From the north of Africa to the south of Europe there were numerous ferryboats.  Some were little more than a cargo ferries carrying trucks across the Mediterranean Sea.  Others were overnight luxury liners with restaurants, bars and duty free shopping stores.  Sleeping on the overnighters was optional: a berth in a shared room or deck chairs.  Because Donna- Rae and Greg were ahead of the tourist season, and on a motorcycle, they were able to enjoy a comfortable night crossing in a room with a shower and toilet that would cost nearly twice as much a few weeks later.  Donna-Rae, a sunset-sunrise photographer, caught both with her camera.  Greg, relishing not having to shovel coal deep in the heated bowels of a freighter, snoozed in clean sheets and read a book. 

   Riding the motorcycle onto the ferry was a challenge.  Not only were the metal loading ramps slippery from the seawater, but once on the boat Greg had to keep the bike upright as he crossed several railroad tracks that were for railroad cars.  Donna-Rae chose to walk on, sure that Greg and the motorcycle would fall.  She shot several photos, none of which met her expectation of seeing the bottom of the motorcycle pointing upwards, although Greg told her later that he tried.

     Sicily was a first time visit for both Donna-Rae and Greg.  Donna-Rae wanted to spend time riding along the coast, listening to the waves crashing at night.  Greg wanted to hunt small twisty mountain roads he had noted on the map as well as see the home of the Mafia depicted in so many novels and films.  Both agreed the explosive Mount Etna deserved their attention.

     Grateful they were a few weeks ahead of the tourist season, when prices for pensions, guesthouses and hotels would double, they managed to find a clean and inexpensive tourist apartment near the beach that fit their meager budget.  With a kitchen, cable TV and private veranda where the motorcycle could be parked, they cooked their meals, caught up on writing, transferring photos to CD’s and watched the news of the world.  Donna-Rae touristed by haggling with souvenir vendors enough to fill another box to be mailed home for daughters and grand children.  Greg, a TV news junkie, watched CNN and the BBC while performing routine maintenance to the motorcycle on the veranda.

     After a visit to the post office to jettison Donna-Rae’s souvenirs, they rode to Palermo.  Here they found 90-degree temperature, traffic choked streets and polluted air.  An hour of sitting on top of a hot motorcycle (the gasoline in the gas tank was boiling!) and inhaling exhaust fumes from trucks, cars and 1,000’s of motor scooters, was enough to convince Greg that finding the Mafia dens smelling of garlic and cigars was not worth sucking in the stink of the street.  He said, ‘This part of the toe of the boot of Italy smells of cheese feet, worse than some backpacker’s we’ve met in youth hostels.’  Donna-Rae self-injected more eye drops, coughed up some yellow goop, then said, “Can we leave?”  Greg pointed the motorcycle south and they fled to the clean air and twisty roads of the high mountains in the center of the island.

Mount Etna in the background.  After several hours of riding narrow winding roads over numerous mountain passes, the travelers stopped to take photographs.  Greg, an adventure seeker, was disappointed the active volcano decided to be sleeping.  He had hoped to ride along flowing streams of lava.  Donna-Rae wandered among the lava fields wondering what it must have been like to see the black lava glowing orange as it flowed some years before.