Ten Euros, or How I ended up at Rodì Milice - PART III

Part 3

Over 2,000 of us are seated at giant wooden tables covered with linen tablecloths and protected from the elements by giant canvas tents that are, in truth, somewhat unnecessary, given the unseasonably warm Siclian night. There is music, live and merry, with the cymbals of tambourines crashing out the rhythm, while groups of youngsters dance in a circle, joy painted on each face as they move in perfect unison.

The sounds of a feast threaten to drown out their performance, as lively middle-aged men flutter from table to table, slapping other middle-aged men on the back, boxing the ears of screaming toddlers, raising glasses in a constant toast to health and life. The women chatter and laugh heartily, lulling to a whisper every now and then as confidences are shared and gossip spreads. A husband singles out his wife, rudely issues a command, a lively yelling match ensues, the men jokingly taunt their buddy, who, fueled by the support of the audience, grows only louder. You can see they've done this before, both are veterans of the game, and it looks like all will have to settle in for the long haul, when an elder approaches, slowly but with an authoritative gait, and to everyone's glee, slaps his son, the husband, upside the head. A command, a challenge in dialect, issues forth form the old man, who despite his age still manages a stentorian voice, and the audience dissolves in laughter, happy for such a humorous end to the conflict.

Peace is restored, glasses of locally produced, light violet wine are raised, and the merriment continues to grow. The food is everywhere, filling the long tables as dozens of different dishes are brought out. People tear off the chunks of bread to sop up the last, oily remnants of mind-blowing sauces, using hands in the meal-time rite called Fare la Scarpetta, or "do the sole of the boot," a direct translation of which is impossible. Of course, everyone knows you shouldn't do it in public, how impolite to sop up the sauce with bread using your hands!, but yet everyone does it anyway while they think nobody else is looking, especially when the sauces are as good as they are this evening. Helpings of different dishes are scooped onto plates, the food has no limit but no one is eating in a hurry anyways; this feast will last until everyone falls down with exhaustion, dragging each other home with the light of dawn.

The dogs are in on the action too, squealing with delight at their unexpected good fortune, gobbling up any and all morsels that reach the floor. They move in a pack, nobody seems to pay them any mind, and after all they are harmless, knowing full well who to avoid, and who to approach, always cautiously and circuitously.

In the midst of this flurry of bright colors, of torch-lit revelry and savory odors is the table reserved for the mayor, the town doctor, the priest, and the guest of honor, yours truly. In the midst of our revelry, the mayor stands up, hushes the crowd by clinking his wine glass, and begins to speak. He thanks everyone for coming to the first of what will be a three-day festival, and with a grand gesture, motions for me to stand up, at which point the whole assembled crowd erupts in applause, dozens of hands patting me on the back. "To Patrick, the walker who brought ten euros all the way from Lamezia to our lovely town of Rodì Milice!" I look over at Ninno and Angela, who wave at me; they've been invited to the celebration too, of course.

I prepare to speak:

But I should stop here, and get on with the real story. Walking along for all the days between Lamezia and Rodì Milice, I developed quite an elaborate scene in my mind, letting my imagination run wild with how I would be received with my tale. I tried to calm down and retain some sense of reality, knowing that I was leading myself to certain disappointment with whatever happened to me upon reaching Rodì Milice.

So why tell the story then, if you already know that it will end in disappointment? Why mess up the package with the pretty bow? I'll tell you why: because life rarely ever comes in a fancy package, perfectly proportioned and pleasing to the eye. If it's a bit crooked, misshapen, and bulky, it's because it's real. Don't try to change the package, edit for content, and so on, I remind myself; simply tell it like it happened, and try to change your own perception of the story in the telling of it.

The day I was set to arrive at Rodì Milice was the day after the freak storm that turned the highway into a river. As I recounted a few posts ago, the sun was shining, there was a buzz as people assessed the damage and got to work putting their towns back together, and I was in high spirits.

My detour was not terribly long, about an hour, but it was all uphill, so the reward of reaching the top was great. I surveyed the beautiful farmland and pastures on rolling hills all around me, and remembered Ninno's praise of his hometown. This was it, all right.

Walking the last stretch uphill, I finally reached the town government building, called the Comune (pronounced Co MOO Nay, or Neigh, for you farm animal lovers out there), where Ninno's nephew worked, or so I hoped. When I saw it, and just as I was about to enter, I had to hold myself back, overcome by the emotion derived from my own actions. I recognized even then how silly it was, getting choked up about a gesture sprung entirely from my own imagination, but there was no reasoning through it, and so I had to wait a bit until I regained composure.

I stepped into the building cautiously and with frequent little pauses, quietly listening for voices that might lead me directly to my destination; I did not want to announce my mission in a random hallway to some office assistant, after all. When I saw an open door down a hallway to my right, I approached, and knocking, announced my arrival. The three people in the office looked up with surprise, then amusement; surely they had not expected a sweaty foreigner at the door.

Nor were they expecting my story, told as it was with a wavering voice, fraught with emotion. "I was looking for _______, the vice mayor." They looked at me with blank stares, obviously waiting for me to spit it out. "I have come from his Aunt and Uncle in Calabria on foot, and I would like to speak with him." I could not help but be ambiguous; why the hell was I here, again? To hand over ten euros to a government official? It didn't make any sense unless I told the whole story, and there was no way I was going to do that, not in the state I was in.

Even though I was the opposite of expansive, the three officials were immediately responsive. He wasn't here, he's out and about as usual, they joked, but let's try and reach him. The one lady offered me chocolate, one man kept me entertained, while the other tried to reach the vice mayor. No luck, he wasn't answering. I sat still, terrified of giving up so easily after nearly two weeks of buildup, but losing hope of getting to carry out my self-appointed task. They continued to call, even reaching his wife at home, and asked her to help track him down, as there was a matter of great urgency back at the office.

A few minutes later, the phone rang, and there he was, calling back to find out what emergency needed attention. Based on the officer's responses and expression, I could tell we had interrupted something, and when they put me on the phone for me to explain, _______ was very short with me. "And what do you want? ... Yeah, yeah, I know, my Aunt and Uncle, in Calabria, right ... Listen, I'm at lunch with my in-laws right now, so you'll have to wait till I'm done." A bit offended, and therefore defensive, I shot back, "I have to walk to Tindari today and arrive before sunset, so I can't wait long." Before he could respond, the officer grabbed the phone, and bless his heart, said "You've gotta come meet this kid. He's walked all the way from Calabria to meet you and he can't wait all day."

The conversation ended soon after, and the official looked at me affectionately, with a father's expression. "You must be hungry. Go to the bar up the street and get something to eat, and by the time you come back, he'll be here, I'm sure." I did as I was told, feeling very strange about this whole situation but curious to see how it would work itself out. Opening the door to the bar, I could tell the barista expected someone, but that he certainly did not expect someone like me, and I took satisfaction in saying "I was told to come here by the Comune." He sprang to action, offering me all sorts of snacks, but I was used to simple eating at lunch, just some bread and a fruit or two, and stopped him short at a couple items. He insisted on fruit juice, a true luxury for someone used to drinking tap water out of a plastic sack, and I could tell he was carrying out orders from the official, who had called ahead.

He asked what I was doing here, I gave the short answer, he asked more questions, and slowly teased out the long answer, which soon had the staff of three enthralled. They offered more food, a positive sign, and when I turned it down, a coffee, which I accepted. I sipped it slowly, was surprised to feel it actually calm me down rather than make me even more nervous, and when I had finished and tried to pay, the barista waved me way. "Don't worry, it's on the Comune."

I thanked the staff, waved goodbye, and walked back to the Comune, where a very antsy and excitable ________ was pacing back and forth, smiling broadly. All hailed my entrance, the vice mayor stuck his hand out, apologizing for his delay in coming, and I could tell that the office staff had paved the way for me. With a flurry of waving arms and quick talk, he ushered me out of the building, but not before I said goodbye and thanked the staff for their help.

We headed toward his car, he helped me load the bag, and when we were both inside, he announced, "I'm going to drive you to Tindari." I panicked; that was the last thing I had expected to hear. "No, I have to walk." "Don't be ridiculous. It's the least I can do." "No, you don't understand, I can't skip any part of the trail." "Don't offend me. It's a pleasure to help you." "No, please, you're doing me a great disservice. I'll have to walk all the way back and restart from where I left off." "Are you kidding me? It's far to Tindari, you know." "Please, I beg you. Don't drive me to Tindari." "Are you sure? Promise me." "I swear by everything that's holy that I don't want you to take me to Tindari." "Ok, I'll just take you up the road a bit." "NO!!! If you're going to take me anywhere, take me back down to the state road where I turned to head up to Rodì Milice." "Are you sure? You can skip a boring part of the road if I take you further ahead. C'mon, it's no big deal." "_______, please, believe me, I wanted to walk down from Rodì Milice. Taking me to the turnoff is more than enough." "Ok, but it's your choice." "Yes."

Crisis barely averted, he asked me a few questions, we talked about Ninno and Angela, and when we were approaching my turnoff point, I tried in my smoothest way to introduce the story of the ten euros, and slip him the ten euros without him thinking ill of the idea. When I did so, he just laughed it off into the abyss of the ludicrous, and when I insisted, telling him how much it meant for me to pass this money on and support his city, he turned serious, told me that he would not accept it under any circumstances, and that I should take it to the Sanctuary at Tindari if I wanted to give it away. I think I even offended him, and realized at that moment how strange it must seem, and how it could easily be misconstrued as an attempt at charity. Anyways, I could tell he didn't really care about my story, and was just getting me out of his hair so he could return to his regularly scheduled programming.

I thanked him for the unwanted ride, assured him for the 47th time that I did not want a ride to Tindari, waved goodbye as he sped off, and walked the fifty feet backward, to the exact spot where I turned up the hill to Rodì Milice in my abortive effort to create a powerful ending to my story.

This trip up the hill, so emotionally charged, ended with me at the bottom again, feeling empty, and positively dripping with irony. How else could this have ended, Pat? With a big hug, best friends forever, fireworks, and Willy Wonka promising me the whole god-damned factory to reward my returning the ten euro gobstopper?

In the end, I was just an errand in an otherwise normal day for someone who really didn't care. Nothing is worse than apathy when you're expecting emotion.

Still, I could not help but smile as I walked on toward Tindari. A fitting metaphor for my walk, this little adventure: it's not the completion, but rather the journey there that is so fulfilling.

I dipped into the first church I saw, a nice and humble one, and stuffed the ten euro bill into a slot without a second thought. Then, since I was alone, I took my time to remember the way it looked, smelled, sounded, and felt, and seeing an open notebook with various prayers scrawled by pious believers, I wrote a prayer of my own:

Thank you for everything that you have given me. Please forgive me my pride and self-importance, and allow me to be patient, humble, and to love everyone and everything with all my soul.