My first rule of travel is simple: “There is a correlation between distance and excitement,” said Samantha Weinberg in the British Condé Nast Traveller. That’s why I was skeptical when my sister suggested a week on Filicudi, a small island off Sicily. Since I live in England, any one of the Aeolian Islands would have sounded “a bit too…European.” But my sister persisted, so I made the flight with her to Rome, then stuck with her through a second flight, a 90-minute taxi ride, and finally a morning ferry ride to our destination.
As the hydrofoil pulled into the harbor, “my first thought was that we had somehow fallen off the edge of Europe, or been transported back in time.” Aside from a few low buildings on the coastline, “there was nothing: no taxis, no street sellers, no sprawl of hotels.” Belquis Zahir, the owner of the airy, adobe-like villa where we’d be staying, met us at the dock with her car, and “even by road, Filicudi was instantly enchanting.” On either side of us “there were bursts of color—reds, pinks, and purples—interspersed with giant ears of prickly pear.” Wafts of scent from blossoming shrubs filled our noses as we looked out to the sea. It dawned on me that “although we might still be in Europe, we were a long way from home.”
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