La Dolce Fraulein

Always pack the boots. — Belmond Grand Hotel Timeo, Taormina, Sicily 

"To have seen Italy without having seen Sicily is to not have seen Italy at all, for Sicily is the clue to everything." 

— Goethe 

It Started in Ortigia 

 My mother-in-law's motto is "just go." 

She's 81 years old, she books the trip, she shows up, and she does not complain. When she called to say she was gifting our family a Butterfield & Robinson walking tour through eastern Sicily, I did not ask questions. I just went. 

A word about how this trip actually happened. My husband Johnathan researched it, booked the Airbnbs, arranged the rental car, drove every road, handled every bag, and cheerfully inserted himself into a group that was, let's be honest, mostly women. He did all of this without a single complaint and with the quiet competence of a man who understands that sometimes the greatest act of love is just making sure everyone gets there safely and the WiFi works. He even wore the Fraulein hat the entire trip. Johnathan is the reason I get to do any of this — and he knows I mean that with everything I've got. 

Margaret and Jonathan. Ortigia, Sicily. He wore the Fraulein hat the entire trip. We don't deserve him. 

We landed in Ortigia first — a small island connected to Syracuse by a bridge, ancient in the way that makes you feel like a very recent invention. We found our Airbnb tucked in the middle of town and fell immediately, completely in love with it. Some places you walk into and you just know. This was one of those places.  

Then we walked outside and discovered we were right next to a market. If you know us, you know that's basically a religious experience. 

I found a vintage snake necklace that doubles as a belt — still not entirely sure what it is, only that I needed it — and gold earrings that looked like little Sputniks, five euros each. The vintage dealer had the kind of table you have to circle twice because you keep finding things. We call it retail therapy. Sicily called it Tuesday. 

The ocean was right there. So we ate seafood, because of course we did. And that's where Sicily introduced us to Pasta alla Norma — eggplant, tomato, ricotta salata, all of it together in a way that makes you wonder what you've been doing with pasta your whole life. We also decided, somewhere between the second and third order, that we are sardine people now. We didn't know that about ourselves before this trip. Sicily told us. 

And then there were the cannoli. 

I don't know how to explain what a Sicilian cannoli does to a person who has only ever had a cannoli outside of Sicily. It's not the same food. It's barely the same word. We had no idea. We know now. 

That first night we walked to a fancy hotel to meet the other couple joining our Butterfield & Robinson tour — Maude and Mitch, two doctors from Saint Louis. We fell into instant love with them the way you sometimes do with strangers, where an hour in it feels like you've known each other for years. They'd done B&R trips before and had nothing but good things ahead to promise us. We believed them immediately. 

We also met our guides, Georgia and Andrea. I'll just say this: some people you meet and they imprint on you. Best friends forever. It was decided that first night. 

Oh — and arancini. Fried rice balls filled with cheese and ragu, golden and perfect. Yes. Absolutely yes. 

We hadn't even started the tour yet and Sicily had already given us a market find, a new food identity, two new friends for life, and the best guides we've ever had. 

Eight Miles, One Table, and a Certain Kind of Moon 

I want to be clear about something. 

My mother-in-law is 81 years old. She walked eight miles along the Sicilian coast in the June heat and did not once ask if we were almost there. I, a significantly younger person, was privately dying. She was fine. 

"Just go" is her motto. She means it literally. 

Butterfield & Robinson took us to Vendicari that day — a nature reserve along the southeastern coast that apparently serves as a rest stop for birds migrating across continents. They call it the hotel of the birds. Ancient tuna fisheries, watchtowers, Byzantine churches, fishermen's cottages, all of it strung together along a coastline so beautiful it almost makes the mileage feel worth it. 

I'll be honest with you: I did not notice a single bird. I'm sure they were there. I was focused on survival. 

But then we turned a corner and there it was — a table set underneath an olive tree, in the courtyard of a traditional Sicilian farmhouse, laid with every incredible thing you can imagine. We were starving in the specific way that only eight miles of coastal trail can make you starving, and the food arrived like a reward we had actually earned. They brought my sister-in-law gluten free pasta without a second thought. Espresso and cappuccino came after the meal to fuel us up for the next stretch of walking. The Italians are not playing around with hospitality. They think of everything. 

We swam in the sea before the afternoon was over. The water was freezing and completely perfect. The kind of cold that makes you gasp and then scream then laugh and then not want to get out. 

That evening, B&R delivered us to Country House Villadorata — a historic noble estate in the Noto valley — and we had dinner under the stars. 

"Just go." — Courtney Walker, 81, living her best life at Country House Villadorata. 

Here's the thing about that dinner. A full moon rose over the Sicilian countryside while we were sitting there. Not just any full moon. The kind that makes you go quiet for a second because you can't quite believe you're in the same world you woke up in that morning. 

Turquoise shorties. White eyelet dress. Bougainvillea everywhere. The moon doing what it was doing. 

The boots came out that night. My turquoise shorties with a white eyelet dress, bougainvillea and jasmine climbing the walls around us, the moon doing what it was doing. Idyllic magic! 

Eight miles, one table under an olive tree, a freezing cold sea, and a full moon over the Sicilian hills. 

My mother-in-law was not even tired. She was beaming.  

Almonds, Earthquakes, and the Chef We Already Knew 

Nobody told us the Noto hike was going to be hard. 

I mean, they probably told us. It's right there in the itinerary. But somewhere between the full moon at Villadorata and the second cannoli, we had gotten a little overconfident. The heat was serious, the shade was scarce, and the elevation had opinions. By the time we reached the almond farm, our group had been forged in fire. Literally, basically. 

But here's what happens when you suffer together a little: you get closer. By the time we reached Concetto's farm, Maude and Mitch felt like family. Georgia and Andrea felt like people we'd known our whole lives. Hard walks do that. Sicily knows what it's doing. 

And then we walked up to the farm and there was a hay bale with a smiley face on it. 

Animals everywhere — cats, dogs, all of it. And then, out of nowhere, a three-year-old girl appeared to give us our tour. She was going to show us the goats, the pigs, the cows, and the tiny baby rabbits, and she was completely serious about her responsibilities. We were completely serious about following her. At one point she picked up a tiny baby goat with the casual confidence of someone who has done this ten thousand times. We absolutely lost our minds. She did not. 

Concetto grows the Romana almond — rare, prized, the kind of almond that confectioners lose their minds over. We watched the almond milk being made and then we tasted it, and I want to be very clear: it tasted like an almond. Like what an almond actually is, underneath everything we've done to almonds in America. It was a revelation in a glass. 

Lunch was delicious, the way every meal on this trip was delicious, and then B&R handed us off to what I can only describe as the most enthusiastic tour guide in the history of Noto — which is saying something, because Noto is a UNESCO World Heritage Site with a genuinely wild story to tell. 

In 1693, an earthquake destroyed the original city entirely. So they moved it. Eight kilometers closer to the sea, rebuilt from scratch, internationally renowned architects and engineers brought in, skilled stonemasons from across Sicily given the job of constructing something extraordinary from the rubble of what was lost. What they built is what stands today — creamy white limestone, baroque grandeur, grand squares and a cathedral that makes you stop walking and just look. 

Our guide mentioned that the urban planning principles used to rebuild Noto influenced cities across the world. He mentioned San Antonio, Texas, as one of them. We took that personally, in the best way. 

That evening, B&R took us to our surprise dinner. An artist's studio — part art gallery, part clothing design, part jewelry, entirely unexpected. The kind of place you wouldn't find on your own in a hundred years of trying. 

And then the chef came out. 

My two nieces — 27 and 24, one of whom has taught herself Italian with a dedication that makes the rest of us look deeply lazy — looked at each other. They had met this chef two days earlier in Ortigia. A chance encounter, a cute exchange in self-taught Italian, the kind of moment you laugh about and then forget. 

Except Sicily didn't forget. 

There he was. Same chef. Our dinner. The world is genuinely, impossibly small sometimes, and Sicily apparently thought we needed a reminder. 

The food was wonderful. The art was wonderful. The company — our framily, four days in, fully bonded — was the best part of all of it. 

The Night the Vineyard Played Our Song 

Mount Etna is everything they say it is. 

We drove up through lava fields and lunar landscapes, past black craters and pumice fields, through forests of pine and birch that had somehow decided to grow on the side of an active volcano. Our vulcanologist, Dario, loves this mountain the way you love something you've spent your whole life trying to understand. He called it His Majesty. By the time the morning was over, we understood why. 

But I have to be honest with you. As magnificent as Etna was — and it was magnificent — it is not the story I need to tell you about that day. 

The story is what happened at dinner. 

B&R took us to a vineyard on the slopes of Etna that evening. Modern, chic, the kind of place that feels like it appeared fully formed out of a dream about what Italy could be at its most beautiful. The meal was elaborate and extraordinary. The sunset was doing what Sicilian sunsets do — which is make you feel like you've never actually seen one before. There was a two-piece band playing softly in the background. Coldplay. Johnny Cash. The Bee Gees. The kind of playlist that says we know exactly who we are and we're not in a hurry about it. 

Somewhere earlier that day, while we were walking, our guide Georgia had asked me what I did back home. And I told her about Fraulein Boot Company. I told her the whole story — the boots, the brand, the women we make them for. And I told her where the name came from. My father. A Marine Corps Reserve veteran. His favorite song. The way we named this brand in his honor because some things deserve to be carried forward, and a name is one way to do that. 

Georgia listened. She didn't say much. She just listened. 

We didn't think about it again. 

And then, at that vineyard, at that table, as the sun was going down over Sicily and the wine was perfect and our framily was all together — the band played Fraulein. 

Bobby Helms. My father's song. Our brand's name. On the slopes of Mount Etna, in a vineyard we'd never been to before and may never find again. 

Georgia had asked them to play it. 

I don't have the words for what that moment was. I don't think I'm supposed to. Some things don't need to be explained — they just need to be witnessed, and held, and carried home. 

This is what travel does when it's doing its best work. It finds you somewhere you didn't expect and gives you something you didn't know you needed. 

We named this brand after a song to honor a man we loved. And somewhere on a volcanic island in the middle of the Mediterranean, a woman who had known us for three days made sure that song found us again. 

That's La Dolce Fraulein. Right there. That's the whole thing. 

I Love Those Hookers (A Taormina Story) 

I did not know we were going to Taormina. 

I mean, it was on the itinerary. But somewhere between Mount Etna and the vineyard that played our song, I had stopped reading ahead and started just showing up. Which is, it turns out, exactly the right way to do Sicily. 

So when Georgia mentioned, almost casually, that our final stop was the town where they filmed White Lotus Italy, I did not have a measured response. 

I blurted out: "Oh my gosh. I love those hookers." 

I meant the women from the show. The ones who play the sex workers. Because if you watched White Lotus Italy and you did not fall completely in love with those characters, I don't know what to tell you. They stole the entire show. They were the best part of the whole thing and I will die on that hill. 

It got a few laughs. Georgia took it in stride. We moved on. 

And then Taormina appeared. 

Just a regular street in Taormina. Totally normal. Nothing to see here. 

Nothing could have prepared me. Not the show, not the photographs, not anything anyone has ever said about this place. You come around a corner and suddenly you are inside an Italian movie — the kind where the light is golden and the streets are ancient and the views go on so long you start to wonder if someone painted them. It doesn't feel real. None of it feels real. And yet there you are, standing in it, wearing your boots, wondering how you got here. 

The Belmond Grand Hotel Timeo is the most beautiful hotel I have ever stayed in in my entire life. The service. The treats that appeared without asking. The food, which was extraordinary in the way that only food tastes when you are somewhere extraordinary. The views — the Gulf of Taormina, Mount Etna behind you, the ancient Greek theater practically in your backyard. 

Was I dreaming? I asked myself this multiple times. The answer was always: possibly, but keep going anyway. 

Taormina. Mount Etna behind us. 

Before that last dinner, B&R took us out on a boat along the Taormina coastline. The water was that impossible Mediterranean blue. We stopped to swim, and we looked over just in time to watch Courtney — our 81-year-old, the one who started all of this with two words: just go — execute a perfect swan dive off the side of the boat. 

Georgia, our guide, shook her head slowly and smiled. 

"She is my inspiration." 

She is ours too. She always has been. 

Jonathan. Taormina. Fraulein hat. Not a single complaint the entire trip. We don't deserve him. 

We had our final dinner together on that last night — our framily, all of us, Georgia and Andrea, Maude and Mitch, the nieces, Courtney who had walked every mile and swum every sea and swan dived her way into all of our hearts, and Jonathan, the complete gentleman who made every single bit of it possible. We toasted to Sicily and to each other and to the kind of trip that changes something in you quietly, without announcing it. 

After Taormina, the trip wound down at an Airbnb just outside Catania. And right on cue — because Sicily was not done with us — a stray dog wandered up and sat down in the freshly mowed grass like she had been waiting. She threw herself down, stretched long, and pawed at us until we came to her. Sweet, soft-eyed, completely unbothered. We have a rule in this family: must love dogs. She fit right in. We named her Norma. 

Sicily gave us Norma, a three-year-old who manhandled a baby goat, a chef our nieces had already met, a vineyard that played our song, and a White Lotus set that made us feel like we'd walked into a dream. 

It gave us Georgia and Andrea, who will be our friends forever. It gave us Maude and Mitch, who we loved on sight. It gave us an 81-year-old who just kept going and never once asked if we were almost there. 

And it gave us a moment on the slopes of a volcano when a song played that reminded us exactly why we named this brand what we named it, and who we named it for. 

La Dolce Fraulein. We found it. It was here the whole time. 

Arrivederci, Sicily. We'll be back. 

And yes — we packed the boots. 

"There are always flowers for those who want to see them." — Henri Matisse