily just feels different from the rest of Italy. The sky is a different color. The air is different. The light is different. Everything feels like it’s under a saffron-shaded hue, like you’re in a Soderbergh movie. The whole place feels like it’s shot on film. And I’d have to assume, with the profundity of lemons, the sea, the granitas and the gelato, that summer is Sicily’s finest season.

*The view from Ortigia, a small island next to Siracusa*

*View from Valentina and Steve’s pool — Ananda Villa.*

Sicily, like much of Italy, is an exercise in contrast. It’s beloved yet seems like a notoriously difficult place to live. It’s hard, almost impossible to get a good job. The government is log jammed. Mafia is still rampant. On top of that, you’ve got earthquakes, wildfires, and the ever-present Mt. Etna, an active volcano. It’s a menu du jour of natural disasters, corruption, and government neglect. So why are the people here so happy?

I’ve traveled to a few places with corrupt governments. The irony is, these places seem to have the warmest, most generous people. This isn’t a secret. Family is a core, central tenet and communities are iron-tight, often by necessity: when you can’t rely on the government, you must rely on each other. And as someone recently told me: When your focus isn’t solely on the material, you place a higher value on life itself.

*Me, Valentina, Steve, Benito and Anna.*

My intention with Sicily was solitude. Before the trip, a friend drew a Tarot card for me: the Vision Quest. Its message is to spend extensive time in nature and ask Spirit for your next step. So for three days, that’s what I did. I hiked and walked and enjoyed the calm expanse of Sicily’s natural beauty. It was gorgeous. Yet still, despite the warm hospitality from Valentina and Steve, and even that illuminating conversation I’d just had in Naples, I was still feeling doubt and trepidation about my trip and my purpose in being here.

Night three, though, something broke through.

We were invited to Valentina’s neighbors for dinner. I mistakenly thought this would be a quiet affair — six to eight of us for some pasta and seafood. No. Not the case. I walk up and the table’s set for 16. Cousins and siblings and nephews just keep rolling in. How this one woman will feed everyone, God only knows.

Sure enough, she did — and then some. And for the uninitiated, now is a good time to break down the sequence of the Italian meal.

The traditional Italian meal happens in distinct stages: antipasti (your appetizer), primi (typically a pasta), secondi (your main course; typically a meat or protein) with contorno (vegetable), then perhaps insalata (your salad) and later, frutta (fruit). You polish the whole thing off with dolce (dessert), usually accompanied with espresso, limoncello, amaro, or some other acidic beverage to aid digestion.

Digestion being the operative word here. For the principal concerns in this culture seem to center around two things: consumption and digestion. Even that concept of “tranquillo,” which I mentioned several posts ago, I believe is not due to any Buddhist or meditative way of living, but encouraged simply for the sake of processing your meal so you can gear up for the next one.

That said, our menu looked like this:

-Aperitivo: Bubbly beverage

-Antipasto: Bruschetta

-Primi: Spaghetti in tomato sauce with crab legs

-Secondi: Fried octopus; baked fish; fried eggplant; eggplant parmesan (the greatest I’ve ever had); cabbage salad (Steve’s Asian-inspired contribution)

-Insalata: Mixed salad with mango

-Frutta: Plums, cherries, watermelon

At this point, I truly thought we were through. The course of the evening saw a continuous stream of plates, trays, and dishes. Paola, our host, then brought out a box of gelato. Then tiramisu. Then a coffee-infused creme. “Welcome to Sicily,” Paola’s son said to me, and handed me a glass of amaro and another plate of tiramisu.

There was something about that night, the warm atmosphere, the easy conversation, the familial nature, the authenticity of the experience, that shifted my entire dynamic. Any doubt or hesitation I felt for this trip had evaporated completely. Going to sleep that night, I had the feeling that, to me, is one of the greatest in the world:

I was exactly where I needed to be.

The next night, I finished Eat, Pray, Love (and yes, I highly recommend it). Toward the end, Elizabeth mentions a past trip where she went to this ultra-remote island near Bali to do some serious spiritual contemplation. I put the book down and said: Gosh, I’d love to do something like that.

The next morning, I’m eating breakfast with Valentina. She asks, “Harris, what are your plans for after here?” I told her I’m going to Florence for ten days, but that can certainly change. “What do you think about going to *******?” she asks. “It’s a very small island, no electricity, no cars. It’s my favorite place on Earth.”

Well, Ms. Gilbert, you’d done it again.

Yet before I left, on my very last night, something most curious happened. I met a girl.

This wasn’t supposed to happen here. No, not in a town of 5,000 people, where I’d hardly gone out. Not in a place where, after using Bumble for three minutes, I’d run out of people in the area to swipe. No, not here. But somehow it happened, and it was one of my favorite nights in a long time. All’s I’ll say is she’s sweet and wonderful and I hope our paths cross again.

* A quick note: I debated heavily on whether to include the name of the island and decided against it. I don’t want to be THAT guy. However some places are truly special and quite self-contained — and when they have an energy like that, I feel it’s best to be personally called. That said, message me if you are especially curious or feel strongly called to visit.

Then I arrived in *******.

******* is an island 5 kilometers in diameter. When you pull up on the boat, you just see a brown mountain sticking out of the sea. No flat surfaces, hardly any trees, just pure incline. The place gets baked during the day. It’s a miracle it’s inhabitable.

Eighty people live here. Yes, 80. You have to use a donkey to transport your luggage to your home, due to the precipitous climb. During the summer, outdoor activity is not possible from the hours of 10am until about 6pm. You wake up at 5am to explore, then you’re either indoors or in the sea, nothing in between. There are no roads, no lights. But at night, it’s just you, the sea, and the stars.

I stayed with Paola, a friend of Valentina’s. She worked in marketing in Milan for much of her career. Six years ago, she quit her job to start a weaving business. Then two years ago, she moved here and has remained ever since. “It’s like meeting a guy,” she said, “You can’t explain the feeling. It’s love.”

Paola lives in a cute, white all-cement cottage that overlooks the sea. It’s about 300m in elevation. The only sounds you hear from her terrace are the buzz of the summer bugs and the soft breeze of the wind. Add the fact that there’s hardly any cell or internet service and you’re basically staying in a monastery.

This is a place where you can hear your thoughts, I said. This is a place where you can hear God.

There are two restaurants at the bottom of the mountain. Otherwise, you have the option of eating in people’s homes. Meaning, you stop by in the afternoon, put your name on the list, then show up later with other travelers and eat a full-course home-cooked meal.

My first night, I did just that. I ate at Silvio’s, an older fisherman and friend of my host. Silvio, 73, fishes in the morning, then cooks and sells what he catches for dinner. I joined 12 other travelers, most of whom were Italian, and enjoyed one of the most fun nights I can remember. I unintentionally got spanking drunk — the wine here is just so smooth — and had an uproarious time with the other guests.

At the end, Silvio brought out a deck of cards and starting doing tricks. I had trouble following. “You don’t have to understand everything,” the woman next to me said, “Sometimes, life can just happen.” After the tricks, Silvio laughed and said that later he’d bring out a rope and bind some guests to see if they could get out. I laughed as well until moments later, Silvio walked out with some string.

My last night, I was invited to an aperitivo, aka happy hour. Towards the end of the night, much of the crowd had dissipated, leaving only a few of us. It was dark, the stars were out, the crickets were chirping. At the table next to me, two people were talking about free will. And it happened to be in English.

The man was older, Italian, with quite a large build and a deep voice. He had a white goatee. He was saying how he loves the fact that free will exists. I chimed in.

“Destiny is so much more appealing to me,” I said. “If it’s all set already, then it takes all the pressure off. We can’t make a wrong decision.”

“I disagree,” he said. “It’s much less fun. Without free will, there is no creativity in living.”

“But what happens if you make the wrong choice?” I asked. “Don’t you get nervous about that? About following the wrong path?”

The man threw his hands in the air in a very Italian gesture. “Then it’s a new experience,” he said. “For me, there is no wrong choice. There is only experience. If I’m not happy with the decision, then I learned something and I move on.”

This is Guido.

Guido’s 64 and lives just outside Rome. He started working when he was about eight years old. “At an early age, I knew I wanted to retire young,” he said. “I wanted to work very very hard, and then stop.” And that’s exactly what he did.

Guido started with a job in Rome, where he worked with precious metals. He eventually rose to upper management. Then he had an idea: He’d start his own company, build it, and sell it. That should give him enough to retire. So at 38 years old, on May 15, he started his own company. For many of those years, he worked seven days a week. And on April 29, at 48 years old, he sold it. Now, he does photography projects, restores homes, builds furniture, tends gardens, and more. “I still work,” he said, “I just don’t have to worry about bosses, rules, and schedules.”

We spoke for awhile. Guido’s a fascinating man. At one point, he shared a story while he simultaneously rolled and lit a cigarette in such seamless fashion. It was like watching an actor deliver a monologue. He told us the story of how he met his wife:

“My father’s birthday is August 15. That is very important. He was very insistent that you call him on his birthday. So that day, I was staying at a cabin in Switzerland. This was way back, so I had to switch the lines to make the call. I am waiting for over half an hour to do this. I go outside and there are two women: my future wife and her cousin. I didn’t know she was my wife. I started dating the cousin. Some time later, I wanted to take a trip to Vienna. My girlfriend’s cousin, the other woman, had a house there. I ring her and ask if I can stay with her. ‘What are you, crazy?’ She said. ‘I don’t even know you.’ She was staying in Umbria at the time. So I said, let’s meet and you can get to know me. Two months later we’re living together, nine months later we’re married. And we still are to this day.”

“That was August 15,” Guido said. “If my father was born October 13, I’d probably still be single.”

My last day, I spent the afternoon with a lovely couple I’d met the day before. They’re around my age and live near Bologna. He’s a pro Italian basketball player who also is studying artificial intelligence — yes, a perfect human being — so we had plenty to talk about. Our flights were around the same time that night, they to Bologna, me to Florence, so we spent the last day together in Palermo — antique shopping, eating arancini, then finishing the day at the sea before it was time to fly. A perfect ending to a perfect stretch of days.

Soon enough it was 11pm, and I boarded my flight to Florence.

Sicily: Brought to You by Elizabeth Gilbert

Florence: Land of 1,000 Selfies

Naples: Let’s Get Physical