I sprang out of bed on Friday like a shot, at 7:15. The alarm may have helped. I had it set to 'obnoxious'.What a week! 10-hour days, trapped in a dungeon, guard and all, working my way to the weekend, both hoping and dreading today's arrival. I planned to mail my receipts off to Phoenix, and ship myself some of the souveniers I had accumulated over the past few weeks, so that I could give them to the kids and whomever else was deserving upon my return. OK! I bounced out of bed, killed the alarm, and had my tea. While it was cooling, I went through my bags to make sure that I hadn't forgotten anything. I sent my contact at home a quick text to make sure that the package would be well-received (no problem). And what the heck was he doing up at 2:40 anyway? I also wasn't sure if the hotel would kick me out when I closed the receipt, so I wanted to be prepared and fully packed in case I had to lug everything around town.
Adrenaline coursing, assisted by the tea-kick, I jumped into the shower, grabbed my pack, gave the room a once-over, twice-over, and screeched to the hotel front desk. Parking validated, I hopped impatiently in the next line, Inglesi [I will use this, it's shorter and less clumsy than "Englishmen/women" or "English people" and less formal than "the English"] eyeing me, like, "Mate, ..." Didn't care. Stuff to do, stuff to do... The checkout line finally parted, and I asked in my best New York accent wheyuh da pohs tawffis wuz. (-eyuh will be my triphthong for that uniquely New York ending of "where", "there", "hair", ...). Naomi tittered behind the desk and directed me to "Doubleyou Haitch Smith" on the high street. I got my sheaf of hotel receipts, made sure of my reservations for next week, was told they would be happy to print my itineraries, and was allowed to stay in the room even after I'd closed it out. What a great group of ladies! I bolted out the door, ran across the street (yes, looking RIGHT, then LEFT), and muscled, huffed, and puffed my way the three blocks to the High Street, backpack full of receipts and tourist crap from Wales, Scotland, and England weighing me down. But not for long! I got to the five and dime and noted the line outside. Dum de dum... I had plenty of time to spare, so I decided to treat myself to breakfast at Starbucks, a welcome change from my typical vending-machine fare at work. Plus, Starbucks is the only place I have found that has actual drip-coffee, as opposed to americano. I usually do the acrid espresso bite of the americano, but I was in an 'American' state of mind today, getting ready to go to the airport, show my passport, and the like. So I pushed through the familiar green-and-brown doors, glanced around the comforting yet plastic decor, noting the bright green mermaid-adorned aprons which clad the college students working the bar. I guess the UK missed the memo on the big apron switcheroo that happened last year, to brown. "Good morning," a friendly but acne-ridden teenager piped up, "What can I get for you?" I ordered a venti coffee and a crumb cake. When I looked in the bag later (outside back in front of the five-and-dime), I discovered that I had received a venti coffee and a coffee cake. No crummies. That's all right. I like both. Sigh.
I ate and drank, quite gauchely, in the American fashion, I gathered, from the expressions of the Cheltenhamians waiting alongside me at the W.H. Smith entry. Well, it's not like I offered them any! Maybe I should have.... I dusted the odd coffee-cakey flakes off my jacket just as the manager was opening the portculli guarding his shop. The crowd bolted (well, an English bolt, more like a riot-in-single-file) in, eager to get their chores out of the way. I, however, knew that I had yet another half-hour until the post office counters opened, so I leisurely (right!) finished my coffee, flung my rubbish in the street bin, and made my way into the main store. W.H. Smith is all over the place in England. Every airport has apparently at least two, every town at least one. I bet they're owned somehow by the "Virgin" conglomerate. Ha! They are 75-25 partners in the Virgin record megastores, just looked it up. Anyway. I wandered about, instantly dazed, trying to figure out why candies were next to asthma inhalers which were next to wrapping paper which were across from different candies. I eventually found the packing supplies. Bubble wrap, ginormous envelope, medium box, tape, ... That's about it! Juggling my goods, I asked a helpful-looking older stockeuse where I might find the post office counter. She directed me upstairs, which had me tapping my foot on the escalator and humming. Oh. Yeah. Whistling and humming does not happen in England. Unless I am around. Got to the PO counter, behind which there were five clerks readying their tills. I asked James, the one closest to the small prep table that thoughtfully was set up before the queue marker, if I might borrow his stapler. He *saluted* me and bowed and handed me the stapler. Oh. Kay. Thanks. Got the receipt packets together, stapled, numbered, bundled, and in the bigass envelope. Taped. Addressed. Done. Onto the goods... I had a 2-foot table for an 18-inch box. Augh! I went into a frenzy of wrapping and packing, bent useless staples, tape unstuck from every edge of the table, popped and pooped bubble wrap, ripped and wrinkled bags, folded and crumpled giftshop receipts, scraps of cardboard from the box panels, the odd teabag or granola bar wrapper escapee from my backpack, all eventually spilling out onto the floor, creating a constellation of pure American presence. I stuffed that box as full as possible, taped the sh*t out of it, wrote my address at the HI and Zyg's address in Palm Harbor in the proper places, in the requisite BLOCK CAPITALS, with my purple-assigned Sharpie. Thanks, Mike, for that.
Backpack repacked with my rubbish, the extra bubble wrap left for the next needy soul on the assembly table, and all my goods' barcodes ready for scanning at the register, I picked up the envelope and box and queued up, behind the four folks who had arrived to witness my pirhouette of inefficiency. James came back around the bulletproof post office barrier to retrieve his stapler, as he was ready to open. I handed it to him, over my forearm with a severe nod, and then thanked him again, with a little bow of my own. I got called by register #5. Cashier #5 seemed like a nice older lady, and she was extremely helpful. I put the postage for the envelope (airmail, about 3 GBP or so) on the work cc (yes, a swipey card, but she was all over it after a little tutoring from the supervisor). Well, that was 20 minutes I'd never get back. We chuckled about how long the computer took and the fact that she had to walk across the back of all the other cashiers, down to Cashier #1's station to mail anything in a POST OFFICE. On to the box! I weighed it (3.6 kilos). My goodness! Cashier #5 wasn't sure if she could even mail something that heavy. Let's see... 10 days, no. 15-day? No. Ah, we can send it by sea. It would be 6-8 weeks, and about 47 GBP. WHAT????? The time didn't really bug me, because I wasn't going to be home until April most likely, and wouldn't see the girls until a week or so later, but $75 to mail about 8 lbs? At the longest/cheapest? I don't even think there was $75 worth of stuff in the box! One fourth the weight was due to things I'd appropriated gratis like guides, ticket stubs, etc. She assured me that if I kept it down to 2 kg or less I could ship the smaller parcel for 21 GBP, but faster [Still 42 GBP for my 3.6 kilos worth of stuff]. WHAT??? I'm pretty sure that US Mail ships 4 lbs for about $15 overseas. I know I sent a friend in Germany a 4-lb box PRIORITY for about that, not too long ago. Oi veh. Just charge me, #5. No big deal. And walk over to #1's station to do it. I escaped from the WH Smith and made my way back to the hotel, somewhat relieved. That's 8 lb less stuff I have to figure out how to pack in my bags! Got on the Internet and emailed the front desk my documents to print [Don't ask why I had to do it this way]. I went downstairs with my luggables, got Zoe to print out the confirmation documents, and I was off! On my way out, again!
The drive to Stansted Airport felt longer than it should have, but it went pretty well. I got petrol in Cheltenham before I left, and although I had to go through Oxford to get to Stansted, I resolutely routed around the town because I didn't want to spoil my experience the next weekend. The radio and traffic kept me nicely comatose for the 2 1/2 hours it took to drive to the airport. I got to Stansted reasonably early, about 1:45 in the afternoon for my 4:15 flight, but I figured better early than late. Parked in Pink Elephant (long-term), the pre-reservation worked well, took the shuttle bus to the terminal, and parked myself at Caffe Ponti with a nice hot bowl of pancetta and bean soup, a BLT on honeygrain bread, and a coke-zero. Good enough. I figured I wouldn't be eating until about 10-1030 *if* I could find any food (Scotland arrival and the Burger King 'meal' haunting my GI system). I got my boarding passes, then wandered around Stansted looking for a couple of silly pins for the Chucks. Eventually, 2:30 came around and I went through security, running my pack through the xray machine and giving the attendant my plastic baggie with the toothpaste, deodorant, mini-mouthwash, dayQuil gelcaps, and emergency asthma inhaler. All went smoothly. I was half-anticipating a disaster. I'd read the horror stories about Ryanair on the Internet review site and just winced whenever I looked at the Departures monitor. Sure enough, I saw Palermo flash yellow and go to a 15-minute delay... Oh, wait! It went back to normal! Hm. I went through the international departure area (no attendant at the UK outgoing border, surprisingly) and made it to my gate, with plenty of time to spare. I queued in the Non-Priority-Q area, near what appeared to be a group of Sicilians! Ha. Let's see if I can describe this without playing into stereotypes.
First off, we (people of Mediterranean ancestry) tend to have a far darker complexion than most of the Inglesi I have seen and met. So there's a clue. If you are in England and see a group of Caucasian people who are significantly darker than most of the others you have seen recently and clustered (packed) tightly in a group, you might assume they are of a Mediterranean group, or at least a group familiar with the idea of close contact. If you know about cultures, you might guess they were Greek or (southern) Italian. I think that's reasonable. Second, of course, if you are familiar with it, you would recognize the Italian language being flung back and forth, with the aid of hand gestures where appropriate, between members of the first huddle, from the first to the second, from the second back to the first, from the first via the second to the end, from the end to the people at the vending machine 15 yards or more away, ... Wow! At least it sounded like Italian. With a few twists, maybe, softer 'g's and a little more elongation on the vowel sounds than the audio course I'd had, which was a little 'clipped'. But the elongation could have been an exaggeration due to the excessive volume. I was sure I'd find out. So I was in the line, between cluster 2 and cluster 3, in amongst the fair-skinned folk of Winter, who had a great deal more space between them. Even queued.
I observed the groups in turn and was pleased! I thought ahead to my forthcoming sojourn with these intimate, passionate people, moaning about soccer and children and parents to (apparent) strangers, and felt a little fuzziness spread over me. Whoohoo! Behind me in the line was a pink, blond girl (about 22), and behind her was a dark, short older lady, who seemed to be fuming about something. She placed her hand on the young girl's shoulder and demanded "Scusa, dovelagented'lbiletto?" I have never seen a more panicked person in my life. She went from pink to transparent green. The older (Italian) lady crinkled her frown into what was supposed to be a smile and repeated the question a little slower, a little more formal, and with some accompanying hand gestures: "Dov'e 'l'agente del biglietto?" I sort of understood the first time, and I definitely understood the second time (Where is the ticket official). I sort of shifted my feet: "Signora, gli agenti non sono qui adesso. Deve aspettare. Le posso aiutare?" It wasn't quite right, I don't think... But she got it. Wow! My first Italian words not to myself or in text form! Yay! She decided I couldn't help her, and followed my gesture to the front desk. She demanded something of me, and it was a LONG sentence... I thought from context she was asking me whether I would hold her place in line when she went to talk to the Ryanair people. I asked her to show me her ticket (Non la capisco, ma ... per favore, fa vedere il suo biglietto a me). I saw the 'Priority-Q' stamp on it, so I motioned her to that place. I had to point at the words on the ticket, and then at the sign and (very short) line for priority boarders. She grinned and arrivederci'd me and the girl and sashay'd over to the other line. It looked like she ended up next to another Italian lady, so they talked for a while. Well, that went well. "Um, don't speak Italian?" I said to the younger girl. She replied "No, not a bit." It turns out that Henny (whose name I got a little later on) was off to visit an Internet friend in Palermo. She'd gotten a school break and decided to cave in to the Italian charm (OK, I'm making that part up). Seriously, why not? It was a great time of year to get the hell out of Germany, which is where she was from, so seemed like a good plan to me! I told her so, and I also complimented her English, which was way better than mine. That seems to be a pattern in Europe. Everyone speaks English better than me. I also realized I can't hear German accents, they're too natural to me. Thanks, Dad!
We eventually boarded the plane, on time, more or less, and got seated. I ended up next to a couple of English ladies, on holiday together. They'd been to Sicily before (Palermo), and decided to go back for a second shot to Corleone and Siracusa for their 2-week holiday. Neat! The lady in the middle seat regaled me with stories of her trips to Kazhakistan (she'd just gotten back) and the U.S. for her work. She also gave me a few pointers on dealing with H.R. (yeah, so watch out, work!) because that was her position. And I remember neither her nor her companion's name, which is a real shame, because they were both truly lovely conversationalists. The lady in the window seat toyed with the idea of ordering a Ryanair pizza (which both the lady in the middle and I chastised her pretty roundly for - we were on the way to ITALY). Eventually, there was a lull between the Kazakh stories and my Alaska and Cheltenham and France stories, and I fell asleep. I awoke as we were 'nearing' the Palermo airport, or so the announcement indicated. Descent was fine, landing had a very loud ripping squeal come from the front landing gear, as well as a tremor and shake which rocked the plane. But it was ok after about 10 seconds, and we trollied up to the gate. The flight attendants prepared for debarkment in short order. We filed off the plane, and as I stepped off the ramp onto the airport 'ground' (runway), I felt the familiar tingle and rush, a little more pronounced than usual. This wasn't just a new, different place, this was a special place.
Shuffled across the border (another tingle saying 'grazie' to the guard!!!), stamped and herded through the gates, I continued on through the 'Arrivals' area of the Palermo airport. I looked for signs saying 'Pullman' or 'Autobus', which would direct me to the fastest, safest, and cheapest (!) way into town. I threaded through the multitudes of people hugging, kissing, and crying on each other as their long-lost relatives came home at last. I mean, it had probably been *weeks* for most of these people. Drama drama drama. Hahahaha. Now I know where Mom got it from. A little sadness bit me just then. I had no family waiting to see me on my arrival. I'd never met any of that side except my Aunt, toward the very end of my mom's life, and my Great-Aunt and Great-Uncle, near the beginning of my life. I sighed and passed a hand over my face. Ah well, the insistent signs (in *Italian*!!!) directed me out the door, past the taxi stand, down a very dark sidewalk-alley (a little creepy!), and into an area with a couple of benches and a list of times. I had 'lost' an hour flying, so I looked at the bus times and checked my watch, and saw that a bus would be here pretty shortly. Hooray! I sat on the bench, enjoying the warm weather (probably about 60 degrees F). Oh crap! I don't have any money! Dammit! I ran back to the terminal, cursing the currencies in Europe. How did people do this before the Euro? Then I chastised myself... I have made some pretty strong statements regarding the demise of culture in Europe as tied to money - no more franc, no more lire, no more mark, ... soon, no more pound. All right, grumble grumble... I ran in the arrivals level and looked around, no ATM! Up the stairs to departures... Damn! Damn! Hey, there was a girl in the information booth... 'Scusi, Signora, dov'e la machina de... non so la parola! Di ... ehrm ... soldi?' She smiled, 'C'e un bancomat.. BAN-CO-MAT.. li, li.' She pointed at a softly glowing red "Banco Sicilia - Bancomat" sign. Yay! I breezed through the menu and got some funny-money - Ha! I didn't see a notice of a surcharge, so I just grabbed the cash and receipt and ran back to the bus stop, almost bowling over a couple of Inglesi along the way. "Scusi! Prego!"... Up into the bus, 5.60 euro to the driver, I stumbled on 'centi' (cents, also 'hundreds'). I wanted to use Fritalian 'centimi'. Hee hee. Money money money. The plural of 'cent' in Italian is formally 'cent', according to the official currency site. Ah well. I got on the bus and plopped down next to Henny. The middle-seat lady came on and plopped across the aisle from me. Window-seat had decided to take the train instead of the bus. We had a couple of interesting conversations with middle-seat's bus neighbor, at the opposite window, who was an American au-pair working in Sicilia, and we talked about Henny's small home town in Germany. Nice quick ride. It was very dark, so there was nothing to distract us from the conversations. We started making stops, eventually, after about 30 minutes (it's 30 km or so from the airport to downtown Palermo). My new au-pair friend mentioned that since I was hungry (I had mentioned it, twice), I might want to get off at Piazza Politeama instead of Stazione Centrale, because the theater district would be a better source of food, or partying if that was what I had in mind. Ha! I assured the ladies that I was going to get some food at a decent hole-in-the-wall (hopefully!) and leave the partying to others, or to a longer stay. I didn't want to lose 3 hours the next day to a hangover.
We pulled into the P.za Politeama stop, and middle-seat, au-pair, and I bustled out of the bus, the ladies getting their bags from the undercarriage - nothing stolen. I bid them adieu (arrivederci) and they wandered off, one to the west, the other across the piazza for the next bus. I gazed at the Teatro Politeama for a while, it was lit pretty well from the street and the few roof lights, the horses coursing out into the night sky, definitely a presence in the Piazza, but I definitely wanted to see it during the day. Turning southward, I followed the au-pair's suggestion, heading along via Maqueda, toward downtown. Sure enough, not more that 5-8 minutes later, I came upon Teatro Massimo. Wow! Massimo indeed. The thing was huge! Opera must be a BIG deal around here, pun intended! I don't think it was as big as l'Opera in Paris is, but man! The way it was offset, and the curves of the building, under the soft-amber/golden lights. It hulked and gracefully arched at the same time. I was going to learn that that was a hallmark of Palermo - its paradoxes in architecture. Breaking myself of the trance, I continued an alley or two further south, and picked a suitably dark but well-populated one, with chairs and tables spilling out into the streets, gelato-eaters and wine-swillers raucousing up the evening. There should be a good place down this one, I thought. I knew what I was getting. In Italia, pizza, primo, presto. I kept walking, passing a few likely suspects, and then an open kitchen. An old dude shouted 'He, signore! Volete mangiare
The pizza arrived, and Edouard ran off to the kitchen, mealtime done. He had mentioned that they should be picking up very shortly with the after-opera crowd, and the boss (maitre d') was tasked with waiting for some kind of delivery. Uh huh. I dug in, knifing and forking it. A 12-inch piece of absolute perfection. Chantrelles, buffalo cheese, sweet red pepper, red onion, tangy blackish/purple olives. That was it, and not much of the toppings or the cheese. The crust was well-done, almost black on the edge. Heaven. Unexpectedly thin - I had been told to expect focaccia in Sicilia. And this was thin as a cracker, but pliable and chewy under the crispy. Oh my gosh. I was *sad* when it was gone. I ate the crust. I would have eaten the crumbs. I finished my second glass of wine and poured myself the half remaining. "Posso?" I realized he was motioning to the now-empty plate. "Si, si, puo, grazie, signore." I felt goooood. About 10 minutes later, I went exploring for the dude, because I needed caffe and gelato! He was still pacing around outside, looking down the alley very anxiously. "Scusi, signore, posso otenere del dolce?" He turned as if struck. "Prego, prego..." He dragged me back in by the hand, lightly tapped it, and sat me down. He asked me what I would like. I asked for gelato di cioccolata and un caffe doppio. He nodded and dashed off, no yelling, came back in like 45 seconds with both. I did like a double take and was too stunned at the speed to even say grazie. He ran back to the front. Okay... I ate the gelato. Not so great, it had some ice chunks in it. The caffe was excellent though, perfect offset to the wine and a good kick to get me moving. Which I did. I tracked the man down again (not too hard to do), and saw that some guests had arrived in the front, two tables worth, about 4 each, in the past 10 minutes or so! I told him I had to go, and the pizza was wonderful! He nodded and gave me the bill, unfazed that I had to chase him down. 20 euro, even. I was a little suspicious at the 'even' part, but paid and tipped 20%. Why not? Overall, great success! I grabbed my pack, buona notte'd the new guests, silently wishing them luck with this odd, but mostly-nice guy. I hoped his 'delivery' was a success. Back to the Teatro!
I had read on the Internet that one does not hail a cab in Palermo, one goes to a taxi stand. Since I was not familiar with the bus system, and I am somewhat familiar with the way cities work, I figured there was a taxi stand at the Teatro Massimo. Sure enough! After a suitable 5-minute awestruck dumbness at the majesty of the thing, I found a likely dude leaning up against a minivan, smoking. "He, ciao!" I said, picking up on the lingo (he was ok with it, evidently, probably gets He'd all day). I asked him "Quant'e per l'Holiday Inn?" He told me, 16 euro. I gnashed my teeth internally. I had figured it was about 2 or 3 km to the HI. OK, ok... I'll splurge it. "Bene!" "Bene?" he asked, sort of shocked. He let me in the front and I clambered on in, tossing my pack in the back. He started off in Italian, then after a glance in the mirror, saw the French pin on my bag. "Tu parles francais?" he asked excitedly. Sigh. Yes, and English too. We talked mostly in Italian with a few French words thrown in. I learned Inghilterra, and stumbled over his 'doppo' (after, but he defined it as 'apres'). It was a great ride, mostly him quizzing me about the US and England. I told him he must look me up when he got to Disney World, and gave him a card. Marco, nice guy. He gave me his email and phone in case I needed a cab later on in the weekend. Ciao! He got a 20 from me.
Finally. I stumbled graspingly into the HI lobby. Buona sera! Confirmed my reservation, got the key, denied the breakfast... I did ask if 15-20 euro was reasonable for Teatro M to here. The clerk said it's usually 15 during the day, 20 at night. So I did ok. Relatively. I buona notte'd my way out of there. Got into the room and slammed/bolted the door and plugged in/turned on the computer. Wifi, no problem, perfect! Email check, quick call to the girls...
"Guess where I am? Oh... you guessed."
Ha. A good good day.
Album link: Facebook "Sicilia - Mamma Mia!"
[GJF: Written 4 Feb 2009.]
I still think it's a great read. :) We (six) truly are all living vicariously through you! Go Gerhard, go Gerhard, go! Go! Go Gerhard...
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