Too Much Solitude: House Hunting on Alicudi

View of sea and abandoned church. Photo by Lucia Mauro

Too Much Solitude: House Hunting on Alicudi
By Lucia Mauro
                                                                         (avg. read time: 7-10 min.)

With fewer unpopulated places left to discover in the world, seeking out a real desert island holds a special allure. At least it once did for my husband Joe and me – until we found ourselves looking at a house for sale on the Aeolian island of Alicudi. Banished to the far-westernmost reaches of the seven volcanic land masses that make up the Aeolian Islands scattered beween Sicily and Calabria, Alicudi really is about getting away from it all…even such mundane things as running water and electricity. That didn’t curtail our fascination with the possibility of streamlining our lives and reconnecting with the capricious forces of nature.
 

Donkeys taking a break. Photo by Lucia Mauro

Joe and I first experienced the difficulty of getting to Alicudi in the late 1990s. We were staying on the main tourist island of Lipari and had hoped to hop a hydrofoil to the least-trafficked Alicudi and Filicudi. Instead we were stranded on the pier, the only forlorn souls interested in these desolate rocks while all the German and Aussie tourists headed for the mud baths of Vulcano or the jet-set beaches of Panarea. We never managed to take the hydrofoil because it never came. So off we went to slather fango on our bodies in the sulfurous fumaroli and, over the years, whiz around the sloping island of Il Postino’s Salina that smelled of bougainvillea and lemons, and climb up Stromboli’s Crater, the closest thing to Vulcan’s forge on earth.

It wasn’t until the early 2000’s that, despite mare agitato and unpredictable boat schedues, we finally landed at Alicudi’s meager port, where unshaven fishermen were tossing squid and sea urchins into plastic buckets. One husky little boy shouted a hearty “Buon Giorno” at us as he hauled two plastic bags filled with what looked like still-swishing barracudas. A speckled German short-haired pointer ran up and down the pier that dead-ended at a garbage dump. He dexterously avoided getting his paws tangled in the fishing nets that carpeted the stony beach.

We read that donkeys are the only form of transportation on Alicudi, since the narrow ascending roads could never accommodate anything with an engine (not even a motorino). One lonely mule stood near some faded fishing boats. He blinked repeatedly to keep the flies out of his soulful eyes. Then we noticed a spanking-new red Alfa Romeo sitting in the middle of some rusting barrels. It was shrink-wrapped in plastic…the kind travelers use to bind around their luggage to avoid scratches. The handful of people we met laughed and explained that someone had won the car in a raffle. The company unloaded it years ago, ignoring the fact that the owner could never drive it here. So it became a sleek but ossified relic – never would it take the sexy curves of the Amalfi Coast.

So this was Alicudi, an island with one of the most spectacular views of the ocean and its mountainous island neighbors. Yet sadness and loneliness pervaded the salty air. Only one sparsely-stocked bar was open. We felt trapped in paradise…and bored to tears.

Why, then, would we ever want to come back or even consider living here? It’s strange, but as the years passed, Joe and I developed a crazy fantasy of chucking it all for the most spartan of Robinson Crusoe lifestyles. Whenever we got caught in clogging Chicago traffic or had to contend with endless public transportation delays or surly and frazzled people, we would whisper, “Alicudi’s looking pretty good right now.”

We also figured that, at some point, Alicudi would have to succumb to the Internet and become, at least virtually, connected to the world while maintaining its serenity.

By 2007, cyberspace had not yet embraced Alicudi.

That’s when we thought we could snare our dream house. Joe and I found a website for an Italian realtor who specialized in selling properties on the Aeolian Islands. We began a correspondence and renewed our once-dormant interest in Alicudi after receiving photographs of a cranberry-red villa, in line with four other sloping homes, perched on a precipice that surveyed an endless ocean and sky. The price was surprisingly within our range, and we even considered the value of owning a property we could rent during high season. After all, Alicudi still has only one hotel (open only in the summer). So travelers would welcome a rental option. But we kept downplaying the fact that no one – not even the adventurous tourist – really goes to Alicudi. And if they do, they rarely stay.

Nevertheless, the house loomed in our imagination. Our curiosity became insatiable. And we were determined to see it. So during an unusually sweltering autumn 2007, Joe and I boarded a hydrofoil from Palermo to Lipari, where we stayed at our usual Pensione Neri, a peeling belle epoque estate across from a mystical circle of ancient Greek and Roman necropoli (now strangely inhabited by a flock of ring-neck doves).

After settling in, we marched over to our realtor on Lipari’s main drag of crowded pizzerie and pasticcerie – and panting stray dogs, including two identical Dalmatians -- to secure an appointment to see the house on Alicudi. The agency’s owner, a skeletal man with long bony fingers, summoned an attractive young woman with massive curls of black hair. His new assistant, she quickly checked the marine forecast and, to our amazement, smooth seas were predicted. We agreed to meet her at the port early in the morning to catch the aliscafo to the most isolated of the area’s volcanic masses that rose from the sea millions of years ago.

The Aeolian Islands, as a whole, boast a grand mythic past that encompasses long-gone civilizations, including the Phoenicians, in search of obsidian and fertile volcanic soil. Archaeological parks and discos named after fantastical creatures (like Cyclops and the Minotaur) dot these loosely-scattered island jewels that once sheltered Odysseus.

Alicudi’s history, though, isn’t so spectacular. The name is believed to be taken from the word heather, a copious flower that blankets its craggy hills. Heather is also indigenous to Scotland, where the musical Brigadoon is set. And, ironically, I’ve often wondered if – like that tartan fantasy town– Alicudi only comes back to life every 100 years or so. It’s truly an enigma and something of a mirage.

Inhabited since prehistoric times, the island contains a smattering of Bronze Age, Greek and Roman pottery, many of the artifacts collected from shipwrecks. Its open geographic position made Alicudi prone to steady pirate invasions – one of the reasons the homes, and now-shuttered Chiesa di San Bartolo, were built so high above sea level. But the ongoing Saracen attacks eventually forced the handful of residents to abandon the island altogether.

It remained deserted for most of the Middle Ages and Renaissance, until a few brave souls began repopulating it in the early 17th century. The population mushroomed to about 1,200. Then, at the turn of the 20th century, scores of residents immigrated to America and Australia to escape from the meager industries of fishing and caper production. Today approximately 100 people live on Alicudi, many Italian, and a sturdy enclave of German ex-pats.

The next morning, we met our realtor and her talkative boyfriend at the aliscafo port. With tickets in hand, we stood on a loose aluminum plank, expecting to board at 8:30. The hydrofoils came and went – but none were headed for Alicudi. When we asked one of the captains, he shrugged his shoulders and laughed, “Alicudi, today? Who knows? Maybe they don’t have enough passengers and decided to cancel.” Joe and I felt like we were just hit by a hard wave of dej vu. Passing us by were scores of tanned bodies on their way to soak up more rays on the picturesque – and populated – islands of Salina and Panarea.

Our soft-spoken realtor suggested we get our money back for the non-existent aliscafo and walk over to the Siremar office to see if any ferries might be embarking on a voyage to Alicudi’s remote reaches. A paper taped to the window indicated one was scheduled to depart at 9:05 a.m. It was now 8:55 a.m., and the Siremar office wasn’t even open. Suddenly an assertive middle-aged woman, with bleached-blonde hair and bejeweled designer eyewear, shoved past us and opened the office. We immediately beseeched her with questions about the 9:05 ferry. “Pazienza!” she barked in a smoker’s raspy lower register. “I don’t know. You have to wait until the ferry arrives.”

Our realtor’s chatty boyfriend was so confident the ferry would be late that he summoned Joe to a bar for a coffee. By 9:30, what looked like a tanker docked. The handsome gray-haired captain strolled over to the Siremar office and flirted shamelessly with the ticket agent in her sparkly glasses. She playfully swatted him away.

”So,” we asked, “are you going to Alicudi?” The suave captain snickered – a common response whenever Alicudi is mentioned. “If you want to go there, I’ll take you there,” was his nonchalant reply. “But why would anyone want to go to Alicudi?” he asked no one in particular. “There are four of us,” I said. “Va bene,” was his curt answer, followed by a wink and a commanding “Andiamo.” We and the crew were the only ones on board, save for a few fishermen and construction-worker types who boarded on the other islands.

Joe and I spent much of the four-hour ride on deck, marveling at the expansive scenery while dodging hoses being used by the crew to clean the boat. Amid the vigorous scrubbing and pails of water tossed around our feet, we took in the titanic power of each volcanic island and the homes that cling for dear life to stark precipices the color of rust. The few times we stepped back inside the near-vacant ferry, our realtor – instead of accosting us with a hard sell – was perfectly content making out with her boyfriend, who kept telling us how badly he was suffering from “love sickness.” He couldn’t keep his hands off her, and she didn’t seem to mind at all.

Famished by the time our ferry pulled up to Alicudi’s minuscule molo, we walked briskly to the only business open on the whole island: a bar/mini-market, where a German family was buying rations for a one-week stay. Some young boys were loading the provisions on a small mule as a prancing Pomerian (who seemed to control the port) yapped at him. Fortunately our pace was brisk because no sooner did we slip into the bar’s beaded doorway, the German-born owner announced he was just about to close. There’s a good chance we may have starved, since the only hotel – Hotel Ericusa – and its adjoining restaurant were closed for the season. Joe and I simultaneously blurted out, “How could we live here? What were we thinking?” Our realtor and her amorous boyfriend were just happy to be on a weekend getaway together.

The meager offerings consisted of cured meats, cheeses and olives – actually quite an inviting lunch. We all settled on prosciutto-mozzarella panini. But the balding owner, a dour and suspicious man, looked a bit put out when our realtor politely asked if he could make the sandwiches. We were soon joined by a stocky guy who was making a delivery from Milazzo. The only way back to Lipari and Milazzo was via an aliscafo scheduled to depart at 5:50 p.m. It was close to 2 o’clock. The rugged guy huffed and puffed as he chomped on his over-sized panino outside the mini-mart. “Damn!” he exclaimed. “What am I supposed to do for four hours?!”

We invited him to come with us to look at the house. “No, thanks!” he chortled. “What kind of nut would want to move to this dump? I’ll hang out here with the donkeys.”

Our realtor didn’t seem one bit fazed by this definitive deal killer.

She and her boyfriend, though, were fun and gregarious companions. And our interest in this lonely house with a gorgeous view atop something out of the movie Castaway remained strong. The climb, however, was not for the faint of heart or for vertigo sufferers like myself. But we forged ahead.

It’s too bad our realtor got lost half-way up this arduous climb in 100-degree heat on a shaky mule path with sheer drops to the sea buffered by spiky ficchi d’India, a cactus indigenous to Sicily. Some passages were so narrow and steep that we had to hug the side of the cliff – a few rocks came loose; cactus leaves jutted from others; and one sported a tarantula-sized arachnid in its web. Piles of mule droppings blocked entire paths. Then we hit a dead end. Somewhere in the far distance, we could discern the house’s red-painted façade. It looked like it was in another hemisphere. The only two people we saw made things worse by sending us on the “scenic” – a.k.a. really long – route.

I wanted to cry. Our realtor’s boyfriend (looking more comical by the minute, with his receding hairline and dark-rimmed retro glasses and checkered peddle-pushers) was ecstatic to find a tree shedding long brown carobs that resembled chocolate fava beans. Apparently, he eats them by the pound. So off he ran, deserting his beloved for all of five minutes, to dangle from a tree branch and knock down more carobs, which he loaded into his backpack. Why, I wondered, would anyone want to add more weight when we still had miles and miles of jagged rock to climb? He insisted I taste one. But tree-bark flavor is not one of my favorites. I wanted to tear out my hair like the mother in Fellini’s Amarcord and shout, “Divento matta! Divento matta!”

The climb ensued; the house eluded us. Yet when Joe and I turned back to view a sublime blue ocean and the majestic peaks of the other islands, we felt we found our desert-island paradise…until a snake yanked us back to reality. Right there, a few centimeters from my shoe, a huge black snake was feasting on a dead seagull. I froze while our realtor’s boyfriend tossed a few small stones at it. Once the serpent safely slithered away, we continued up more dizzying cliffs. Then a pack of dogs bolted past us. One of them was carrying a tiny white rabbit in its mouth. “Okay,” I said to Joe. “That’s enough. I don’t think I can live this close to the brutal realities of nature.”

But we had to see this house. It became an obsession…almost on a mythic scale. Despite dehydration and the sensation that my feet were broken, I made it up one last wobbly stone step and onto the red house’s spectacular terrace. The first natural wonder I noticed as I surveyed the ocean was La Canna, a gnarly protruberance I prefer to call Neptune’s Penis. It pokes out of the water with steadfast conviction.

Suddenly, our realtor – despite being out of breath – switched into business mode. The conditions didn’t seem ideal. All we wanted to do was rest for about a day. After all, it took us over two hours to walk here. We found water in the small kitchen, and each of us downed a lukewarm bottle. Once inside, Joe and I realized that regardless of the view, we couldn’t live in this elongated shack. An unfinished bathroom (with a giant spider hanging in the shower) led to a closet-sized rustic bedroom and into a kitchen packed to the rafters with the owner’s collection of mocha coffee pots. Another small bedroom was attached to the kitchen. The house basically had no shape. Outside, we peeked into a storage room that contained rat poison (the ultimate deal killer) and a crumbling barbecue no doubt erected during the Stone Age.

When we asked about lights on the terrace, our realtor proudly pointed out the niches for candles. “Very romantic,” she cooed, as her boyfriend wrapped his arms around her waist. Electricity is provided by a generator shared by five houses, and water is collected in two wells. The ultimate “green” island, Alicudi has not squandered its resources. But how easily could city-bred people adapt to these extremes? Just running down to the port and back would involve preparations on the level of climbing Mount Everest. And imagine forgetting something in mid-climb? Plus, furniture could only be hauled up by mules. Talk about an incentive for purging oneself of earthly possessions.

The trek down was actually more treacherous because I now could see the sheer drops. We passed a few little houses with chicken coops. One had a restless pony kicking its back legs against its wood enclosure. Some people waved; others eyed us warily. The locals, I understand, don’t take too well to day trippers. We, of course, wanted to think of ourselves as more than day trippers. But one day was all we could handle here.

On our way down, we encountered more Germans: some tourists with backpacks; others longtime inhabitants carrying walking sticks. One man working in a shed said he would have liked to offer us coffee or wine, but he was low on provisions. We thanked him and continued on, meeting a heavy-set, gray-bearded Teutonic man in hot pants and his carrot-orange-haired wife. They lamented how exhausted they were from the climb. And we hoped they weren’t hiking to the red house. The man was so ruddy-faced, he looked like he might collapse. So did the overloaded mule carrying their luggage. Then, without warning, we had to cling to the side of a cliff while a convoy of three large mules plowed through with furniture and lumber on their backs. Joe designated them the “Mayflower Mover” mules.

It took us one hour to make it down to the port. And to our shock, the aliscafo was already docked, with its propeller slowly turning. It was supposed to leave at 5:50, but the captain decided on a whim to leave earlier, closer to 5:40. We barely made it, considering we got there at 5:30.

As we rested on the last step of the mule path, where a cardboard box filled with mule droppings had been placed, Joe and I didn’t know if we should laugh or cry. What would we have done if the aliscafo left without us? I suppose we would have to inquire at the bar where we had our sandwiches…and what a depressing thought that was. We ran into the delivery guy on the pier. “Thank God the boat came earlier!” he shouted to us. “I was about to kill myself!” On the pier, a baby swordfish fought for its life in a bucket of shallow water.

With the Pomeranian nipping at our heels, the four of us barely made it on the aliscafo as gray clouds moved in and the wind kicked up – the wind-god Aeolus no doubt giving us a generous shove. We were grateful for the push.

Joe and I became the professor in Nanni Moretti’s film, Caro diario. At first seeking tranquility on Alicudi, the old man eventually loses his mind because he can’t watch television. The loneliness makes him delirious. So he races to a departing ferry, practically diving over the rail to make it on board. That image flashed across our mind. And as we settled into our airplane seat in the now-whirring hydrofoil (our realtor and her boyfriend kissing in the corner), we realized that solitude can enrich the soul, but too much solitude can indeed drive you mad. END