The essential guide to the Aeolian Islands, where Italy kicks back
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| Seven Pieces of Paradise Aeolian Islands |
Thirty years ago a German named Gilbert Lippelt resigned his post as a cruise-ship captain, traded his starched uniform for a sarong, and moved to the Aeolians. Now he lives in a whitewashed mountain cave on Filicudi, one of these seven volcanic islands just north of Sicily. His days are spent gardening, reading novels, puffing on a hookah, and chatting with curious strangers like me.
I bump into Gilbert while I'm exploring Filicudi, and he invites me to his cave for a glass of homemade Chardonnay. "I used to sail past places like this," he says. "It's better living here." The near-perfect Aeolians were a popular vacation spot for the ancient Greeks. Ingrid Bergman and Roberto Rosselini met here while making Stromboli; more recently the islands were the setting for scenes from Il Postino. I'm fond of my life in Milan. But sitting here with Gilbert, staring out at the unruffled expanse of the Mediterranean, I'd cheerfully trade it all for an Aeolian place in the sun.
l i p a r i
The largest and best connected of the Aeolians is Lipari, which is also the name of the chief town, a cosmopolitan port with scads of seafood restaurants and a thriving art scene. I rest under a bougainvillea-draped pergola on the Corso Vittorio Emanuele, the main drag, to watch the residents drift by. There are the Sicilians I expect--slender and raven-haired, with walnut-brown skin. But there are also blond, green-eyed giants with lank northern European builds; women with the almond eyes and mahogany skin of the Maghreb; burly men who seem straight from the Cyclades. The Aeolians are the midpoint of the Mediterranean, after all: as far from Rome as from Tunis, halfway between Beirut and Gibraltar, a promised land that over the course of three millennia has been coveted, conquered, and tearfully lost. Many fair-haired residents descend from the Norman knights who once ruled Sicily; those of North African stock are the offspring of Arabs, whom the Normans drove away.I'm jolted from these historic musings by the modern blare of a motorino, or moped. Lipari is too close to the rest of Italy to be an island sanctuary; even in the narrow back streets, where braids of tomatoes hang in the sun and widows in black watch you from balconies, there's always a background surf of traffic noise.
Wandering the alleyways off the Corso, I pass a series of workshops. On a wooden loom in her tiny stone studio, Florence Quellien weaves tunics, capes, and tapestries from hand-dyed silks. A few doors down, Armando Saltalamacchia paints seascapes on canvas and fabrics, while nearby the brothers Spada massage terra-cotta into masks and figurines. Like all walks in Lipari, mine eventually leads to the port, ringed with open-air cafés and street artists such as gruff, bearded Stefano Panza, who sits on an outdoor workbench, throwing porcelain vases and painting sculptures of Sicilian suns.
In search of peace, I hike the steep road to Il Castello, which commands a broad sweep of ocean. The medieval castle was once a Greek acropolis where Odysseus is said to have stopped for some R&R after his nasty tangle with the Cyclops. Within the castle is one of Italy's finest archaeological museums, with walk-in tombs and once-buried treasures that document 6,000 years of Aeolian life. My favorite are the vases, exuberant ware rated PG-13 to X: they leave little doubt that those Greeks knew how to party. On the grounds, wildflowers sprout among Greek headstones, and groves of olive trees and umbrella pines shade timeworn statuary.
Just outside Il Castello is Ristorante Filippino, a restaurant with its own fishing fleet. Though it's said to deserve its Michelin star, I pass it up for La Nassa, just off the Corso. Indomitable chef Donna Teresa has spent 30 years elevating Aeolian cuisine to a fine art, while her portly son Bartolo has become an expert in fresh fish, Sicilian wines, and schmooze. I dine on the second-floor terrace, amid flowering succulents and antique tiles. The Seven Pearls starter--neatly choreographed morsels of fish roe, pygmy shrimp, and wild herbs--is followed by a fugue of sárago, dentice, and cernia--local fish as delicate as they are untranslatable. Bartolo joins me near the end of the meal with a bottle of Malvasia, a dessert wine vaguely reminiscent of Muscatel, and a tray of fish. He acquaints me with the species I've just eaten, and the exact spot where each was caught: "In the Aeolians, fish are like people--each has its favorite hangout." By the third glass of Malvasia we're rhapsodizing about the Mediterranean's eternal beauty; by the fifth we've pretty well sussed out the meaning of life.
At noon the next day, after a whirlwind tour of nearby Vulcano, the most southerly of the Aeolians, I'm floating in the seaside pool of the Carasco, Lipari's palatial waterfront hotel. Maybe it was the previous night's Malvasia, but Vulcano was a disappointment. The northwest coast is pleasantly unspoiled, the active volcano nice enough. But the sloppiest of day-trippers stop there, as it's the closest of the Aeolians to Sicily. The village is a drab 1970's eyesore, full of snack bars. And the island's biggest draw, the curative hot springs, are a Must Miss unless you like muddy pools brimming with naked, package-tour Germans.
Since Lipari is only an hour by hydrofoil from the Sicilian port of Milazzo and less than two hours from Reggio di Calabria on the mainland, it's a good starting point for a visit to the Aeolians. Most people stay here and take day trips to the other islands. They're making a mistake: my advice is to listen to your inner nomad and island-hop.
p a n a r e a
In July and August Panarea is one of the Mediterranean's party capitals; the rest of the year, the island rediscovers the peace of its fishing-village past. I've heard about the 24-karat social scene (Armani, Valentino, and the queen of Belgium are regulars), but as I enter the foyer of the Hotel Raya, a two-minute walk from the port, it all becomes real. On terraces, under porticoes, and in a bar hung with tribal art from New Guinea and Borneo, swank guests chat and preen--a tableau vivant of style. I head to my room, a split-level essay in traditional Aeolian architecture: whitewashed walls, wood-beamed ceilings, rattan furniture. Balinese gods peer conspiratorially down from wall niches; terra-cotta amphorae hold explosions of greenery. On my private terrace, shaded by wisteria and cooled by sea breezes, I picture all the tall Camparis and naps to come.Trouble is, there's too much on Panarea for downtime--churches and piazzas, reefs and islets, a hilly interior. Not to mention the many boutiques, which carry coral jewelry, South Seas pareus, and Indonesian antiques. I hop onto a motorino and follow the island's one road, which dead-ends at a beach on the southern tip, Capo Milazzese. A cobbled trail leads to a bluff, where prehistoric ruins stand in a 360-degree universe of sea and sky. From my perch, I can look down into coves, each cradling a beach of pebbles or silky tan sand. In one, a bronzed couple play in the surf; in the adjoining bay a family is constructing elaborate sandcastles. The next cove is empty. I clamber down and play castaway for the afternoon.
Back in town at sunset, I'm swept up in the tide of people flowing between waterfront bars: Banacalì, with its Moroccan décor; the sophisticated Bridge Club; the thronging Bar del Porto. Everyone looks fresh off a Milanese runway, with power tans that make me feel like a troglodyte. At around 10, I devour a dinner of grilled lobster and squid on Raya's oil lamp-lit terrace while in the distance the volcano on Stromboli gushes lava. By midnight, Raya's outdoor dance floor is pulsing with South American rhythms. The moon sets, the stars come and go, dawn happens, and everyone's still dancing.
s t r o m b o l i
Nicknamed "the Lighthouse of the Mediterranean" for its nightly flares, Stromboli is dominated by a highly active volcano. Right on the brim of all this seismic drama--rumblings, tremors, fiery explosions--are silent fishing villages and tranquil basalt coasts. Here, you can scuba through elaborate volcanic formations (this is one of the Mediterranean's richest underwater ecosystems) or flop down on a black-sand beach. Stromboli also has the best-preserved architecture of the Aeolians. The traditional house is somewhere between a pueblo dwelling and a Greek cottage, a whitewashed structure with a shady loggia of stone pillars. Low walls frame gardens of lemon, pomegranate, and prickly pear. The name of each house--Francesca & Mario's House of Goodness, Lemon Trees, Siesta--is displayed on a colorful majolica tile, giving off a sense of peaceful pride.Another reason to love Stromboli is La Locanda del Barbablù, a quirky six-room inn with fin de siècle Neapolitan breakfronts, four-poster beds encrusted with cherubs and mother-of-pearl inlay, and a broad terrace overlooking the volcano and the sea. By the end of my lunch (tuna fillet baked in cinnamon, cloves, and hot peppers) at Barbablù's inventive restaurant, I can see why it's making a splash in Italian food magazines.
Stromboli's hippest locale is the indoor-outdoor Bar Ingrid, named for the actress. The bartender wears head-to-toe Moschino and a brilliantined goatee. Sting and Springsteen visited recently. You get the picture. At nightfall, I order a bottle of mineral water and stay put. Other patrons start drifting away. Some are headed for the beachfront La Tartana Club, others for a nocturnal boat tour to watch the volcano, followed by dinner at Ginostra, an isolated artists' colony and intellectual hangout on the northwest shore. At midnight, mountain guide Mario Zaia and his faithful black hound arrive to take me on an after-hours visit to Stromboli's volcanic crater.
It's a four-hour ascent on an increasingly steep stone trail, but the view at the top is well worth the effort and incidental grime. Squatting at the summit at 4 a.m., I watch the crater glow dully in the darkness. Then with a bark and a burble, lava and glowing stones shoot into the air, searing the night. Soon the sun emerges from the plum-colored ocean, illuminating the entire chain of Aeolians in golden light. No wonder the Greeks believed Stromboli's volcano to be the refuge of a god.
s a l i n a
Salina is the lushest of the Aeolians: there's spring water instead of lava in its veins. The mountainous interior is covered with hardwood forests, and the fertile lowlands yield the region's finest wine grapes. The pastoral landscapes and relaxed pace of Salina are the perfect counterpoint to the pyrotechnics of the other islands.On the 15-minute cab ride from the port to the Hotel Signum, I pass olive groves, caper plantations, and vineyards where the famed Malvasia wine is produced. After my unbroken stretch of beach days, the muted light and cool greenery are a tonic. The bucolic mood continues at the Signum, a cluster of old Aeolian farmhouses turned into an inn. Lemon groves blanket the grounds. Rooms with patios have vine-covered awnings, antique candelabra, and terra-cotta busts that create the feel of an old family home. But the best thing about the Signum is its owners, Clara and Michele Rametta. Michele spends most of his time in the kitchen, deftly manipulating local ingredients like cuttlefish, wild fennel, dates, and capers. Clara, by contrast, is a local politician and human whirlwind. She organizes guests' days with admirable efficiency, pointing out the caves where the Salinesi used to hide from Saracen pirates. She'll send you off on nature trails or direct you to the folklore museum in the village of Santa Marina.
One day, Clara hires a boat and packs me off to the seaside village of Pollara, where scenes from Il Postino were filmed. Pollara's narrow beach is set beneath soaring sandstone cliffs. Skiffs and Zodiacs float about the bay; volcanic monoliths rise from the aquamarine waters. It was here that Il Postino's Pablo Neruda inducted his unlettered postman friend into the charmed world of poetry. Neruda was right--if poetry doesn't speak to you here, stick to prose.
f i l i c u d i a n d a l i c u d i
Spend some time on Filicudi, and you'll see Gilbert Lippelt's point: this is an island that could make you leave it all behind. Filicudi has yet to be discovered by mass tourism, and is devoid of sophisticated hotels and nightspots. It's what you'd call primitive--if unspoiled beauty is your idea of roughing it. Precisely because of this sublime minimalism, Filicudi is all the rage among trendy Italians. Designer Ettore Sottsass has a house here, as do Milanese photographer Giorgio Backhaus and a number of Italian TV personalities. Rumors are rife that Robert De Niro is buying a villa. Panarea may be where it's at for style and revelry, Stromboli for fireworks and creative flair, but for sheer Mediterranean ease, Filicudi and its little sister Alicudi are the answer.At Filicudi's La Canna,
a hilltop pensione, mamma Emma and papà Pietro Anastasi make you feel like their long-lost grandchild. Some of the 10 rooms are carved out of the living sandstone and decorated with naïve landscapes by island painters. From the sun terrace, you can see five other Aeolians. Pietro organizes a boat tour with a fisherman, Stefano. I ask when I'm to meet Stefano; he shrugs and points to the water: "When he comes." Those who live on Filicudi rarely make appointments or consult timetables.
Navigating the coast with a fisherman is a strategic way to scout any of the Aeolians, and is particularly rewarding off Filicudi. Blond, green-eyed Stefano shows me some of the highlights: the prehistoric village of Capo Graziano, the beach at Le Punte, the pristine reefs and coves along the northwest coast. We nose into the Grotta del Bue Marino (Cave of the Seal) and cut the engine to drift toward the pebble beach at the back of the cave. I wonder aloud why this entire coast is so empty--why so few tourists?
Stefano smiles. "You should see Alicudi." A steep pyramid rising from the sea nine miles west of Filicudi, it is the most unpolished Aeolian of them all. Electricity arrived less than a decade ago, and there is still little of it about. There are no cars, no motorini or bicycles. In fact, there are no roads--donkeys are the only transportation. The lone hostelry, the Ericusa, takes Mediterranean simplicity to remarkable lengths.
After all the seafood and high-octane frolicking of the other islands, Alicudi's peace is perfect. I spend my time taking long, aimless walks on the cobbled stairways that crisscross the island. There's practically no one around, so I can strip down, slip into the water, then sun-dry on the rocks whenever I please. Alicudi is a place where time uncoils; sunset and moonrise are near-religious experiences. Before stopping on Alicudi for long, make sure you have a return ticket in your pocket. Or you may never leave.