Breakfast at the hotel is reputed to be a lavish buffet, and indeed it is, our first extravagant breakfast in a long time.  It came complete with a fresh orange juice machine that you run yourself (rather hard to recognize, we only realized its existence when another guest was seen, or rather heard, over in the corner feeding oranges into what looked like a large popcorn machine).  Back on the road, headed north along the coastline we followed some very provincial roads (i.e. one lane cart routes) to see the salt pans, where pens of rock are built along the beach and then dried out so that salt can be extracted and sold commercially.  There are also now-decommissioned windmills, making for a very scenic area.  We then cut inland heading towards Palermo, stopping in a little village named Salemi where we had been told there was a Mafia museum.  That was not correct, but it was a pretty village with the ubiquitous Norman castle at its highest point, and the place where Garibaldi declared himself the dictator, so well worth the stop.

It is interesting how much the Mafia plays into the local consciousness here.  Many of the guidebook descriptions of towns reference whether they have a heavy Mafia presence or are relatively Mafia free.  Other indications of their history and presence are all around.  Headed home on the autostrada now, we pass back by the Falcone-Borsellino Airport, named after the two judges who, in the 1980s, took on the Mafia, putting many of its top leaders in jail before they themselves were killed in separate attacks.  Near Palermo we pass by the spot where in 1992 Falcone, his wife and three bodyguards were blown up as they passed over a culvert packed with more than half a ton of explosives.  (Less than two months later Borsellino and five bodyguards were blown up when their car pulled up in front of his mother’s house in Palermo.)

We anxiously navigated through Palermo, unconcerned about bombs yet still harrowing for the driver, as these people (a) speed unabashedly, (b) tailgate mercilessly, (c) cut in and out of lanes repeatedly, and (d) make three lanes – often five if you count the motorcycles sporting around -- out of what appears to us to be marked as two.  It was good to get back to our small town.