Palermo with a local and his friends

January 2,3

When people used to ask me where I would sleep in Italy, I always used to say that people I met on the walk would have me hopefully have me stay with their relatives further on. This had happened very few times, and with friends, not relatives, but after my ten day stint in Reggio Calabria, I finally had a family lead. Antonio's Aunt and Uncle live in Palermo, but as they were out, there was only his 18-year old cousin, Salvatore. Still, Salvo (short for Salvatore) promised at least to show me around, and I was happy to have a guide.

After the long return back to Palermo, I met up with Salvo and his lifelong friend, conveniently also named Salvo, and within minutes I received the invitation to stay for two nights. Happy to have passed the smell test, I gratefully accepted, and we got right down to business, with a stop for an arancino. This fried ball of rice has a clump of tender minced meat in the middle that simply melts as it glides down your throat, and I resisted the temptation to get a second one, as we were going back to Salvo's for dinner.

The following day was jampacked with activity. After picking up another one of Salvo's friends, we went off to Mondello, judged to be one of Italy's 5 most beautiful beaches, and just outside the center of Palermo. I wasn't blown away, but it was nice, and I got a lemon granita, or what we know as an Italian ice but far superior, to commemorate the visit. After a stroll and a few pictures, it was up to Monte San Pellegrino for some stellar views of Palermo, the surrounding mountains, the coastline, and expanse of sea. Another arancino was in order, this one as big as a softball and even tastier than the one from the day before. When that was destroyed, we made a stop for lunch with Salvo's Dad, and then Salvo dropped me off with the other Salvo and some other mutual friends, who were thrilled to have an American guest interested in seeing the real Palermo.

So, together with four tour guides, i saw the main sites: the duomo, the fountain in front of the Comune, various structures from the Normans, Arabs, and Spaniards, old neighborhoods, Martorana shops (named after the marzipan-based food sculptures imitating fruit and other objects), and on and on. There is something very ticklish about a group of high school students just bursting with newly-learned information, so ready to discuss any topic at length. Everyone had an area of expertise, lots of dates were questioned and corrected, and I benefited from the zeal of my young guides.

After an evening mass at the "brotherhood" church, a mixture of new age Catholicism and Southern Baptism with a surprisingly large and loyal following, we all went out for kebabs. These kebabs were a step above the ordinary run-of-the-mill stuff peddled throughout Italy, and further confirmation that Palermitani take their food very very seriously. Finally, we made a stop at a fancy beer joint, a stop I suspect was in my honor, and I savored a Belgian brown ale while Salvo the Second had a 9% Norwegian lager, and two others split a Becks. Boy was I shocked when my suggestion for round 2 was shot down, despite the fact that everyone was 17-19, prime drinkin' days for the average American lad. In a way, I was happy to have my offer denied: I had been an Augustus Gloop for too long, and needed to get back to the lean n' mean mentality of a long-distance walker.

A little self-promotion

The first article that talks about my travels (click the nex button toward the bottom of the article to go to page 2)!

Daily Pennsylvanian, my University's daily newspaper

Enjoy,
Pat

Reggio during the Holidays, a trip to Gambarie, and New Years

Gambarie and life in Reggio
View the Gambarie Album

I often stated during my ten-day stay in Reggio Calabria that it was definitely harder than walking, and I really was not joking. As everyone was on vacation for two weeks (yes, Italians receive the same amount of time for Christmas as most Americans get all year), a party atmosphere prevailed for my entire stay, and I did not go to bed before three or wake up before 11. After all that healthy living, this lifestyle took its toll on me, and I realized that I had outgrown it, since after all I had lived four years of it during college.

However, this realization came only at the end, and as I am not the type to go home when something is going on, and neither is Enzo, we made sure to live it up as much as possible. There was lots of card playing nights and parties centered around gambling (poker, bingo, and randomly enough, baccarat), which though I mostly watched from the sideline were interesting from a cultural perspective (not to mention that the holiday sweets were always bounteous). Besides these evenings, we milled around the Corso and hit up bars often.

There was even an excursion to a mountain cabin above Reggio, to a little town called Gambarie. The Aspromonte, in the interior of Calabria, featured year-round snow, countless nature trails, ski slopes, and a sleepy square of shops and food markets. Having decided only that day to head up, we spent the early afternoon buying lots of food, and when we had picked up all the guys at their houses, we drove the 45 minutes up, blasting traditional humorous songs in the Calabrian dialect.

The cabin was charming, a two-story rustic building filled with appropriate decorations and furnishings, and the first order of business was to build a blazing fire. Once we were nice and warm, we settled in for some card playing, with an entertaining variant of Uno using Neapolitan playing cards.

There was also lots of story telling, meat eating, and wine drinking. Actually, it bears mention that each person had brought bottles of wine made by their relatives in the country, that this was a common practice and an acceptable alternative to buying wine in stores. Sure, the quality was not top-notch, but each bottle was delicious in its own way, tasting like the earth that produced it and reminiscent of ancient customs.

The next morning was warm enough for us to go on a nature hike in the woods, and between hopping over streams and searching for mushrooms, we managed to appreciate the dominant beauty of this area. Having worked up a hunger, we had a lunch of giant sandwiches and beers, and enjoyed each other's company until the coming of evening, when it was time to descend back to reality.

New Years
View the New Years Prep album - lots of food shots!
View the New Years party album

As you might expect, the planning for New Years revolved around Italy's favorite pastime, eating, and we were lucky to have an ace up our sleeve in Antonio, who had taken courses in Italian cuisine and had even worked a bit as a chef. The tradition with this group of friends was different from the norm, as they ate an all-fish dinner on New Years Eve.

Enzo and I headed over to Antonio's place around three, and he was already up to his elbows in seafood. We all kept him company, performed simple tasks like shelling shrimp and de-scaling fish, and went out to buy a few last-minute items, as well as some white wine from Campania and Sicily. It was interesting to me that wines from other parts of the country more world-famous for their production, such as Piedmont, Tuscany, and Trentino Alto Adige, were never seriously considered, and that wines from other countries were non-existent in the store. They all say "why pay more for a foreign wine when your next door neighbor makes it better for dirt cheap?" And I can see where they're coming from, even if I disagree.

After a quick trip home to dress up a bit (Enzo lent me some clothes, another manifestation of his extremely generous nature), we came back to Antonio's, and saw an absolute bonanza, a true feast of mouth-watering proportions. There was swordfish roulade (or involtini, as they call them), seasoned sardines, shrimp risotto, a giant fish baked under salt, octopus salad, handmade ravioli filled with shrimp, swordfish sashimi, stuffed calamari, and more.

The meal lasted three hours, included various courses, and was more than anyone could handle. It was time to start partying.

We watched the countdown on TV, everyone counting aloud together, and then the pop of multiple bottles of prosecco (not champagne, mind you) punctuated the passing of the New Year, along with hollering, singing, and jumping up and down. Everyone exchanged hugs, blew on noisemakers, and went outside to light off fireworks. They weren't alone either: Reggio sounded like a war zone, with huge explosions sounding off every few seconds, followed by joyful squeals.

And just for a moment, a brief minute or two, I missed my home, my family, my friends, and my country. I had been away a long time, and I sighed a secret sigh amidst the delirious festivities.

It really only did last a few minutes, though, and I returned to the group, who were just then flinging fireworks off the balcony and tittering enthusiastically. Deciding to share a bit of my New Years traditions, I found Glenn Miller's version of Auld Lang Syne on YouTube, the classic big band version of that indispensable New Year's anthem, and soon had everyone dancing.

We danced a bit, the noisemakers and kazoos only grew louder with each glass of prosecco, and then we did the bar shuffle, exchanging greetings with all of Reggio, and running down the main drag in a dance train. After the bars closed at 4:30, it was off to a house party, where we continued the festivities until 7:30 or so in the morning.

I was an absolute wreck the next day, worn out from the compounded effects of 9 straight days of craziness. It was time for me to get back on the road, and I was more than ready.

A Video (in Italian) of me discussing my travels with my 2003 host family

L’Italia a piedi [Patrick ci racconta...]

This 8:40 video is an edited version of a one-hour conversation I had with my host family from Padova, just outside Venezia. After my walk, I promised to go visit them, and stayed there for three days.

The family:
Host father Mario Galzigna, a University professor of Psychology and Epistemology at Università Ca Foscari in Venezia (his blog)
Host mother Maddalena Mapelli, a middle school Italian teacher, and editor of a blog turned book, Ibridamenti, which is a collective of various Italian intellectuals speaking on a variety of subjects
Host brother Matteo, a concert pianist, all-around genius, and dear friend
Host sister Sara, an 11-year-old violinist and a budding intellectual mind

Heady stuff. Anyhow, if you can understand Italian, this is a nice little video about my travels, and I hope you enjoy.

Christmas in Reggio Calabria

The possibility of spending Christmas alone was something I had considered, but never seriously thought would happen. In the end, I was right, and just to make me feel loved, I received five separate unsolicited invitations. Lucky for me, the first one to officially come in was the closest one geographically, and I was happy to take the six to seven hour trip across the island of Sicily, by sea over the strait of Messina, and down the coast to Reggio, to the waiting car of my good friend Enzo.

Within minutes of my arrival, I was already in full family mode, getting to know Enzo's sisters Giusi and Rita, and catching up with Enzo's mom. Everyone made me feel truly welcome, and I fit right in.

My reunion with all the guys went just as smoothly, and we partied in the streets until three or so on the night before the 24th. I remember being shocked at just how quickly I felt close to all these guys, as if I had known them for years, and this sensation only grew during the ten days I spent in RC.

Christmas eve started with a trip to Reggio Calabria's main corso, essentially a long promenade in the center of town, lined with shops and packed at any time of the day and night. Enzo and I exchanged auguri, or greetings, with anyone and everyone, and it really seemed that everyone knew each other in this city of +200,000. Dinner was spent with all the siblings at the house of Enzo's mother, who had prepared a delicious fish dinner per tradition, with some family variations. There were nine of us at the table, and in Enzo's Aunt's apartment next door there was another group of thirty or so cousins, great uncles, little nieces, and so on, ages 2 to 85. Every year after dinner, Santa Claus (Babbo Natale) makes an appearance in full dress, with a huge sack of presents for the whole family. The last three years had seen a Calabrian Santa Claus, played by Enzo, but as the kids were starting to catch on, the family decided that it was time for a different Santa Claus.

Once this was decided, it was no longer possible for me to meet the rest of the family, as the kids would see and realize the hoax. Therefore, most of dinner was spent distracting and blocking increasingly curious children from entering our dining room.

When dinner was over, and dessert had been served, devoured, and digested, it was time for me to get into my costume, put on the beard, and assume the character. My back stiffened, legs bent, pace slowed, face assumed a permanent smile. I was ready, almost: fumbling in Enzo's Mom's makeup bag, I found the eyeliner, and added the grey of age to my face by blotting and blurring around nose, under eyes, and on the sides of my mouth. I don't think anyone was prepared for such a serious approach to the Santa role, but for me this was more than just a three-minute-out-of-character-hand-out-presents kind of performance. I hope to play Santa many times in my life, experience the joy of seeing the eyes of little children light up in wonder and delight, bounce my sister's children on my lap, and this was my first go at it, so it had to be all-out. An audition for myself, if you will.

Nobody expected what was comin': the little ones were stupefied, having expected to see their cousin, and could not but believe that Santa had really made it this year. The parents had me speak some English to prove my non-local authenticity, we all belted out a round of Jingle Bells, and I proceeded to invite each and every family member, from the little ones to the oldest grandparents, onto my lap. They went wild: the little ones squealed with delight, the parents turned into children, and the grandparent's eyes twinkled as they slowly settled onto my lap, whispering a heart-felt thank you for putting on such a special performance to give the little ones a memorable Christmas.

When each of the 20+ presents had been delivered, group photos had been taken, and even Enzo received a gift, it was time to get back on the sleigh. My assistant the Befana, or the good witch who comes to clear out all the holiday celebrations on January 6th, played by Giusi, Enzo's sister, helped Old St. Nick out of the room, and off I went into the not-so-frosty Calabrian night.

I performed a quick change, cleaned off the makeup, and after some hiding, escaped with Enzo without a single child seeing me. What a joyful memory, how fulfilling to get to be the giver of all those presents! The first run at playing Santa Claus was, all in all, a galloping success, and there were already calls for a return in 2009. I think I found my calling!

Enzo and I went back to the main drag of town, where everyone had gathered to see one another and exchange season's greetings. Lots of joyous hugs and kisses were bestowed, I was graciously included in the revelry, and stories of my Santa exploits were recounted. People described in great detail the sumptuous meals and compared family traditions and recipes, lots of jokes and general merriment filled the air, and so we passed a good bit of time, until everyone headed to bars. Yes, bars, and I was a bit scandalized as well, that is, until everyone reminded me that Christmas Eve isn't the holiday, just Christmas Day.

The last walk of the year - Trappeto

12/22 - Sferracavallo to Trappeto - 22.01
View the Album

This day marked my first sighting of a sign pointing to Trapani, and I was absolutely giddy with the thought of being so near the end. 99 kilometers, it read, three days if I raced to the finish, but as it was already the 22nd and Christmas was two days away, I knew I would get to take my time.

So I did just that, strolling down the road and watching as the fast-paced buzz of outer Palermo calmed to roadside retail, then small-town speed, and finally the malaise of semi-rural gardens and pastures. After a trip to buy a bag full of pastries, a must-do as I was leaving the confines of Palermo and had no idea when I'd be back again, I pigged out on the bready sweets on a small mound in the middle of an empty plot of land. Lunch spots spring up in various shapes and sizes.

The rest of the walk was through farmland, olive and orange groves, horse pastures, and a sprinkling of houses, all set against the backdrop of mountains rising dramatically from the sea, blocking off Palermo from the rest of Sicily. I saw one of my favorite pastoral landscapes of the trip, beautiful in its tranquil simplicity, and when the sun fell, I found myself in the town of Trappeto.

A few quick phone calls gave me the idea of what a room cost, but when none of them satisfied me, I walked into a seaside restaurant, made a deal with the owner that included dinner, and headed up to my room for a nap. All that strolling makes a soul tired, you know.

My dinner was simply delicious, a seafood based feast which included a devouring of an entire fish, eyeballs and all, for the second course. The owner took a shining to me, so the wine was self-serve, and I had a giant plate of fruit set before me to finish the meal. They really do know how to set a delicious table, these Sicilians. It is completely different from what Americans consider Italian food, and as such answers the classic American question about Italy: "How could you eat the same ethnic food every day?!" The answer: you could prepare a different Italian dinner every day for a year and never eat the same thing twice, and your health would improve dramatically, to boot.

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.

The stop/go rain day, and a trip up the hill to Solunto

12/20 - Termini Imerese to Bagheria - 17.71

Thinking back on this day, I clearly remember one aspect above all else. When I got off the train, it was raining, so I put on my impermeable clothes. However, the walk was uphill for the first stretch, and I was soon sweating profusely. When I was nice and wet on both the inside and outside of my jacket, it stopped raining, so I took the opportunity to take off my backpack, remove the blue rain cover, lift the lid, unclasp the clasp, loosen the 2 (that's two) drawstrings, stuff the jacket inside, and resume walking.

The bright Sicilian sunshine, just having this moment made its appearance, warmed me up, but only for three minutes, when it started to pour again. Sighing, I walked in the rain for about five minutes, but since it was not letting up but only growing stronger, I put my bag down, removed the blue rain cover, lifted the lid, unclasped the clasp, loosened the 2 (yep, two) drawstrings, and pulled out my jacket.

My shirt was pretty wet under my jacket, but it was destined to get only wetter, as the sun came out thirty seconds after I put on my jacket, and started baking me again. This time I walked ten minutes in the sun with my jacket on, expecting rainfall at any moment. But it was suddenly summertime, not a cloud to be seen, so I dropped my backpack, removed the blue rain cover, lifted the lid, unclasped the clasp, loosened the 2 (Due) drawstrings, stuffed in my jacket, and a partridge in a pear tree.

Within one minute, and not a second more than one minute, I felt the first drops, and for the first time on my trip, I felt the pelting of hail stones, dumped as if from a giant bucket over my head. I could not believe it; there were still no clouds, it was not even that cold, I was in Sicily, and here it was hailing, and me without my jacket on.

All I could do was laugh, shaking my head at the improbability of what had just happened. And that wasn't the end, either: I had two more on-off on-off changes that day, and was uncomfortable the entire time, or at least most of it.

In one sense, I'm glad this happened in such an extreme fashion, because it serves to illustrate one of those minor annoyances of this kind of trip that teach patience and humility toward nature. Simply taking off and putting on a jacket is not so big of a deal, but when you add the heat generated by exertion and the added chore of dropping and lifting a 40 pound bag with five steps to open, you begin to resign yourself to walking in the rain uncovered or sweating like a hot dog in a Circle K.

Secondary in my mind was the walk up to the Solunto ruins just outside of Bagheria. Fairly well preserved for its age, the ancient Phoenician town of Solunto was in good shape, having been pretty much left alone since its destruction by the Saracens.

It is still impossible for me to glaze over the fact that I was one of two people in this giant site, and that most of my time there was spent wandering alone. I ate my lunch on a grassy knoll overlooking my day's walk on one side, and the city of Palermo on the other. I had always thought of Palermo as some exotic and faraway land, perhaps never to be explored, and here I was looking down at it in the midst of 2,500 old remains. Rain or no rain, life is pretty damn great.

Since Bagheria was not exactly a booming metropolis nor a charming village, I decided to take the train to Palermo, explore and sleep there, and return by train the next morning.

Palermo is a bit grimy, a bit raw, but at the same time fresh, interesting, and full of culture. I found a cheap hotel on the main drag, listened to the owner cook dinner with her daughter through the one inch opening separating my room from the kitchen, smiled at the grittiness of it all, and went out for my first Palermo meal.

Termini Imerese, a chocolate lunch, and a night at Cefalù

12/19 - Cefalù to Termini Imerese - 21.43

Rising early, I was soon on the train to Cefalù, where I got back on the highway leading to Palermo. The day's stop was Termini Imerese, and the walk took me past giant orange groves and a small stretch of pines, where I ate an all-chocolate meal, lunch of champions. As you might imagine, I felt a bit strange after all that chocolaty goodness, so I struck up the courage to purchase two oranges from a fruit truck along the side of the road. Instead of the usual annoyance with such a small purchase, described two posts ago in further detail, I got a decidedly positive response, in that the fruit vendor waved me away when I tried to pay, saying Merry Christmas. Now, before I go on, I have to make it clear that I am not begging for food. I mention this because my mother is really worried that people will think I am out of money, and therefore need to beg for food. Nope, that is not the case; rather, the people in this part of the country especially are extremely generous, and I have simply been the recipient of this generosity numerous times.

It was grey and rainy when Termini first came into sight, and the last two hours of my walk were next to the large, imposing power plant, suspiciously located on the water's edge, sucking any beauty and positive energy straight out of the atmosphere.

The town of Termini Imerese was slightly depressing, seeming more like a British industrial town than anything else. I walked around looking for affordable lodging, came up empty, asked at a bar, received a free coffee (something that would not have happened so easily in a British industrial town, by the way. And no mom, I didn't beg for it) and some options, found them all way more expensive than what I was accustomed to paying, received a wink-wink suggestion to sleep at the train station, and in the end, stepped off the train at Cefalù.

So I got to sleep in Cefalù after all, at a Bed & Breakfast right on the water. I was late for dinner, choosing instead to explore the town, and ended up receiving all the leftovers from a pizzeria/rosticceria after befriending the owners, including all the fatty fried foods for which Sicily is famous. Again, no begging, just kind people and good timing.

Chocolate for lunch, fried balls of rice for dinner, and I think I lost weight that day. Screw the whole get in shape to look good line of motivation; life can be full of guiltless culinary pleasure when you exercise.

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.

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

Part 2

A few weeks back, I wrote in passing about a lunch invitation I received between Mortilla and Pizzo. Here's the full story:

I had seen a number of orange tree nurseries throughout the course of the day, and as I passed each one I felt my appetite for oranges increase. When I saw that one of the nurseries ahead had set a tower of crates full of oranges along the side of the road, I turned into the driveway. This process is always somewhat awkward and uncomfortable for me, as my request for two or three oranges is nearly always met with a long sigh, an impatient snort, or at the very least a sullen silence. You see, most people buy four or five kilos of oranges at one time, so my purchase is peanuts in comparison. Call me oversensitive, call me weak-willed, call me what you will, but until you have had the experience of disappointing a fruit vendor as many times as I have over a short span of time, you can not possibly know how it feels.

So, firming up my resolve and preparing my "oblivious to your annoyed look/set on eating oranges at any psychological cost" face, I approached the house, only to discover that the family was eating lunch. Ay ay ay - not only was I wasting the nursery owner's time with a tiny purchase, I was also interrupting the most important hour(s) of a Calabrian's day. Still, it was too late to turn back, say "nevermind, wrong house," and escape, so when the owner came out, frowning but not unfriendly, I told him what I wanted. He nodded silently, I apologized to the two ladies cautiously peeping out from the dining room, and followed sheepishly behind the owner to the roadside crates.

He told me to pick what I wanted, and so I did, selecting delicious-looking navels and two juicy mandarins. Then, without a word, he made way back down to the house, and rather quickly, as it had just started to rain. I followed, and pressed against the house to avoid getting wet, let my backpack fall from my shoulders, so I could pack the oranges and remove my rain gear. While I was doing this, I heard one of the ladies shuffle out toward the front door, and when she was beside her husband, she asked me what I was doing there.

I began to tell my story, all the while covering my backpack and donning my rain jacket. The man listened closely, stone-faced but engaged, but his wife only heard the beginning, and soon reentered the house, only to emerge with a sandwich, which she handed to me. Having finished packing, I was urged to eat, and was motioned to sit down on the front steps. Husband and wife started to reenter the house, when the wife, having reconsidered, told me to come in from the rain.

Panino in hand, I walked gingerly into the house, and with shoulders hunched in weary wayfarer fashion, approached the table. I was immediately put at ease by their kindness and simplicity (much like Valentino had described to me just a few days before), and thanked Angela with each item she lay before me. The three of them, Ninno, Angela, and their daughter, had already eaten lunch, but they sat patiently as I ate mine, composed of cheeses and bread and a bomba calabrese (a spicy tapenade made of minced hot peppers, garlic, oil, anchovies, sundried tomatoes, salt, and a few other ingredients that I now forget), then sampled the same delicious oranges as the ones I had just purchased. Fully satisfied, I leafed through a book on Rodì Milice, Ninno's hometown in Sicily, as Angela prepared coffee. I asked him questions about the town, his impressions of Calabria vs. Sicily, and listened as he wistfully recounted the orange trees there: "you can climb up into a tree in the morning, pick until lunchtime, and still there are oranges left to pick when you get back." He was particularly proud of the book's dedication, written by his Nephew, the vice-mayor of the town, and had me read it aloud.

After Angela brought the coffee, we watched some news, commented on world events, and as I still had a long distance ahead of me, I excused myself from the table.

We all walked outside together, and after flipping up the hood on my rain jacket, I reached into my pocket and pulled out coins to pay for the fruit. "Don't worry," Ninno said, and though I wanted to pay, I knew it was useless to insist. Instead, I hugged each of them in turn, thanked them for taking me in, and was on my way.

Wait, shouted Angela, and scampering up to me, shoved something into my hand. I looked down, saw a folded bill, and started repeating No No No No No No, trying to give the money back, by force if necessary. I told them I didn't need money from them, that I appreciated the gesture but that they should save it for someone truly in need, but again there was no use. A little ashamed and still in shock, I looked at each of them with profound gratitude, and this time I was on my way for real. I had never received such direct charity from someone before, and can say that it is one of the more humbling situations I have experienced.

When I was about 100 yards away from the nursery, I looked down at my clenched fist, slowly opened it, and registered the denomination of the bill. Guess how much it was? Ten Euros.

Calabria had taken two fives and given me a ten in return.

For the next 30 minutes or so, I walked in the gray drizzle, letting this string of events sink in, once more with the music off. I was very moved, in awe of what I had just experienced, but this time there was no crying, no excess of emotion. I simply realized that these ten euros were not mine, that I had to pass on this same bill, representative as it was of an other-worldly phenomenon. So to whom should I give these ten euros? The first thought, the easiest solution, was to pop into a church and stuff it into one of the many guilt-inducing slots. I considered this for a while, but the more I thought about it, the less it inspired me. I pictured priests getting the strands of gold replaced on their vestments, or sending it on to some huge vat of money tucked somewhere deep in the Vatican, and I was not satisfied. Of course, the church could also be a force for good, giving it to needy orphans and so on, but why should I go through a middle man when I could do the same myself? The answer to that particular question came in the form of a bunch of farm sheds under an overpass, directly to my left. I considered spontaneously appearing, the bill in hand, and realized that things could go less than perfectly. What if ten was not enough, and they robbed me blind? What if they were indignant at my assuming their poverty? No, this ten was destined to go somewhere else, a place where it would not go to waste or serve to glorify me, but instead be given in the same spirit in which Ninno and Angela had given, the spirit of hospitality and new friendship.

And then it hit me, a flash of inspiration that made up my mind, so logical and so cinematic at the same time. No matter where it was, no matter how long it took, I was going to Rodì Milice, Ninno's birthplace, and would give the ten euros to his nephew.

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

As it is long, this post is divided into three, scheduled to appear one per day over the next three days.

I lost faith in humanity only once during my journey, on the state road no. 18 linking Salerno to Reggio Calabria. It was a sunny day, the first after a stretch of rainy, cloudy, windy days, and my spirits were high. I was marching down the coast of Calabria, making good progress, uninspired by what I had seen in the last few days, but ever hopeful for one of those magical moments that change the direction of my trip, always for the better.

Earlier that day, I had even felt the exhilaration of near-miss, when a man stopped me for a half-hour chat about walking. He was a Santiago di Compostela veteran, a big-time walker and a teacher to boot, my kind of guy, but he was from Cosenza, in the mountains, and there was no chance I was heading up there. Even so, he offered to show me around should I happen to pass through, and I was just happy to break the monotony, as it had been a week since I had met anyone on the journey besides hotel and restaurant employees.

I was listening to Bach's Italian Concerto, lost in the music as a way of tuning out the constant hum of cars as they sped within inches of where I walked along the shoulder, when I spotted a car that had slowed to a stop on the other side of the road. Thinking nothing of it, I nonetheless removed one ear bud, and so heard the man's request for directions.

When you see a man with a giant red backpack and trekking poles striding along your local highway, do you think he's a local, and therefore able to answer your navigational questions? No, you don't. I knew there was another question to follow, the standard Calabrian question "where are you from," accompanied by a smile and a curious shake of the head. I answered, he was surprised, the "what are you doing here" question followed, and before I could react, he had pulled a U-turn on this busy two-lane highway and was now next to me, facing in the opposite direction from where he had originally been heading.

My heart started to beat just a bit faster, not quite out of fear so much as of animal preparation, but I was on the whole very calm. This man had two children in his harmless Peugeot station wagon, about four and seven years old, and was not threatening, just curious. He asked a few more questions, I politely answered, asked me if I was looking for work, I said no, and without skipping a beat, he asked if I had change for a 20. My bullshit artist alarm started to sound, but the children were my guarantee, so I handed him two fives, even though I had two tens in my pocket, as a way of cutting my losses should he drive off. Instead of a ten, he handed me a credit card, and quickly added "listen, I don't have it now, but I'll be right back with it." I demanded my money back, he said "look, here it is, no problems man." He handed back the two fives, and began the story. His daughter, the four-year-old, had hit her head playing, and he needed to take her to the hospital. First he needed gas, but the nearest gas station wouldn't take debit or credit, and he had no cash. However, he owned a nearby hotel, just a mile down the road, and his wife was there. I could go to the hotel, get the money from his wife, wait for him to return, and would be his guest, free food and lodging, and even work if I wanted.

I knew he was lying, but I looked at his son's angelic face, and his daughter, lying face down on the backseat, so I gave him the benefit of the doubt, just enough to test his story. Where was she hurt? Playing along the side of the road (Lie #1). If the hotel was so close, why not drive back to get the money from his wife, who was there? She's in the kitchen, and can't hear me, and I don't have the time (But you have time to ask me questions about my walk? Lie #2). Do you have a business card? No, just my brother's, who owns an auto body repair shop in town (If he's your brother, why would he write his name on the back of the card? Lie #3). Where is your daughter's wound? Show him the wound, son (there's no wound, the girl doesn't respond to her brother's touch, and yet the father isn't that worried. The son shakes his head with a pitiful glance. Lie #4). And yet my stomach turned when I saw these little children, so well-trained by their father, so ready to con a stranger out of a pitiful amount of money. How pathetic, how base it all was, the sniveling, curly-haired Calabrian father, the beautiful child actors, boldly telling lie after lie when the girl's supposedly injured head was actually 100% intact.

"Listen," I murmured, almost whispered "I have not had a single bad experience throughout this whole walk." I was begging him with all my soul, silently pleading with him to move on, give it up, don't destroy these adorable children for ten euros. He all but snarled at me: "you think I would lie to you for such an insignificant sum? Ten euros is nothing, c'mon, you can spare it." I was so crushed, so disgusted, sensing this con artist willing the ten euros out of my pocket.

And so I gave in, defeated, and handed him the ten euros. "On your honor," I said, in my meekness, and limply shook his hand. He repeated his first statement, looked at me with repugnant and indignant eyes, as if I were the villain in this encounter, and as he sped off, I saw his son plastered to the rear window, both palms on the glass, smiling triumphantly at me.

I turned off Bach and walked a mile or so down the road in silence. When I came across the first gas station, presumably the one that only took cash, I asked, out of twisted curiosity, about the man and his hotel. The three or four people gathered around did not answer at first, asking instead "where are you from," and when I had answered the same questions I had answered just thirty minutes prior, I repeated my own questions. They squirmed, pretended to know the hotel and its owner, and I saw them lie to protect a man they didn't know, rather than admit to a foreigner that a Calabrian could possible be a horrible human being. I saw it, drank the glasses of water offered to me as a consolation, and just before leaving, asked one last question to the attendant. "Do you accept credit/debit?" "Sure," he said, and that was all I needed to hear.

The one feeling that dominated as I trudged into town, bag seemingly weighing double, was fear that I would see this car again. I had memorized the license plate after seeing his son in the back window, already smug at seven, and now the adrenaline pumped every time I heard a car approach from behind. Was he coming back to rob me? What lies would he invent now? Taking a deep breath, I fell back on my Marcus Aurelius training to help put a stoic lens on the situation, but behind the tint was the unavoidable feeling of betrayal, not by this petty thief but by humanity. Would I be able to trust anyone again on this walk? What if another car stopped to ask me for information? Would I lose out on all future positive experiences because of the fear of one more bad one?

I took a seat on the boardwalk right as I entered Paola, Calabria, looked blankly at the late afternoon sun, and returned the sullen, distrustful stares of passersby, so tired of these god-damned gawkers lacking all sense of decency as they stared me up and down, but then refused to return my evening's greetings. Fuck you, you pretentious, backward simpletons. You don't know me, you don't know why I'm here, and you don't deserve to know. If you're not going to be civil, then mind your own business.

So I sat, wallowing in my own resentment and fear and shame, when an old man walked by with his dog for the second time in the ten minutes I had been sitting there, and actually returned my salutation. "Where are you from?" I cringed at the same fateful question, but this time I received a different response to my answer. "You're lying to me," he said, and believed it. Taken by surprise, I forgot my worries, proved my American identity with some English, and soon I was playing with the dog and chatting with this old man, who made me feel safe, no longer vulnerable. I asked about lodging nearby, he suggested a place down the boardwalk, and said they were low priced. With a lack of tact that the naive call honesty, I asked for him to repeat his name, and he immediately caught on: "So you want to carry my name to the hotel, eh? Ok, fine, but you have to promise to comport yourself well." "Of course," I said, hand on heart, and I saw his eyes twinkle with compassion and affection.

"My name is Valentino S______; I'm the man who brings the Algida ice cream (Mi chiamo Valentino S; sono l'uomo che porta l'Algida). Have you eaten anything today?" I had eaten two oranges all day, and told him so, or at least without the "all day" attached (no need to start the violins a playin'), and he said to me "stay here. Don't move. I'll be back in ten minutes." I did as I was told, staring back at the sunset, and reflecting on why it was that I had just met the Good Humor man (Algida is owned by Unilever, which also owns Good Humor) at this precise moment, just when I was feeling such anger and frustration.

He came back with a plastic grocery bag held closely to his thin but by no means feeble frame, and with a smile to make ice melt, proceeded to describe the contents of the bag. Two sandwiches sealed in plastic, one of prosciutto crudo, the other of egg and cheese, an apple, a pear, a bar of chocolate, and a beer, thoughtfully opened in advance. So that's why he had held the bag so closely to his chest, I thought, and for some reason that particular detail struck me with a pang of intense emotion. He wanted me to eat, was so happy at my positive reaction to the sandwich, "one of Algida's large product line," and quietly explained why he had me wait on the boardwalk. "You see, my wife is very ill, and she cannot see guests. I must be home to help take care of her, but I need to take the dog for a walk each day, and that is when I get to go out. Please excuse me for my lack of hospitality."

I pictured this conjugal scene, the tender affection with which this lovely man cared for his dying wife, imagined the attention to detail he showed with the opened beer writ large with the love he bore this eternal partner, and I forgave with all my heart the man who had conned me earlier.

"Valentino, you may not know it, but you have reaffirmed my faith in humanity. Something very ugly happened to me just over an hour ago, and I was sitting here feeling very unhappy. Thank you for your kindness." He did not ask what happened, but looked at me in silence, studying my face. "You know," he finally said, measuring each word, "we Calabrians are a difficult people, but we are beautiful in our simplicity and our frankness. If you open you heart to us, we will repay your kindness many times over."

His expression lightened, I registered what he said and soberly nodded in assent, and we said goodbye, as he had to return to his wife.

And I will never forget how I watched him leave, slowly making his way along the crosswalk, under the overpass, and back to his house. Once he was gone, I turned back to the sun, just at that moment disappearing under the horizon, and the sandwich he had given me stuck fast to the giant lump in my throat. I took a sip from the bottle, cold and moist with condensation, washed down the sandwich, and began to cry. I sat at that bench, oblivious to my surroundings, and sobbed like a child, head in hands. Yes, I was releasing those negative feelings, letting them drain out of my soul, far away from me and my silly walk, but the real reason I cried then, and the reason I cry as I write this nearly two months later, tears blurring the pages of my journal, was out of love and gratitude and tenderness for this old man, this bringer of ice cream, and for his darling, dying wife.

I had a good cry on that bench, felt the brisk sea breeze of dusk start to blow, and when it was time for me to stand back up, I realized that I had learned a valuable lesson about trust and attitude and the power of a well-timed act of kindness.

This is, in itself, a story of conflict, anger, resolution, and acceptance, a self-contained, neatly packaged tale, all of it true, and conveniently sized. But I have learned that life does not work that way, and as with this story, there is always more to tell...