Sicilia, pt. 5

The next morning we rose at down. I had wondered the night before if our “sleeping on it” would bring a change of heart or any fears to the surface, but we all got up and packed our suitcases without a word. It was settled.

Over coffee, we discussed calmly and quietly what we would say to Eleonora. We wanted to be as diplomatic as possible, as “adult” about the situation as we could be. The thing to do, it seemed, was to sit her down and get this out before everyone left for the olive grove. I was going to tell her calmly that we weren’t happy, that we had decided to leave, but that

a) we would be happy to work through till lunch, harvesting all morning in exchange for a ride to the train station
or,
b) we would be willing, if necessary, to stay a couple more days in order for them to contact other WWOOFers as back-up

Christopher came into the kitchen, letting out an exasperated sign immediately upon arrival.
“aaahkay,” he began, in his best Sicilian-in-charge tone, “we’re going down to the grove now. You lot should follow us when you are ready to begin.”

“Actually,” I said, “we wanted to talk to Eleonora for a minute.”

“uuuugh, really? Baah, ok,” he sighed, as though I had just told him the car battery was dead or the hot water heater had exploded.

The four of us giggled as he left, taking bets on Eleonora’s response. The options varied from her throwing a tantrum and kicking us out immediately, to her putting on her sweety-sweet manipulative huggy face and trying to talk us in to staying. She came in to the kitchen, and immediately let us know that neither of those things were going to come to pass.

“Well, ok,” she started off quickly, “we are going to harvest now and if you want to come you must be ready-

“But actually, we wanted to talk with you for a-“

“No. We do not talk here, we work. The weather is getting bad and we don’t have time for this. If you want to work, come, if you want to leave, leave, but there will be no ‘talking’.”

She walked out the door with a mild slam.

Marianne, Chris, Zoe and I locked eyes, shrugged, and went to get our bags.

All packed up, our shoes on, we stood for a moment collecting ourselves in the front yard. There was no one but the mama, who came outside and asked, “You are leaving? Was it so bad here?”

I thanked her for everything and told her goodbye, not even opening that can of worms. David and Tomasso, who were going to stay, came out and gave us all kisses on our cheeks and wished us well. I gave David my email and told him that when he gets to civilization and had a chance then he must write me, in detail, the look on Eleonora’s face and the aftermath of this mass exodus. He promised that he would record it all as well as he could, and skipped off loopily to deliver the news of our departure. It would be something along the lines of a pleasant, “Well, they’ve gone”, I knew, all British and in manner of guests taking their leave after tea. Priceless.

With that, we took one last look at the house, and walked away.

There we were, on the long, deserted road to a train station in the middle of nowhere. Clouds hovered threateningly in the sky, and the only noise was the sounds of our shoes on the pavement and our rolly suitcases rattling along behind us. Chris took up the lead, with his boyish, easy-going energy. Zoe and I filled the middle, and Marianne, who had packed as though she were moving to this country and was loaded down with a suitcase full of electronics and a backpack, gallantly took the rear.

Intermittent giggles and rehashes of recent events would burst from us every now and then. We felt wonderful, brave, and finally free of that weird place. Though we were void of even the slightest clue as to where we were going and what we were going to do, we didn’t fret. It seemed that together, as a mish-mash team, we could use what forces each of us held to handle any situation.

The walk was long, and sometimes it sprinkled. Cars full of Sicilians drove by, honking and waving and craning their necks at us, obviously crazy foreigners, but no one stopped.

Two hours later, our wrists broken from pulling, poor Zoe and Mariannes’ backs wretched from carrying, we reached the train tracks. A line of cars was waiting for a train to pass, and in classic Italian fashion, windows were rolled down and people emerged from their vehicles to inquire as to who we were and what, exactly, we were doing. I explained in my best, most polite Italian a brief clip of the situation, that we were workers on a program who had come to Sicily to learn about olive oil. We were currently on our way to Palermo, and yes we know that it is Sunday, we just thought that a stroll to the train station 4 hours before the next train arrives would be a pleasant, morning thing to do.

We reached the Villalba train station, still deserted and covered in dead pigeons and colorful bullet shells, and set down our luggage with a relieved permanence. We had quite a wait, but at least we could sit. Suddenly, the family that had been in one of the cars talking to us came round the corner. A mother, father, and pretty young daughter, they wanted to inquire more about this “working the olive harvest” thing. I explained that we would work and learn in exchange for room and board, and food.

“Well we have a farm,” the wife said excitedly, “and a new house with a beautiful kitchen! We would be happy to have you with us, we need help starting next week. There is room for four, you could help us harvest and then be our guests. It would be fun and we would all eat very well!”

I translated to Marianne, and her eyes welled up with tears.

“I knew we did the right thing,” she said.

I thanked the family, and we exchanged numbers. With promises to keep in touch for whoever needed work the following Sunday, we bid them goodbye and our spirits rose. What wonderful confirmation, it was proof! There were kind people here, people who both needed the help, and wanted those who came to do so.

Feeling confident now, I asked for Marianne’s WWOOF list. There were a lot of farms in the Sicily section, and we read down the list marking with a pencil those that requested workers for the harvest, and those that seemed to be able to take a number of WWOOFers into their homes. We were in four, and we were not going to split up until every one of us was in a good, safe situation. My biggest issue was the idea of spending too much money having to pay for lodging somewhere while I waited till my flight left on Friday. I could travel if need be, if there was no other farm, but I really would prefer to find somewhere nice and safe to settle down for the remainder of my days in Sicily. There was too much more to learn about olive oil, and such a short period to see some of this island to go home immediately. But at least I had a home to fly to. Zoe was scheduled to arrive at her next farm in Umbria in a couple of weeks, but until then she was on a whim. Though she was blessed to have the option to return to her previous farm in Tuscany, she wanted to see more of Sicily, too, preferably without paying for two weeks of food and lodging. Besides, two weeks is a long time for a little girl to be roaming around Sicily alone. And Chris? With no other plans, no contacts in this country, and no grasp of the language, he was sort of at a loss. Not at all worrying, cool as a cucumber, I knew no matter what that he would be fine. He had one of those outgoing, confident, honest personalities that made me sure that his cards would never be down, not in his life. Still, though, we were gonna stick together till everyone knew what was what. And for that, we needed the right farm.

The first one I called was kind, but only had place for one WWOOFer, so that wouldn’t do. The next farm on the list sounded promising. They were two brothers, one an agronomist the other a chemist, who harvested olives for oil to use in beauty products- lotions, make-ups, and the likes. It was in a town not too far, and they advertised as having space for 6-8 WWOOFers at a time. I called and got a guy named Fabio on the phone.

I told him that we were a group of four who were in need of work and lodging. I said that we had just left a bad situation, and that we needed a place to go immediately. Also, I told him, we have olive harvesting experience.

“Oh, that’s great! We need help right away. Can you arrive tomorrow?”

I literally ran back to the train station (I had had to walk a ways up the road to get cell reception), a huge smile on my face.

“We have a farm!” I said gleefully, “We did it!”

Next was to find a place to rest our weary heads in Palermo. Having still the business card of the bed and breakfast where I had stayed the first night, I called sweet Claudio back to see what he could do for us. I told him that we were in four, and would be eternally grateful if he had a place for us. He offered us his master room, and told us that he would make it up for four people at no extra charge.

Our wait for the next 3 hours was tranquil and without worry. We were set. Christopher bounded up and down the tracks collecting bullet casings and Zoe artfully lined them up in a domino line. Marianne read and told us some of her fun life stories, and I took brisk, tiny walks up and down the road, ipod on, thrilled with our little adventure.

Starving and feeling all out of sorts upon arrival in Palermo, a panino was eaten and a beer consumed immediately. Happiness and normalcy returned. I led them to the B&B, suddenly nervous as my apparent position as tour guide. I hoped they liked the place, and weren't took freaked out by the grimy, downtown Palermo atmosphere of the quarter the B&B was in. We climbed 5 flights of twisty marble steps up to the apartment, the walls appearing unfinished but in reality just decaying. The door opened from the inside, and there was our gorgeous savior, Claudio. I heard Marianne take in a little breath behind me.

The B&B was as cozy and as clean as before, happy orange walls and tapestries, high ceilings. Claudio took our luggage and showed us to our room. It was huge, and blue, with a large bed and two twins. Two balconies overlooked a giant apartment on the other side of the alley that was intriguingly under construction and wide open, and a view down to the tiny street showed shops and locals going about their business. The light was right, it felt like a too-good-to-be-true refuge. We all breathed sighs of relief, and Zoe came up and gave me a hug.

"Thank you for bringing us here," she said. I was thanking my stars, as well.

The water stayed hot long enough for all of us to take a long, well deserved shower. The beds were comfortable and the room big enough for us to all open our suitcases and reorganize after our swift departure. Claudio, unbelievably kind, located on the map for us a nice restaurant and other points of interest. He swore that there was to be no pasta and tomatoes on the menu.

"He is a beautiful man," Marianne remarked more than once, and I wholeheartedly agreed.

Scrubbed clean and pretty, Chris in his polo shirt, me in a skirt, Zoe in some fancy pants, and Marianne with her lipstick on, we looked whole again. Our first date was with a glass of wine, and we strolled the dark streets of Palermo till we found the perfect place. Brightly lit by chandeliers, with a huge bar full of classic Sicilian sweets and deserts, the cafe was also one of those gems of Italy that had happy hour: order a glass of wine and feast on a variety of free snacks. We gorged ourselves happily on stuffed fried olives, tiny pizzas, and trays of arrancine- a Sicilian tradition, a fried rice ball stuffed with meat or cheese. The free food wasn't even enough for us starved epicures, so we ordered seafood salad with giant citrus-spiked pieces of octopus, and the most delectable, indescribable piece of chocolate hazelnut tart/cake-thing that any of us had ever had. We took turns with that one, each of us passing the plate and taking a bite, fainting with felicity.

After this rejuvenating evening, feeling back in sorts with a system full of wine and sugar, we found ourselves in a gorgeous, old part of town boasting a number of restaurants. Sunday was a quiet night, so we had our picks of private, quiet patios. We chose a restaurant and ate like gluttons, considering our meal of snacks just before. A little more wine was drunk and meat was consumed. Food was a passion that we all shared, and the reason that we were here in one way or another. The conversation, therefore, was always lusty, always tasty. Dinner ended and, instead of throwing down and making a ruckus as we had so dreamed of doing on our boring, silent nights at the farm, we decided that it was time for sleep. 10pm, and we were wiped out. Bellies full and confidence in our feats secure, we went back to our haven of a b&b and fell right to sleep.