Blast from the Past

From an old journal during my trip to Sicily. May you find it as entertaining as I do.

26 Feb 02

So there I was in La Valle dei Templi. A bit of a red-faced morning since I got on the bus just as it pulled up in Agrigento meaning that I had to wait for 30 minutes. Numerous people came up to me asking if this was the bus for the Temples. “Si.” And where do you buy a ticket? “A la stazione.” All the while I sat there, my pockets empty of any sort of ticket. I never needed a ticket before. Buses in Italy seem to work on a sort of honor system. That is, most buses. Eventually, the bus driver boarded, followed by various people all having tickets in hand. Oh, I’m a real big schmuck, I thought. When he asked for mine, I said dumbly, “Oh, non posso comprare uno qui?” No, you idiot, you already told half the people on this bus that they had to go to the station to buy one. He sort of rolled his eyes and with a dismissal of his hand told me to go to the bar in the station. Right.

But I ended up in the right place. The Valley of the Temples. A name such as this conjures up so many images, doesn’t it? None of which completely met my expectations. In my closed-eyed fantasies, my mind stirred up images of towering columns of half-washed away marble, young flowers shooting out of long ago excavated tombs, soft amber light falling on ruins, people’s houses built long before Christ. I imagined myself running my hand along the partially eroded human sand castles, my intuitive mind somehow tapping into the lives that were led here so long ago.

The columns were definitely there and so was Giuseppe. “Una groupa? Una groupa?” No, no groupa. Definitely no group. Uh-oh. “Lone woman! Lone woman!” I could practically hear the radar going off in his round head. Everything about him seemed round. I suppose it was the combination of shortness and, well, fatness. Let’s not be eloquent here. He certainly wasn’t.

He had been in the middle of eating a panini when he called out to me. His mouth was full, bits of white chunks lodged into his teeth and moist whiteness wedged into the corners of his mouth. He followed me even though I clearly said I wasn’t with a group (nor did I want to be) and continued talking to me in his thick Sicilian tongue. Thick both in language and unswallowed food that seemed to be fermenting in his mouth. How is it possible that it takes a man 10 minutes to swallow one mouthful of food?! Maybe he has a salivary gland problem.

He was mildly interesting. He told me about some of the temples we walked past. I understood enough of his Italian to be slightly engaged. And then, of course, the conversation strayed into that same dull place it always does when a man is so uncreative in his wooing tactics. So when were you born? You like pizza? You like dancing? Let me take you out dancing and for a “bueno pizza,” digging his pointer finger into his cheek and twisting it everytime he said, “bueno pizza.” This gesture made me laugh with its childish ridiculousness. Bad move since he got the impression that he was amusing me. Even when I said I understood him, he frantically gestured and repeated the same things over and over again. I know Agrigento well so at six I will pick you up and we will eat a “bueno pizza.” The finger again.

I must admit that I silently contemplated the idea. Hmmm. A night alone with a possible bottle of wine or going out with this slightly irritating man for a “bueno pizza?” No finger this time. Wine? Pizza? Wine in bed eating chocolate, reading a good book or sitting across the table, having to watch this man eat and talk at the same time? Just as my decision seemed clear and amidst Giuseppe’s perpetual questioning (sounded more like an irritating buzz at this point), the round man farted. Loud. I heard it. And immediately following it, he began clucking. Just like a chicken. The round man had turned into a farting chicken. No, no, no, I will not go out with you and have a bueno pizza. Thanks but no thanks. Okay then, niente. I’ll see you, he said. Probably not.

And you think the story’s over but it’s not. Not yet. I did see beautiful temples. I ran my hands over them and placed a flower in the grotto of a ruined stone formation in blessing for a friend. I saw empty tombs and crouched into one where I smelled piss. Tomb turned outhouse. I wandered through flowers, as the strong wind raced across my face and through my clothes. It was all very beautiful and somber. And then I was finished. Tired of fantasizing. Tired of walking. Somewhat tired of having only myself with whom to share thoughts.

I went to buy a bus ticket since the old one had expired by ½ hour. I could feel this man’s eyes on me. The radar. The look. Not again, I thought. I can’t even play along this time. Can’t answer his stupid questions. He came up to me. “Che bella!” One rotten tooth came at me. His hair was slicked back and he had gunk in the corners of his eyes, like he had just woken up and only thought of slicking back his hair with greasy pomade. He touched my face and came close. I grumbled something in English. Pointless, I know, but I couldn’t concentrate on anything other than the fire burning in the pit of my stomach and my blood vessels that felt on the edge of a great big messy explosion. My grumblings got louder and I started pacing back and forth, him following close behind. Where is that goddamned bus?! “Do you like dancing?” “Nope.” “Do you like beer?” “Nope. I like the bus. That’s the only thing I like.” After what seemed like years, the bus pulled up and he followed in his little black car. And when I got off the bus, and when he got out of his little black car, he had this strange look of triumph, his tan jacket whipping around him.

* * *

Looking back and reflecting on this particular experience, I am reminded of the vulnerability that often comes with being a solo female traveler. I remember being on guard, always aware of my surroundings. I also remember putting myself in situations that were not so safe but seemed fine at the time. Like the time I went back to Paolo’s place in Nice. It was just he and I. The door was closed. He started massaging my hand and I immediately became aware of all exits. What would I do if he tried something? He wasn’t a big guy but still…Luckily, he was a total gentleman.

And then, there are moments of absolute random kindness. Like the time I was walking down a street at night in Kumasi. God, I loved that city. I was so thirsty. And just as I thought this, a man passing me offered me his bag of water. Few words were even exchanged but there we were – two strangers passing on a dark street at night in West Africa and there was only beauty between us.

I have certainly been blessed in this life and still am. The web we weave really is quite extraordinary. I was thinking yesterday that in my massage practice alone, I have literally touched people worldwide. It was such a powerful thought and realization. And we can all do just this – practice kindness every day, even in the most challenging situations. That is where the real practice lies.