Sicilia, the end

 Sweet Fabio (I had already decided he was sweet based on our first telephone conversation. The kindness in his voice, his enthusiasm and most of all his immediate willingness to accept 4 total strangers into his house on less-than-24-hour-notice told me so) asked if we could take an early afternoon bus out to Sciacca. This afforded us a morning of sightseeing in Palermo. We woke early for four kids as exhausted as we were, but our internal clocks had us set to the hour of the rising sun. At 8 we roused ourselves to the table in the living room of the bed and breakfast, where Claudio had set out our colazione. A croissant, yogurt, juice and milk, butter and jam, and, most spectacular of all, American-style coffee were served. Couple this with Claudio's Morning Musical Selection, Dr. Dre, to kick things off, and our moods were set on "jubilant" for the rest of the day.

The four of us walked through the chaos of downtown Palermo in search of Ballaro', the famous market. I had seen it, but the others hadn't, and since we were all obsessed with food this was the perfect morning activity for us all. Ballaro' is set up on one long, windy alley, connecting the dots of tiny piazze. Stands of all types are set up in rows along both sides, and one must weave and duck and spin to catch everything there is to be seen without crashing into little old men playing accordions and big fat men shouting Sicilian gibberish at the top of their lungs and slinging still-struggling Mediterranean fish onto mountains of filthy ice. There were baskets of snails, dauntlessly trying to make their escape up and over the side, only to be flicked cruelly back down to the bottom by the callous forefinger of a filthy, happy merchant. Walls of marzipan in the shapes of fruits and animals and historic buildings ran colorfully. Local cheeses and cured meats of all varieties were layed out by men who smoked cigarettes right above them, the ash flying perilously over the food as customers bantered for the right cut. Cows' tongues flapped in the wind and pigs' feet stood apathetically detached from their former selves. Sheep sawed in half hung on display, the innards wet and coiled and hanging admirably in place as though they were not in the body of a warm, recently massacred animal but made of plastic, sculpted only to instruct a group of biology students on the inner workings of the body. I wondered if they had run toothpicks through the back of the bodies to hold everything together. These things did not disgust me in the least. What did disgust me were the salt-cured fish, anchovies and baccala. The stench is rancid and made the sides of my throat water dangerously. I didn't think anyone would mind me vomiting in a place like this, but i rushed by these stands as fast as possible with my shirt over my nose just to be sure.

The alley takes a long time to walk from one end to another, and as we inspected a display of beautifully cured olives- dark and bright, some with rosemary, some salted with giant, pea-sized rocks of salt- music rang out from somewhere down the road. It was a parade of sorts, a marching band, brass instruments and drums and flutes, you name it. the band made their way through the alley to one of the piazze, where they set up shop on a tiny platform and played their hearts out for us. A miracle that we were there to see this.

Around noon we split up- Zoe and Chris used the internet, and Marianne and I had lunch. A selection of local cheeses, grilled mushrooms, a panino with eggplant and a slice of lasagna. It was a heaven-sent lunch, and we felt fortified for our journey to come.

1pm and we found ourselves running late and scrambling to get our things, pay for the room, and exit the B&B. 10 minutes before the bus was scheduled to depart, I was running around like a chicken with my head cut off through throngs of traffic trying to find the right ticket office- of which there were far too many- to buy our bus tickets. Right as the bus was ready to depart, we boarded. Settled in for our 1.5 hour journey, we each took adjacent window seats and breathed a sigh of relief.
The ride out to Sciacca was spectacular, and we grinned and our hearts beat faster as we rode along, each of us knowing that such beauty was a sign of good things to come. Bright green hills reached up to silver mountains, rows of vineyards ran as far as we could see, and giant windmills dotting the peaks of mountains. At certain points we could look out and see the sea, bright blue. I heard Zoe gasp.

We arrived, happy and excited, and immediately were retrieved by Fabio. He pulled up in a tiny little car, his cute face peering out the window, eyes wide and amused with the sight of all of us and our luggage, as though he had only just realized that 4 travelers was a lot to deal with. I looked at the car and thought, oh shit, there is no way we are all gonna fit in there, but Chris, being the sweet boy of the group, left-brained and gentlemanly, immediately started stacking our luggage in like pieces of a puzzle. We squeezed in like chickens in a crate and were off, the back of the tiny car dragging a little with the weight.

Fabio spoke English, was cute as could be with his badly groomed mustache and cashmere sweater, and was just so nice. A bit flighty, a bit rattled, definitely a scientist, he drove us out to his house, which was not too far (thank god) from the city of Sciacca. The road to his house was gorgeous! Rocky and white, it was lined on either side by stone and an aqueduct-style irrigation system. Inside this frame of stone was a lush grove of aged olive trees, the grass green and lush and waving in the wind, bright dandelions sparkling angelically, their ghostly seeds swaying up and down with the breeze. The olive trees were stunning, their trunks old and twisted, the limbs heavy with olives. There were apple trees and kaki, a wonderful orange fruit that has the consistency of jello, pomegranate and unripe oranges.

We pulled up to the house and were just overcome with gratitude. We couldn't believe how gorgeous everything was, how comfortable the house, how perfectly everything was working out. We could see the sea from the top balcony.
Energized and eager to please, we worked long hours that afternoon in the olive grove, cutting back old brush at the base of the trees that probably had not been touched in years. As night fell, Fabio called us in for dinner. Exhausted, we all split a small beer and waited on his brother to arrive with the food.

A little while later, his brother did arrive. He was pleasant and gracious to us, and I had this nagging feeling that I knew him from somewhere. Impossible, I figured, since I didn't know any Sicilians. Put it out of my head. Over dinner, we were going around the table explaining who we were and where we came from and how we had all found ourselves together, and it got to me. I said, "well, I studied abroad in Udine..." and blah blah blah, and suddenly Alessandro looked at me wide-eyed.

"Wait. I met a girl once who was going to Udine, to study the wine. In Rome. It has to be you."

I looked at him startled, disbelieving. What? When?

"It has to be you," he repeated. "There can't be more than one American in Friuli, it would be an impossibility, we have met! I remember you now!"

Slowly I started piecing things together...Roma...this face...

"We went out in Trastevere, I believe."

"Oh my god! We did!"

It all came back! Alessandro, the sweet Sicilian who took me out around Trastevere during my very first two weeks in Rome, the night the Greek (with eyes like chocolate milk) stood me up. Unbelievable. This is the link to the blog I had written about him: http://sheconsiderslightandheat.blogspot.com/2008/09/i-just-had-dinner-of-pork-tenderloin.html

By the end of this little reunion we were all laughing hysterically and saying how bizarre and small this world is and how fated this all was and embracing each other as "an old friend". So funny.

To close out this fantastic first night, we were offered "the shot of the year". Alessandro, who turned out to be rather hilarious and zany, also in manner of a scientist, constructed the shot of some sort of rum and a flaming tangerine. He offered it ceremoniously to Zoe by biting one end of the tangerine and instructing her to take the other half. We were all standing in the kitchen with the lights off, flaming rum on the table, this was a huge production, and Zoe was laughing so hard she could hardly stand. Alessandro waited patiently, explaining, tangerine in his teeth, that it was certainly better when one had an orange- tangerines tended to be rather small- but that Zoe must take it or she would lose the full effect of the "shot of the year". We were in stitches, not only because Alessandro was ridiculous with a tangerine in his teeth, but because he was offering it to Zoe, who, we knew, was the last person to engage in something of this manner. She was bright red in the face and collapsing with giggles, refusing to take the tangerine from his mouth, and he just stood their earnestly, babbling as best he could about the "full effect". Was a wonderful scene, and tied the evening out perfectly.

We worked so hard all that week. The land was cleared of brush and the harvest began. All of us worked together so well, and knew, at this point, the edges of the puzzle pieces that had us fit together so well. Each of us liked certain teas, had certain ticks, could be counted on to laugh at certain humors. It was nice. I think we were gracious and eager guests, and we were blown away when our "thank you"s were met with "no, thank you!" Our escape from the previous farm had been justified, we were where we were supposed to be. We were well fed, happy, relatively dry, and thanking our lucky stars that we had been afforded such an incredible adventure in our lives.

I left that friday bright and early. I am terrible at good-byes, so they were fast and light-hearted. A big hug and a kiss on the cheek for everyone, "thank you"s all around and promises to keep in touch. It's a wonderful thing making new friends, and being in a position to do so. I feel like I learn a lot about myself in these situations. One can reintroduce oneself to oneself by introducing oneself to others, if that makes sense. When this trip began I had no idea who I would meet. I am blessed to have known these people, to have experienced this with them. One puzzle piece less or more and we might not have fit.

As it was, we were just right.

Link to Sicily photos:
www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2840397&id=4913936&l=eb73653af5