Room Without Bath

HOTEL TIMEO, Taormina, Sicily

 

Taormina (photo Google archives)

     I took a package trip in the Spring of 1978, where I found myself at a modern resort built into the rocks on the Ionian Sea along the northern coast of Sicily.  Taormina was located about a mile’s walk up the mountainside.

While exploring the village, next to the magnificent ancient Greek theatre with Mount Etna in the distance, I stumbled across a discreet and beautiful hotel called the Timeo, almost hidden down a little tree-lined walkway.   At that time it was the most exquisite place I had ever seen, entirely surrounded by its lush Mediterranean gardens with a memorable smell of flowers and tangerines.

Rocco 1978

I went there for dinner, and was blown away by its Italian kind of understated elegance.   The tablecloths were pink, and Rocco, the maître d’hôtel, and his waiters were dashing around as though their life’s mission was to see that I was comfortable and contented.  There was no air conditioning, and the overhead fans complemented a warm evening breeze.

Italy was still cheap in those days.  Only now do I realize to what extent that dinner was a kind of awakening to the accessibility of some of the finer things in life.

This was in May, and I came back to Paris with such enthusiasm for Taormina and the Timëo that I began immediately preparing a trip there for the following Christmas.   

My friend, Ann, who started out briefly with me in the art business (and later committed suicide), wrote to the hotel for us months in advance.   She called one day, crestfallen, to tell me there were no rooms available except two connecting garden (i.e. semi-basement) singles without private bath.

I thank my lucky stars that we did not flinch.  Actually, we did flinch, but private bath or not, we ultimately decided to go ahead.

 Entrance to the Timeo today (photo G. Dall Orto)

 As it turned out, the adjoining rooms were delightful, opening directly onto a private terrace in the garden, brimming over with the aforementioned aromatic tangerine trees.

The absolute cherry on the cake was the bathroom, located directly across the hall about two and a half feet from my door, reserved for our exclusive use.  For that matter, the entire little hall was for our private use, as ours were the only rooms on it.

When we wanted a bath, we had a special cord to pull, and the chambermaid came literally running with an armful of plush towels and various little linen things which she placed strategically so our bare feet would never have to touch the magnificent, chilly marble floor. 

 And, yes, she ran my bath for me every day. 
  

Anne, Paris 1972

   [photos are mine unless otherwise credited]

SIDEBAR:  TRAVELING THROUGH ITALY ON THE TRAIN

Vintage train poster, Paris' Gare St Lazare circa 1948

      With the meager earnings from our first art show, Ann and I set out on the trip to Taormina in 1978.  It started a kind of tradition of making the 1500-mile trek by train every Christmas for the next few years.

En route for Venice (photo A. Gazères)

The second year to Sicily was the most exceptional, when we graduated to the rather pampered environment of the Italian rail’s wagone letto, the luxuriously old fashioned private sleepers still in vogue on long distance Italian trains at that time.

Simplon Express poster

We would invariably make the three-day journey in several stages, usually beginning with an overnight trip from Paris to Venice.  In those days there was still a formal dining room with two dinner services best booked in advance.  I have a memory of the whitest and most beautifully starched linen, and though the food was not magnificent, it was never less than a taste of special luxury.

After a couple of nights in Venice, we set out on the day trip south to Florence or Rome, or both.  From there, we would embark a few days later for Sicily on the Bellini Express.   Sometime around dawn, the sleeping cars would board directly onto a ferry boat at the Strait of Messina without our even having to awaken, let alone get out of bed. 


Coffee was served in our compartment a few minutes before pulling into the old fashioned Taormina station.  My most pronounced memory of that yearly trip is of the almost overpowering early-morning aroma of tangerine blossoms, even before leaving the train.  

Taormina Station today (Photo Google)

                                                                                                  

The trips were not always without incident.  On the notoriously lawless Simplon Express connecting Venice with Paris, robberies occurred weekly if not daily (particularly in a sort of legal no-man's land on the edges of both countries’ borders where police jurisdiction was hazy), and we were once dispossessed of our entire vacation funds. 

But even that bit of non-violent drama added another zest of adventure to our holiday, and a trip to the Venetian police station, located within the Santa Lucia train station, remains an exciting memory.

We naturally never recuperated our stolen money, but considered ourselves lucky to have sold enough paintings that year to reimburse ourselves.  It was before the time of withdrawing cash with credit cards, and we had to rely on friends to wire new funds.  And as future trips loomed on the horizon, it gave us an extra incentive to succeed in our new hobby-business.  

Night Train, painting by Belgian artist Paul Delvaux

Your input is welcomed:  hotel-musings@hotmail.fr

[Photos are mine, unless otherwise credited]


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