F*cking 30 Degrees -- Avola, Sicily

The last few days have been proof that time spent in paradise with the wrong person is time best spent elsewhere. 

Damn. I wish I'd just stayed with Luca. Why didn't I stay with Luca? I wanted Luca to be my BFF, but this guy?

"Jesus Christ, I got f*cking water up my nose," he spits and sputters when emerging from a perfectly serene sea. "I can close my mouth, but I can't close my nose," he adds. With some sort of scientific smirk.

"Maybe you should get a mask," I suggest, more serenely than I feel.

He thinks that all women are a) after him for his money and unwilling to put out, b) cold bitches or c) desperate hookers whose husband you can replace for a 20 euros.

Errmm... I don't know what to say. I could tell him that he's being a pig and no woman in her right mind would want anything to do with him... but then... I might not have a place to sleep tonight. This is the worst thing about CSing. I'm in a small village with no hostel and not much public transportation. I'm safe, but I'm certainly not enjoying myself. I don't have much access to the internet, so it's difficult to find another place to stay. ACH. I'll just have to save all my grimaces for his back and my fake smiles for his face. I hate, hate, hate fakes smiles. 

His villa was beautiful. It was given to him by his parents. Along with everything else.

This seems to be a recurring theme in Sicilian/Italian culture. 

He rents out his villa in the summer and lives off of bonds (paid for by his parents). His days are spent moving from the sand to the sea to the villa to the sea to the sand to the table to bed. While I have no problem with this manner of lifestyle and I believe everyone is free to live in a way that fulfills them, I am thoroughly irritated by how much he moans.

Not the good kind of moaning. Not the moaning over how delicious cheese is.

(he's allergic to cheese. Had I known this, I never would have stayed with him)

The moaning about the weather.

"It's so hot. It's 30 degrees. We can't do anything until tonight -- only go to the sea. It's so hot."

About not wanting to get a job because there might be work involved.

"If I get a job in law in Italy, I'll be working for peanuts. I'm not going to work for peanuts. Fuck. Jesus Christ, it's hot."

About how bitchy girls are.

"In Eastern Europe, all girls just want a free dinner. I'm like, what the fuck? I'm not your boyfriend."

About his ex-girlfriends who expected him to pay for everything (even though they made more money than he did. Probably because they worked for their peanuts).

About how the sea was just terrible because it was too rough.

"The sea is awful today. And it's so hot. It's 30 fucking degrees." 

About how people in countries with bad weather are depressed and always commit suicide.

"Are you sure about that?" As Tim Minchin would say, my diplomacy dyke began to spring a leak. "Denmark has crap weather and Denmark is rated the happiest place in the world."

"That's impossible."

"Google it," I shrugged.

Tessa would have destroyed this person.

About how boring the seaside is in the winter.

"F*cking nothing to do."

About how hawkers wake him up early in the morning.

"F*cking waking me up. Trying to sell me their shit when all I want to do is chillax."
  
When he wasn't complaining, he was talking about how his high metabolism let him eat anything (impressively ignoring his plump pizza belly) and singing the songs of King Charles in a breathy, nasally voice that would have made my university voice teacher cry.  

It's only three days. But god, I don't want to be here. 

I became very effective at ignoring my host. It was fairly easy. While he played on youtube, I read Neil Gaiman.   When we were at the beach, I would suddenly get hot and need to plunge into the sea just as he settled into the sand to relax.

And so on.

Our first beach. This one wasn't perfect because it had too many people.

 We went to Noto that night. I'd asked if we could make our excursion to Noto earlier in the day because I'd wanted to take proper pictures, but it was too "f*cking hot."

So I saw the baroque rock garden by night.

I'd wanted to try some seafood risotto for dinner. Everyone has been telling me how famous Sicilian seafood is (it's the whole island thing), but I'd been in Sicily for three entire days without a single taste. 

But my host insisted on pizza. I don't think he even heard me mention that I wanted the risotto. The gluten-free pizza ended up costing a whopping eight euros (which is way out of my budget), so I distracted myself with the menu as he paid for the dinner.

I am SO not paying for something I didn't even want to eat. 

He tried to give me a massage that night. Rubbing my feet and cuddling up against my thigh.

"Welp, I'm getting awfully tired," I said and immediately stumbled off to bed.

Shouldn't have let him buy me the pizza...
 
We went to the beach the next morning.

This beach had too many people.

These beaches are just right for this sea pansy. The water is lukewarm, the slope is gentle and the waves lap instead of crash. The only bit of awkwardness I'm learning to overcome is the fact that I have no swimsuit.

This is fine when I'm on a nudist beach. Having no swimsuit is perfectly acceptable and practically encouraged on a nudist beach.

But having no swimsuit on a beach brimming with sexy bikinis makes me stand out in a sore thumb, what the hell is she doing? sort of way.

'Cos I just run into the sea in my harem pants and blue sports shirt.

Hilarious. I feel more uncomfortable being fully clothed than stark naked, I smile as I observe the startled stares. I walk deeper down the slope so that my nipples poking out of my skin tight shirt don't attack the world quite so ferociously.

Baha. I love discovering new things that are uncomfortable. Swimming fully dressed on a Sicilian beach. Uncomfortable. What can you do about it, Bourget? Mmm... you can do it more often. It's okay to startle people. And I like swimming in my clothes when it's so hot. They keep me cool for longer when I get out. 

"You'll never get as tan as I am," my host commented.

"That's okay. I don't care about getting tan. I think my creamy belly is cute."

This beach wasn't perfect because it had too many waves.

We went to Syracuse by night. Once again, I'd asked if we could go during the day so I could take pictures, but I'm pretty sure my host didn't hear/care.

I have no pictures. But my memories are exquisite.

My host spent the whole time telling me how perfect Syracuse was during the day.

"They have the second biggest Greek amphitheater in the world. But you can't see it because it's closed at night. And there's a famous church over there, but you can't see it because it's too late."

The bus ride to Palermo was four hours (with a two hour layover in Catania. I thought of Luca).

This is a good amount of distance to put between me and Mr. f*cking 30 degrees.

When I met my next host, he promptly suggested we go to the sea.

We talked about how beautiful it was. And we silently, blissfully watched the sun melt over the horizon.