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. 

Nutella for My Teaspoon -- Catania, Sicily

I'm starting this post from the same cafe as my first day.

Girl's a creature of habit, destructive and benign. There are a vast array of cafes in this Sicilian city, but I spent about half an hour (getting hilariously lost, despite my googlemaps app) searching out the Comis Ice Cafe.

Their latte di mandorla is lovely. Not too sweet, divine nutty texture, little chunks of ice lending it a granita-esque feel...There's a nice fountain in the Piazza and an opera house to my right. I already have the internet password. Knowing the internet password makes me feel like an insider, and I appreciate anything that makes me feel like I belong.

Girl's got Sicily's secrets. Comis Ice Cafe's password is stored in my macbook pro. Win.

I take the bus from Catania's main bus station to Avola at 11:30. My next host will pick me up from Piazza Vittorio Veneto next to the fountain of the tre leoni.

I'm going to miss Catania. Staying in a city for a mere three days isn't enough for this long term traveler to truly get her fill. But Sicily is the last place in which I'll be spending such a short period of time. I fly to Barcelona on the 3rd and Rotterdam on the 16th. 

And I fly to Colorado on the 28th. One month from today. By the time I reach Grand Junction, I'll have been on the road for 16 months. I don't even know how to feel about that. It's a long time. Ummm... accomplished? Dog-tired? Inspired? Broke? Rich? Blurgh.

My last full day in Catania was perfect. It was one of those days that I'm going to store in my memory bank of exquisite moments of human connection and think back on whenever I feel lonely or out of place.

Luca was my second and final host in Sicily's party city (the only European city with more pubs than Catania is Dublin). I trundled down to the train station, groaning and grumbling under Ellie's ample, bulging pockets and stood outside to await the arrival of Luca.

12:00 came.

12:00 went.

As I've been consistently left waiting on roadsides and in front of train stations for Italians on this trip, I assumed that Luca would follow suit.

This is Sicily. 

But Luca did not follow suit. Luca arrived at exactly 12:04 and apologized profusely for the four minutes I stood waiting.

"It's only four minutes!" I laughed.

Only Dutch people apologize for four minutes. I don't believe this fellow is Sicilian. He's a Dutchman in disguise.

Luca presented me with a yellow sticky note with a smiley face drawn on.

"It would say, "welcome to Catania", but you've already been here a few days. So you get a smiley face."

These are the little gifts I adore. Sticky notes with smiley faces. Adorable gestures that demonstrate the person is happy to see me.

Luca's English was impeccable and it felt so refreshing to hear him rattle off stories about Catania and his life without having to strain to understand an accent. I smiled the moment we met and I think the entire day together was spent laughing/smiling/moaning over cheese and sundried tomatoes/gasping at the beauty of Mount Etna.

"This is my car. Her name is Marlin."

"This is my backpack. Her name is Ellie."

"You name your things too?"

"Yup. It gives them personality."

First order of business was to hunt down a refreshing drink. As mentioned earlier, Sicily is the hottest region of Italy, and yesterday was perfect anecdotal proof of this phenomenon.

"Lime and salt," Luca said as he handed me my drink. "Cheers."

Lime, salt and water. Basta. This is enough to lift anyone's spirits regardless of how sweltering the heat may be. And many Sicilians were queuing up to get their spirits lifted on this caldo, caldo, tropo caldo day.

Then we walked. And talked. Luca apologized for talking so much and I yelled at him.

"No! please, keep going. It's so nice to have conversation like this. It's been such a long time since I've been able to connect with someone this easily."

He told me stories of the city. How it was shaken and shattered by an earthquake in 1693 and devoured by Etna's lava and ash in 1669.

"All these buildings are from the 18th century," he waved at the beautiful baroque buildings lining the street. "Before Etna erupted in 1669, the Amenano river flowed through the city. But it was covered with ash and lava, so now runs underground. This is the only place you can see the Amenano."

 

The quick tour completed, we added purpose to our walking and talking -- lunch. Unfortunately, all Italians are on vacation in August, so most of the little restaurants for which Luca was looking were quite closed.

"They leave and we starve," Luca moaned.

We searched in vain for half an hour. Then we returned to Marlin.

"You need to believe, Aimee. Do you believe?"

"I believe.  I definitely believe."

"Good. And we need this song," he pressed a few buttons and "Small Town Girl" started blaring through the speakers.

We drove down the streets of Catania, bellowing "can't stop believing," and eyes peeled for a place to eat.

Finally, finally, we found a cafe open by the sea. Luca ordered brioche and chocolate granita. I ordered gelso (mulberry) granita.

"We have a lot of mulberries in Colorado," I pondered as I savored the frozen fruit, "but we don't do much with them. I have no idea why."

Dear Colorado, 

Mulberries. They're delicious. Eat them more often. 

Sincerely, 

-Aimee

"I need a coffee," Luca commented with a desperation verging on manic that is only found in Italy. "Where can I get a coffee? Have you seen Etna yet?"

"No, I didn't get the chance. I've only seen Taormina and the city center of Catania"

"Do you want to see Etna?"

"Yes. Yes, I would LOVE to see Etna."

"Okay. We'll get a coffee on Etna. But first we go to my loft, leave your bag and I change my shirt."

Luca lives in a loft on the third floor of an apartment in a village just outside Catania. He has a perfect view of Etna from his roof and the inside of his apartment is 100% charming.

I could happily stay here for a very, very long time. 

"Here are the rules of my loft," Luca took out another yellow sticky note with four lines written on it. "Just so we get along better during your stay. First," he pointed, "what's mine is yours. Take anything from the fridge, if you want to watch any of my DVDs... Second, the roof," I looked up at the slanted ceiling and smiled. "If you hit your head, don't curse at me.  I warned you. Third, the bathroom. This is the water heater and this is the light. Make sure the water heater is always down. Unless you are taking a shower. Fourth, the... "

I can't remember the fourth. But I'm pretty sure I didn't break it, because Luca and I got along famously.

Luca then introduced me to the stuffed animals around the house. A penguin, a crocodile, several mice, a pig, a turtle and a dragon named Eros (to name a few).

I want a dragon named Eros...

"I used to sleep on a tarp named Judy and have picnics with a knife named Betty," I said after the introductions were made.

But now I only have a headlamp named Larry and a backpack named Ellie. Luca totally wins at the naming of inanimate objects. 

We climbed into Marlin and headed off to have our cappuccino on Etna. After a few breaks (to give dear Marlin a breather), we arrived at the end of the road (one can't actually drive to the top of Etna -- one must take an expensive gondola or commit to a rather long hike).

"It's stunning."

I didn't have a lot of words. Etna is the first active volcano I've ever seen, and it completely blew me away to witness the powerful ways in which it shaped (blew up) the surrounding landscape. Words felt meaningless. Wonder stripped me of my words and left me incoherently murmuring "wow" and "I just..." 

Luca was the perfect person with whom to see Etna. He's the kind of fellow who lets his life be full of wonder and surprise. He lets his life be full of stuffed animals with names and mornings spent on his rooftop, writing songs and gazing at Etna.

These are the kind of people I want around.  The childish wondering ones.

Luca prepared three cheese plates last night. Parmesan, mozzarella di buffala and... provolone? Sundried cherry tomatoes, carrots, walnuts, olives, prosciutto and dried sausage accompanied the cheese. Sicilian red wine was poured.

About a billion and a half laughs, smiles, moans and happy dances later, I found myself in bed.

I feel refreshed. I'm kind of nervous about how angry my psoriasis will be in the morning... what with all that wine and coffee... but today was just so good. I wanted to enjoy every bit.

I felt perfect in the morning. No pain in my back. My scalp was no worse than usual. My heart was light in the very best of ways.

Maybe all I needed was a day of laughter with Luca.

Before I left his loft (I never did stop banging my head against the ceiling) and bid farewell to Eros and the gang, Luca presented me with a small jar (miniscule jar) of Nutella. A souvenir to remember him by.

"One of the only other real souvenirs I have left is a teaspoon I stole from a hostel during my hitchhiking adventure with Tessa."

"So, this is perfect! Now you have a teaspoon and Nutella."

Maybe all I needed was some nutella for my teaspoon.

The Horsegirl Ate Herself a Horse -- Catania, Sicily

I'm starting this post from a small cafe near university square in Catania, Sicily.

I'm drinking a refreshing glass of latte di mandorla. My psoriasis would prefer I not drink this sugary almond drink, but it's better than coffee and everything else on the menu.

Dear Sicily,

Not everyone wants granita and brioche and cappuccino for breakfast. Some people want bacon. And eggs. And avocado. Could you get on that, please? 

Oh yes, and you should probably stop making your gelato look so good. It's not fair. 

Love, 

Aimee

It's nine thirty, so Catania still believes it's early. Well, tourists in Catania still believe it's early. All local Italians go on holiday in August, so most of the people strolling down Via Etnea are the comfortable shoes wearing tourists and the stylish Italians from northerly regions (probably escaping the flooding in Liguria). And the loud, obnoxious, stereotypical Americans who gasp about finding a Levi's outlet on the main shopping street. 

"Bet those pants cost 50 dollars here." 

"No, dude. Like, 50 euros." 

"Euros, yeah. That's way more expensive." 

"Dude." 

I've long since been desensitized to the fact that no matter where I go (except perhaps Albania), I cannot escape American culture. It pervades everything with its bad coffee, fast food, film, music and cowboy hats. It's amusing and a wee bit embarrassing to watch the amazement of my fellow citizens and realize that I was that person. 

Oh well. We're all the person. At some point. I wonder what kind of person I am now and what kind of person the me of ten years from now will think about the me now? 

She'll probably think, "my goodness. That girl needed to calm the f*ck down." 

Catania is hot, hot, hot. I thought Calabria was roasting, but Catania takes roasting to a whole new level (the nearby volcano gives the heat a sinister edge). It is bustling with dark, skinny legs wearing short shorts, shirt skirts and short dresses. Tube tops, tank tops, hats and sunglasses. People carry their bags in front of their chests to stave off pickpockets and march in and out of shops like Zara, United Colors of Benetton and more makeup stores than I imagined possible. Although I stand by the decision I made to not wear makeup or fancy clothes until I don't need them, I do catch myself gazing wistfully through the windows and imagine my face with a touch more mascara and floating along in a swirly summer dress. 

Which just means that I still need them and should learn to be happy with my sarong and my natural face. Learn to be happy? Ummm... no, I think I know how to be happy. I just need to allow myself to be happy. Yes.

My host picked me up from the train station at 22:00. During my wait, I listened to podcasts on lucid dreaming and finished reading a fabulous fantasy by Neil Gaiman. I was also hit on by a middle-aged man whose phone I'd asked to borrow. It always bemuses me to be asked out for drinks by strangers who can't even ask you out without using google translate. I imagine sitting at the bar and tediously explaining my "occupation", why I can't drink beer and "days how many until depart you".

This is the worst kind of small talk. It's just so blatantly clear the conversation is not their top priority. Whilst conversation is usually not the top priority on "wanna have a drink with me?" dates, I do appreciate some manner of charade.

Even though I was still in the "curl up into a small ball and pretend I'm drinking chocolate milk at my family's house with our two adorable puppies within arm's reach" mood, I told my host I still had a bit of energy and wouldn't mind going out. Because he spoke decent English and I anticipated good - great conversation. 

I gave Michele a quick yoga lesson the next morning, after which he dropped me off at the city center with advice to visit the fish market. His fridge was remarkably empty (just a bit of booze, water, and four cherry tomatoes), so I purchased a hunk of cheese to nibble on as I meandered between stalls of wide-eyed fish, enormous eggplants and many different shades of tomatoes. 

Then I wandered. Wandering without Ellie makes me feel lighter than air. And feeling lighter than air felt better yesterday than it had the day before. 

We all have monsters. Monsters that rear their heads on different occasions... summoned to the surface by various events. I'm sick. I'm tired. I'm lonely. These feelings of fear, physical vulnerability and emotional stress have shifted my focus from the fulfilling to the things that leave me drained. So. I need... to be gentle. To shift my focus to being healthy. To the little things that fulfill me. God, my life is so, so full of the little, fulfilling moments. Life is so satisfying.

The elephant is the symbol of Catania. The sculpture created the original lava statue as neuter. However, Catanians took this as a personal insult on their virility. So... umm... the sculptor was forced to attach proper sized asserts to assuage their wounded pride.

Damn sea archers.

Latte di mandorla is amazing, by the way. If you're in Sicily, try the latte di mandorla. Drink cappuccino in the morning when it's relatively cool, and drink creminos in the afternoon when it's boiling. 

And if you're in Catania... try the horse. 

Yes. 

The horsegirl went and ate herself a horse. At least half of one (Michele ordered a vast amount of cavallo. He was probably compensating for the four cherry tomatoes). 

And this horsegirl has to acknowledge that horse... horse is delicious. If horse was as easy to obtain as pig, it could very well be a staple of her diet. 

"MY GOD, I will never look at horses the same way," I said as I admired the gigantic horse meatballs and cut into a piece of horse steak. 

After consuming so much large, majestic quadruped, this shamed "I love horses and think they taste divine. I can do both, right?" vagabond returned with Michele to his flat and took a nap. Half a horse sitting in your gut has the tendency to induce immobility. 

Upon waking from my nap and feeling the cavallo settled and quiet, Michele and I mounted his motorcycle and drove about 40 minutes to Taormina. Our plan was to meet his friends who would lead us up a secret entrance into a castle to see a concert from backstage (back castle) 

His friends discovered that the secret entrance was very even-handed. It favored no one with its secrets. We ended up trekking up steep, rocky hills through thorny underbrush in the dark (in my flipflops and sarong. I was unaware that thorny underbrush awaited me in Taormina) for over half an hour before Michele's friends admitted defeat and went to get drinks. As Michele and I had already spent over two hours in the touristic city center, we thought it a better idea to mosey on home. 

Don't wear sarongs on motorcycles. Just don't. I maintain that sarongs are god's gift to travelers, but they are not god's gifts to bikers. I may or may not have flashed half of Sicily on the 40 minute ride back to Catania.

Unless you want to flash half of Sicily. Then by all means, tie on your sarong and have yourself a merry little motorcycle ride.

We'd planned a morning yoga lesson in Michele's kitchen, but Southern Italians don't believe in 7:00 am (unless it's that time when they're hitting the snooze button). When all the "I just woke up" text messages were received, I decided to just put Michele upside down and give him a massage. 

Which is always good.

And now I'm at the cafe. Waiting to meet my next host at the train station in a little over an hour. 

My 33rd bed. 

My self-loathing monster has quieted down a few decibels, but my fear monster is still raging rampant. My body just hurts... all over. And this fear monster makes me want to be in a place that feels safe. 

And as much as I love traveling and strangers and couches, safe still feels like Grand Junction, CO. Safe still feels like Janet's hugs and Cathy's random, extremely helpful medicines and my mom's chicken broth.

My Monster -- Catania, Sicily

I'm starting this post from a small cafe somewhere in Catania, Sicily. I'm not exactly sure where I am, but I know that there's a soothing fountain in front of me, a British couple to my left and an umbrella to protect me from the harsh sun. I also know where I am in relation to the train station. As the train station is where I'm going to meet my host in approximately five hours, this is quite enough information for me.

I have to use the toilet, but I don't want to leave my Ellie outside by herself. I also don't want to bring her inside with me, as there wouldn't be room in the toilet for the two of us.

So I simply work on my self-control and try to keep my mind otherwise occupied.

Not on how thirsty I am.

Not on how much my back hurts.

NOT on how much I hated leaving Calabria today.

There are a lot of people eating granita. Granita is a popular dessert in Southern Italy that's made up of fruit and sugar. It's quite nice and refreshing. If my psoriasis wasn't eating my scalp, I'd be eating a granita. I can understand bits and pieces of Italian around me, but not enough to make me feel like I belong. Enough to make me feel like the player on the football team who always sits on the bench.

I'm in a rather melancholy mood.  If you hadn't gathered.

I listened to a podcast about being happy on the ferry ride from Reggio Calbria to Messina. There was a clip of an old monk talking about gratitude and how gratitude leads to happiness. He talked about not being grateful for murders or sicknesses, but being grateful for the opportunity to learn that murder and sickness gives us.

I'm tired of being grateful for "opportunities" to learn. That's the excuse I use to justify the bad situations I... ummm... leap into. Isn't it?

"I thought that traveling more quickly would make me more confident. Make me braver. But it doesn't. It only makes me afraid and lonely and sad," I told Giuseppe as we waited for the ferry to come and whisk me away to Sicily. "This is getting so hard for me. I don't know how much longer I can keep doing this."

My stomach churned. My eyes burned. I felt like my whole body was about to dissolve into a puddle of gooey sadness (sadness is gooey. Like melted ice cream).

I felt very, very small. Infinitesimal. Insignificant. I usually enjoy the sensation of weightlessness, but at that moment, I wanted to chain an anchor to my leg. Something to keep me from floating away.  

It used to be easy for me to leave a place... but something seems to have snapped. I blame Slovenia.

My throat hurt in the way that goes hand in hand with burning eyes and churning stomachs.

I don't WANT to go to a new place to meet new people and have new experiences and all that jazz. But it doesn't feel right to stay, either. No. No, I can't stay. My body won't let me. My mind won't let me. My spirit won't let me. But my body and my mind and my spirit have ganged up on my heart and left its pieces strewn all over Europe. I feel like Tantalus, that cursed Greek god. The one who had grapes dangled just out of his grasp for all eternity. I visit places like Ljubljana and I meet people like Michael... but something inside of me tells me that I can't have them. These places... these communities... these people... they're not for me. 

I used to move because I was running. Blindly. Then I moved because I had momentum from all that blind running. I've lost momentum. I'm looking around with newly opened eyes and a bleeding heart and trying to understand what I was actually running from in the first place. 

There it is. 

 My monster.

It's a big, blog, smoking ball of confusion. Swirling, whirling, churning (like my stomach right now) with accusations of, "You never finish anything you start," and "you're only a burden to those around you," and "you used to be so much better. At what? Bourget, you used to be better at just about everything. Baha! That philosophy you have of seasons? It's just because you're afraid to admit that you've failed," and "your life, Bourget. Your life is selfish and manipulative and you spend your days using people."

It's a pretty ferocious beast, this monster of mine. I've kept it locked up in the deepest, darkest, dampest corner of my subconscious, but 14 months of travel and challenge and introspection has forced me to face the smoking confusion and try to figure out how to release the pain that's swirling inside.

How do I have this much fear? How have I MADE this? 

I look at my monster and again, I feel very, very small. 

I had a nightmare in Calabria. I'd only been in Italy for two weeks, but my dream was about being in prison. Being unable to escape. As I'd watched a few prison films previously, so a prison nightmare isn't surprising -- but the amount of anguish I felt at being tied to one place surprised even me. 

I need to move. I love these people and this place is incredible... but... but I can't stay. I have to see Sicily! Yes, that's what I need. I need to see Sicily. Not seeing Sicily = failing as a traveler. My identity is now solidly wrapped up in traveling, so not seeing Sicily = failing as a human being. Welp, better go see Sicily then. I need to have something to write about in GG.

All the little things went wrong today. The Vodafone shop where I'd hoped to purchase a SIM card was closed, and I didn't have the patience or willpower to try another shop (I was in a self-destructive sort of mood). I also didn't think I'd need the SIM card until tomorrow, so I figured I'd get it when I need it.

When I truly need things, they'll come to me... right?

I ineffectively choked back tears all the way from Italy to Sicily. When I arrived at the station, I sat myself down at the meeting point to wait for my blablacar ride.

12:40... he said he'd be here at 12:30. And he seemed to be in a hurry. Something must be wrong. 

I asked for a phone and called Massimo.

He'd already left.

"BUT I WAS HERE!" I screamed into the borrowed phone. "I've been sitting JUST where you told me to sit for the past hour! How could you just leave?"

"I didn't see you. Were you outside?"

"No, I wasn't outside! I was by Bineri 1, just like you asked. Wearing blue pants and carrying a purple backpack and holding a sign that read 'Aimee'."

"Well, I'm going to be late for work. What do you want to do?"

"What can we do? Have a nice day," I handed the phone back to the stranger.

"I wish I could help," he said as he watched my ineffective choking.

Should have just bought the damn SIM card. 

"Can you tell me where the bus station is?"

"Sure, just walk to the end and turn right. You'll see buses. Find one for city center, not the airport."

"Okay, thanks so much."

"Niente."

After ten minutes of walking, I decided to just take the train, few extra euros shmuros. I headed back to the station to purchase a ticket and ran directly into Massimo.

"Aimee?"

"You came back!"

"Yes, this way."

He couldn't drive me to the city center, but he dropped me off at the airport bus stop and gave me a ticket to reach centro.

Today hasn't been hard at all. Relatively. But it's the picking at a wound. Tearing at the threads of a seam that's already fraying, falling apart. 

My life. My life is beautiful. My life is vibrant and so exciting and spontaneous that I forget what day it is on a consistent basis. I forget what country I'm in on a consistent basis. My "work" consists of writing about my experiences, living with complete strangers, drinking good wine, teaching the occasional yoga class and sleeping next to lakes.

Then WHY am I so drained? 

It's not the physical (although my psoriasis is rampaging across my skin and through my joints like a Colorado wild fire). It's the emotional.  It's the heartache that I try to ignore.

I don't know where I'm sleeping tonight. My host's name is Michele. He's interested in practicing yoga with me and he has a motorcycle. We're meeting at 21:00 at the train station. It will be the 32nd different place I've slept in the last three months (this includes the surreal night in Francesco's car).

The 32nd place. I'm not sure what I'm praying to... but let me have the energy to treat the 32nd like the first. Let me keep my beginner's mind. My childlike enthusiasm for CHEESE and everything else. My gratitude. My joy. And please... let my psoriasis cool its jets. I'd like to be able to eat a gelato in Sicily without wanting to die afterwards. Also, umm... peanuts. Yes. Girl needs her peanuts...

Thanks for the two weeks in Calabria, Zema family (and friends). I'm going to miss you all.

 

The Exploding Donkey (and other tales) -- Calabria, Italy

My hands have felt as blocked as my mouth (due to my doleful Italian).

Clogged.

Stymied.

Thwarted.

I can't speak and I can't write.

Everything feels muddled. Muddy.

But perhaps I've muddled it all and my lethargy boils down to the heat.

Making everything muggy.

Giuseppe's mother bought gluten-free flour and tried to make a pizza for me the other night.

It was a catastrophe (and no, I'm not catastrophizing. Then gluten-free flour actually ruined her handy-dandy pizza oven). The bottom of the crust was partially black and the top of mostly raw. Margarita looked crestfallen as she motioned for me to just eat the toppings.

"Sensa-glutine farina no buono per pizza. Multo dificile," I tried to make her feel better about the many-textured crust, exercising EVERY bit of Italian I know (and improvising a bit). 

"No buono, no buono," Margarita muttered as she puttered back to the devastated pizza maker.

She tried to prepare normal pizzas for Giuseppe and Tony, but it was too late. The gluten-free flour had wrought its evil curse on the rest of the pizzas.

"This has never happened before," Giuseppe said as he tried to peel tinfoil off the bottom of his crust, causing all the mozzarella and sausages to avalanche onto the plate.

This is a funny thing that inevitably transpires everywhere I go. People assume that I would prefer to eat the way they do, so they generously go far out of their way to purchase gluten-free bread and gluten-free pasta and gluten-free flour... when really all I want to eat is dairy, veggies and meat (Felix's dumplings are the exception to this rule). I'm quite content with the mozzarella and the tomatoes -- no need to put it on a crust. No need to stuff me full of patates and riso and all that carby goodness. I'd much rather live off of insalata and carne and formaggio, grazie mille. 

Southern Italy.

I don't even know where to start when it comes to describing you. You've left me so damn disoriented with your noise, noise, noise.

With your heat.

With your constant stream of "Aimee, gelato?" "Aimee, cafe?" "Aimee, MANGIA!"

With your extreme emphasis on family life and community. Everyone knows everyone in the villages neighboring Reggio Calabria, swear to skinny Jesus. This probably has something to do with the fact that Southern Italians don't move from casa to casa nearly as often as midwestern Americans (or at all), so like it or not, the family next door is there to stay.

When I enter a Turkish home, I take off my shoes and leave them outside or in a designated area in what Americans would call the "mudroom".

When I enter an Italian home, people apologize to me if they're not wearing shoes.

"She never wears shoes," Giuseppe explains to them in Italian. "It doesn't matter where. Mountains, home, outside -- never wears shoes."

Giuseppe tells me that I will grow a shell on my feet. I tell him that a shell is nicer than shoes.

In Colorado, we honk if we're a) annoyed that someone cut us off b) a driver doesn't know how to merge properly and c) to avoid accidents. One hand is generally on the wheel and the other is out the window (I usually drove with one arm and one foot out the window. I don't drive anymore).

In Southern Italy, one drives with one hand on the stick and the other hand on the wheel. Southern Italians have also evolved an invisible hand that manages to switch between holding the phone, snapping on the seat belt, changing the music and honking at every single car driving on the road (and the people walking/jogging on the side).  There's so much honking in Italy. People honk to say hello and to let other drivers know that they're coming around particularly treacherous corners. As everyone knows everyone and every other corner is treacherous (and I'm being generous in this assessment), the honking never stops. 

Southern Italians are much shorter than their northern counterparts. In the north, there's a heavier Germanic influence. In the south, there's a heavier Arabic influence.

Margarita asked me a question that nearly startled my socks all the way into next year (they were surprised to find themselves back in Slovenia).

(in Italian)

"Aimee, is your mother tall like you or short like me?"

Ummm... did someone just refer to me as "tall"? I want this on record. When I visit Maud in Holland, I can tell her that Southern Italy made me TALL. 

I haven't been so surprised since a boy I was dating in Grand Junction told me I was a good driver (he must not have noticed my foot out the window).

Southern Italy.

You're so festive. Music festivals, art shows, film festivals.

Each village seems to get one, and you've got a lot of villages. And a lot of your villages are complete with fortress/ruined castle, so you have some pretty great locations for your abundance of festivities.

Mushrooms.

You have SO many mushrooms.

You also have a large population of old men who enjoy mushroom hunting (and are far better at finding mushrooms than I am). 

It took me two hours to find these guys. With help.

As in the Balkans, the majority of people own their homes in Southern Italy. This gives them much more freedom to take artistic liberties with the walls. I would have loved to make random paintings like this happen on the walls of all the apartments we rented in my youth.

Calabria. You are very proud of your sea view. Whilst most commoners simply get the sea, you get the sea and Sicily. Go you.

The television. You love your television almost as much as you love your espresso. It lives in the dining room of every Italian family, seldom sleeps, and has about as many unfortunate shows as I witnessed in Turkey.

"It's a Mediterranean thing," Giuseppe shrugged.

Southern Italy. You have perfect coffee cups. They're big and round and fit in my plump palms like they were made for them. They make British teacups look like the lightweights they really are.

If my psoriasis wasn't raging out of control, I would drink coffee with milk for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Just so I could enjoy holding your cups.

Giuseppe's workshop occupies one of the many empty rooms of the Zema house.

As of late, he's been building and selling fruit dryers for families to utilize the parched climate to preserve their tomatoes and mushrooms and other delicious Mediterranean produce. As I experienced in Rovigo back in 2011, Italians are masters of the dying art of growing and preserving their own food.

Giuseppe is exploiting this phenomenon and spends a good deal of his afternoons hammering away in his workshop. But regardless of the amount of time he spends, making actual money is proving to be challenging.

"We are not good at business in Southern Italy," he said after he told me that he was making a fruit dryer for his friend's mother (for free).

Everyone knows everyone and people don't charge the people they know.

Pyramid businesses would not fare well in this country...
 

View from Giuseppe's workshop

My friend toured me around the coast and city center of Reggio Calabria. I asked about second-hand shops where I could purchase something yellow or something blue to wear to my friend's wedding in October, and he told me I'd do better to try my luck in Barcelona.

"We don't like to wear those things here."

"What do you do with old clothes, then?"

"We throw them out."

Not a good place for vagabonds... I thought as I stared at the unreal on sale price tags. Guess style is very important to people in this part of the world. My poor hairy legs feel quite out of place.
 

One of the many festivals took place in the gorgeous mountain village of Bova. As Giuseppe is doing his best to be an excellent host (even though he's still struggling with his health), he drove me and an old friend from Rome to enjoy a night in Bova.

We took road less-traveled on the way in.

I thought the panda would rattle into bits and pieces and we'd be stuck on the mountainside with all the mountain goats for days.

We stopped at the ruins of Castello Ruffo for a scenic detour.

fichi d'india. Giuseppe's favorite fruit. I prefer plain fichi, but fichi d'india is a suitable substitute.

There are so many ruins in Southern Italy that performing jedi shenanigans inside is still possible. No fences to keep the unruly tourists on the outs.

"Pronto."

This was the most terrifying road I've ever been on.

And girl's been through Albania.

One of the main positives about being on such a ghastly road was that a) the scenery was spectacular and b) no one else was on it.

Other than random flocks of goats.

The festival in Bova was my favorite experience in Calabria thus far. I didn't take pictures because I fail at using my camera in low-light, but the ancient Griko speaking village was stunning.

"Could you live here for a month?" Giuseppe teased, knowing that my answer would be an enthusiastic,

"YES. I could definitely live here for a month."

Old stone buildings. Magical streetlamps. Benches for views. Tiny, cobbled streets. Cheese, cheese, cheese. Mountain air and festive vibes.

What more could I want?

An exploding donkey.

U Ballu du Camiddu.

I felt myself drifting off around midnight. All the gelato and espresso have (once again) wreaked havoc on my health -- 

why can't I learn? Why won't I let myself be healthy? 

 -- and my back was in so much pain that I could barely breathe.

Like Margarita's gluten-free crust, I am not catastrophizing. I was really, truly hurting.

Why do I have to keep sabotaging myself like this?

"We can go after the donkey dance," Giuseppe told his friend and me. "I want you to see that."

The donkey dance? Sounds... exciting? 

"It'll really wake you up," the friend from Rome supplied in her limited English.

When Giuseppe said there was a donkey dance, I imagined something like the Italian version of the hokey pokey. I did not imagine a man strutting around a circle wearing a fireproof suit and holding an exploding donkey/camel costume.

Watch this youtube video: DONKEY DANCE

It woke me up. 

Moral of the story. If you're in Southern Italy and your host advises you to hang in there until the donkey dance, hold your horses and wait for the exploding donkey.