The walk away from, to, and through Palermo

12/21 - Bagheria to Palermo to Sferracavallo - 19.69

For all my travel expertise, sometimes I simply blow it. Having purchased my return ticket to Bagheria the evening before, I woke up this morning already certain of having missed the train. Sure enough, I was one minute too late, and it being Sunday, the next train was in two hours.

Well, no sense bitching, I thought, and got to walking, this time away from Palermo instead of towards it. It was a strange way to get to know the city, leaving instead of arriving, but the alternative meant wasting a sunny day sitting on my hands.

I bought some fantastic pastries for breakfast, taking advantage of being in Palermo, arguably the pastry and dessert capital of Italy, haggled with a fruit vendor for two oranges, and after a walk straight down a 1960s post-fascist apartment block full of angry, silently threatening characters, reached the coast.

The walk was pretty standard aside from a stretch of "make your own trail," my favorite walking activity, especially when it works out without me having to backtrack. I struggled and growled my way through a bamboo thicket reminiscent of Junior Varsity football strength exercises, jumped over a railing or two, walked through a lush field of weeds, picked my way over boulders, and crossed an illegal dumping ground. Good stuff.

Having reached Bagheria on foot, I returned once more to Palermo, and started to cross the whole town, but this time took a different route through the city, into one of Palermo's characteristic markets. It's funny how we adapt, how quickly we forget fear and discomfort; just two months ago I was petrified of the market in Napoli, which was a lot more open and orderly than this one. Now, fully adjusted to the ways of Southern Italy, and actually quite fond of them, I strolled through the bustle with just the right mixture of caution, curiosity, and tranquility. I bought a fried sardine sandwich, topped with a dash of salt and pepper and served in some brown wrapping paper (the kind that turns transparent as it absorbs grease, mmm), found it absolutely delicious, walked up and down a few representative alleys, and was on my way.

My destination was the Youth Hostel, apparently on the edge of town, and when I reached it at sunset, I immediately regretted the choice. I was paying two euros less than what I had paid at my centrally located hotel to share a room with someone and lose another night to explore Palermo. Still, I was already there, and the bus would take at least an hour, so I decided to simply suck it up and stay put.

As far as hostels go, this one was pretty unique, as it was a converted tourist village with little cabins connected by lushly landscaped pathways. I shared my room with someone who apparently was living there, but as he was not home, I took advantage of my private time to get some rest.

My hostel roommate was surprised to see me, but quickly recovered his composure and introduced himself. Gregory and I were soon buddies, and as it was time for me to go eat dinner, he accompanied me down to the row of restaurants on the beach. As he had already eaten, the choice of restaurant was up to me, so I picked a sandwich shop on the water. The most famous sandwich in Palermo is con milza, or veal spleen, and everybody had raved about it, so I gave it a try, along with a large beer. Though not quite my kind of texture, it was certainly tasty, and I followed it with a porchetta (a delicious type of cooked pork, one of my favorites) and spicy salami sandwich. In the meantime, Gregory and I traded stories, and he talked in sketchy terms about a business plan he had formed and was just starting to implement.

When we got back to the hostel, I agreed to sit through his pitch on video telephony, was happy for him and his choice but also relieved for the easy out I had, that of lacking startup capital. This was not my type of thing, I knew, but I admired Gregory's courage for coming from France, plopping himself down in a hostel outside of Palermo, and starting from scratch. It is certainly not an easy thing to do, and I was sorry for him, as he had no plans for Christmas and was not returning home.

I wished him the best of luck, wrote down a number of places for him to visit on foot later in life at his request, and said goodnight.