Messina Arrival

12/8 - Punta Faro to Messina - 13.88 miles

It was time for me to move on to the next chapter, the last region to explore, Sicily. By this point, I had heard a great deal about Sicily, had had many assumptions clarified, but it is one thing to hear about a place, and entirely different to walk across it. So, taking leave of Reggio with the hope to return soon to the wonderful friends I had made, I waved goodbye to Enzo, possibly the world's best host, and boarded the boat to Messina.

The thirty minute ride was spent looking back to what I was leaving, and looking forward to a new adventure, all the while savoring the thought that I had come so far, had waited for this moment for son long, and had finally reached it. The boat was bigger than I imagined it, due to the fact that it transported two decks worth of cars back and forth. Other than that, however, it was just a boat ride, and I wished that I could have found a way to swim across. Still, there's always next August, on the one Sunday when it's legal to cross.

My first moments in Sicily felt foreign in some way. As we all elbowed and shoved our way to the turnstiles (no patience, these Italians), a group of young wannabe rebels jumped over, and turned around to dare someone to protest. Nobody cared. I walked to a newspaper stand, bought a bus ticket, and waited at the stop for the bus to Punta Faro, the northeast tip of the island. The bus came, and when I entered, I sat with a half-retarded half-Arabian Sicilian, a toothless, haggard washer-woman type, and a Romanian evangelical bullshit artist. I watched them engage in a compelling and sickening debate over the Romanian lady's faith, and witnessed the other two blaspheme and place themselves above God as a way of provoking and at once testing the Romanian lady's faith. She was well-dressed, and when they asked her how she got the clothes, she said it was a gift, because she was blessed by God. I think she was a prostitute. Anyways, as the semi-retarded man (who took a shining to me, asked me to sit down, and was after all very nice) called God a "cornuto" (cuckold), I descended, and found myself a mile from the trip. Interesting start.

I reached the tip, took the requisite pictures and movie, digested my surroundings, smelled the sea to remember, and started walking. My walk took me along the coast, covering the same route I had seen by bus, and soon turned into a nighttime search for lodging. A few questions revealed that Messina was particularly ill-served for visitors, but there was a place by the train station, and soon I was settled, happy to find such a great deal. True, there was no heating and the bathroom was both disgusting and shared by all the other guests, but that's part of the adventure, and I was not phased in the least. Actually, funny enough, I opened the nightstand drawer out of boredom, and saw various messages written in pencil or pen on the wood, all of them lamenting cruel fate for allowing them to hit rock bottom in this hell hole of a room. I had seen much worse, and actually thought it was quite quaint, and it then hit me that I would be able to find something positive about any sleeping accommodation. What a bunch of whiners, I thought, and wrote the only uplifting message on the drawer.

I had a sandwich for dinner, and had the unusual and satisfying opportunity to receive the bullying "stink-eye" from a trio of adolescents, including the accompanying provocations and cat-calling. I say satisfying because I soon had them positively gaping, struggling to comprehend the fact that I had walked from Switzerland. They invited me to the table, admitted that they thought I was Moroccan (as if that's a suitable reason to bully someone), and had a million questions about America. I patiently answered all, smiled to myself as they put their badass faces back on before leaving the sandwich shop, and retired to my suite, complete with a musty quilt from the closet.