Sicilia, pt.1

I spoke with FL from the waiting room at the Palermo airport, 2 hours before my flight to Venice was to take off. I had been sitting in the same chair for 3 hours, too weak and achy to even occupy my time in the airport shopping area, or eating over-priced panino in the café downstairs. “If you still love me when I get off this plane,” I told him, “we’ll know this is the real thing”. He said he had no doubts, but I was not so sure. My right eye was suffering from some sort of tree-bark-dust infection, the redness so bold that the sclera of my eye was almost purple, the bay leaf green of my iris obscured by bloody dots. I seemed to have caught some sort of cold, most likely from exposure to icy rain and days of working in soggy tennis shoes, that had rendered my nose a bright red and the rest of my broken-out, bug-bitten face a soggy, pale white. My eyebrow tweezers were nowhere to be found and the hair on the top of my head had reached a state of total unrest, twirling up in peaks and horns and slept-on lumps. The hair on my legs, unsatisfactorily shaved with dull razors and unpampered by conditioning lotions over the past couple of weeks, scraped itchingly along the inside of my jeans, which were too tight over my bloated, starch-ripe stomach. And I stunk.
Generally, in physical states like these, of which I find myself from time to time, I am not only achy and weak, but grumpy. This time, though, I was only pensive, and a little sad. Excited to go home, of course, but just the tiniest most joyfully bit heartbroken. It was the sort of heartbroken that comes at the end of a wonderful time and place; specifically, a time and place that one consciously knows can never be entered, experienced, or even reenacted, again.
Thus was my trip to Sicily- unexpected, glorious, victorious, peaceful and beautiful. Dirty, but beautiful.

This trip had been planned for months. This summer, while suffering through my Biology for the Scientifically Incontinent class, I had kept my spirits afloat by browsing the WWOOF list and day dreaming of all the far-off places I could roam to as soon as my damned college degree was completed. Though I had heard tales of WWOOFing down in Southern Italy- tales of uncivilized, unlivable conditions and dangerous quarters in balmy, stinking Palermo- I was nevertheless charmed by the idea of harvesting olives. Learning to make olive oil had always been a goal of mine, and I figured that surely, if chosen carefully, a kind and comfortable farm was to be found. I found a safe haven in the name Eleanor, or Eleonora, in Italian. She was a woman in the middle of Sicily, the WWOOF list said, who ran a large olive grove for the production of oil, which was then shipped and sold in a number of countries. Her family owned and worked the land, and they needed help during the months of harvest, October and November. I wrote her and she wrote back promptly, offering me a place upon the conditions that I understand the hard work involved, and the rest is history.
It was only to be a 2-week trip, an easy jaunt with the guarantee of a safe return. FL dropped me at the Venice airport early that Thursday morning, sent me off with a kiss, and I put my travel-adventure face on. The flight to Palermo was painless and beautiful. I saw Capri out the window of the plane, a shining black rock in a silver sea, tiny specks all around that I could not distinguish between sailboats or the shadows of clouds. The airport in Palermo is positioned to inspire awe- it sits on a tiny flat of rock between the sea and a huge looming mountain, giving one an obvious prayer to utter: that the pilot be divinely guided and precise. It is always such a relief arriving in new and exotic places, and I always remember my exact emotions in my memories. For Sicily I was giddy and nervous and led by my nose and my growling stomach. I wanted these desserts that I had heard praised immediately, I could not wait to EAT! Flashbacks of all those movies, books and stories based in Sicily and on the Sicilian people flooded my head and I almost laughed out loud. How exciting! What a trip for the books, already! Someone with a nametag that read “Falcone” came up and offered me a “personal taxi” and I almost squealed and hugged him. Falcone, Corleone, Battaglia- these names have shaped my pop-impressions of a culture and a people that I could only dream of and imagine, and here they were, in person!
Palermo left to-be-desired first impressions, though I had tried to leave any expectations at the door. Dirty, loud, impoverished. I had booked a B&B for one night close to the train station, and as areas like that are notoriously dodgy I knew better than to assume that all of Palermo was like that, and well enough to trudge directly to my B&B, not waste any time loaded with luggage on the streets. The B&B was like an oasis, not at all what I had expected from the filthy puddles of urine and par-for-the-course wailing of Sicilian women and their small children at street level. Painted warmly in orange, cozy common area accommodations and a travel-book-lined shelf, I was greeted by an adorable man named Claudio. He showed me to my room- another one of those gems with the shower built in next to the bed- and proceeded to sketch on a map of Palermo all the Do’s and Don’ts. Restaurant recommendations, important sites, shopping, and all of the ancient markets. My trip around the city that night was brief and lovely- a glass of red wine here, a small sampling of something sweet or savory there. I was in bed by 10 pm, prepping for a couple of weeks of hard work. Despite some octogenarian in the neighboring apartment who was suffering from some sort of advanced lung and throat disease whose wall-shaking coughs and throat clearings woke me at the crack of dawn, I slept well. I was packed, clean, and ready for my journey by 9am, enough time to stop by the internet café and check any last minute emails.
It is at this point, as I am not only in Palermo but checked out of my B&B, that I received the email from Eleonora asking me to wait another 4 days to arrive. Some nonsense with the house being under construction, she says, and could I just wait around and sight-see for a few days? Realizing immediately that this is not a good sign, I call her and tell her no. I do not have the money to “sight see” in Palermo for four days. Not only the date of my flight and my arrival has been planned for over a month, but the actual train that I am to take has been planned: Palermo to Villalba, 1:10. So I’ll help build the house, I’ll cook or clean or whatever she needs me to do, but I’m coming.
The train left Palermo on time, and the ride out was gorgeous. The sea to my left was shining, and as the train tipped precariously on it’s side I caught a full glimpse of the rocky coast. We turned right after a bit and began heading inland. It was pouring down rain, and all around the land began to transform itself into what seemed one solid wall of rock and soil. The darkness of the clouds gave the air and ground a grainy opaqueness, and green, brown, and yellow merged together to form mountains and peaks, old ruins and the occasional muddy road. The effect became quite staggering, especially as I disembarked at my stop- Villalba- and found the train station completely deserted. There was no station to speak of, actually, just a closed, dark building and a cement bench. Dead pigeon littered the ground menacingly, and as I looked all around at the panorama, I realized that I was miles and miles away from even the nearest house.
An hour after my arrival, after I huddled under the cement alcove to protect myself from the rain that was falling in violent sheets, I got a text from Eleonora, who explained cryptically that a “worker” would come pick me up, and that she would see me tomorrow. This was news because, you know, I thought I was going to Eleonora’s house, and what and who is a “worker”?
This question was almost immediately answered by the honking of a horn, and a sweet looking guy who came loping over to my fort, taking my suitcase and running it quickly through the rain to his car, before even introducing himself or asking if I am the person he was sent to retrieve. I imagine in these parts of Sicily, a girl sitting alone at a train station with a suitcase is enough of a description as one needs in the retrieval department. I was clearly out of place, in need of passage to warmer, dryer housing. His name was Michele, and he was, in fact, a “worker”. When I asked him what kind of work he did, he replied, “Whatever there is”. During the good 10 minute drive to the farm, he eyed me kindly, but suspiciously.
Finally, he asked, “but what is it exactly that you do…to be here?”
I explained the WWOOF program a little, but I could see that it confounded him.
“You do this work for free?” he asked.
Yes, I replied, I do it in order to learn.
He was silent for a minute or so, before saying, “but you know that there is nothing here”.
Yes, I replied, that is what makes this fun.
We pulled up to the house as the clouds parted. It was a long stone structure, obviously compiled room by room over a period of time. The roof was charmingly uneven, and even the materials from one piece of the house to another had visible age differences. There was a garden around front, and to the side a splendid little building covered in vines and prefaced with pots of flowers and a stony walk. I could not see behind the house, but I had already glimpsed this during the drive: nothing. Absolutely divinely nothing. One of the doors opened, and there stood one of the strangest looking men I had ever seen- he seemed to be swimming in his clothes, which were clearly well worn if not plain filthy, his collar bones jutting out of the neck hole of his sweater. His blue eyes were huge in his sunken, pale face, and wisps of thinning blond hair stood straight up on top of his balding head. Even from a distance I could see the cracked hands, finger nails black with earth.
“Hullo”, he said, in what I was absolutely not surprised to hear was a British accent.
He introduced himself as Christopher, and it became obvious that he was “in charge”, at least while the family was away.
Following him into the house, which was cozy and small, I was accosted by his stench. Unwashed clothes, for sure, and the smell of unwashed flesh. He needed to be dipped in a bath of hot lye, the top layer of his skin needed to be discarded, his clothes needed to be burned. I managed to keep my voice gracious and chatty, covering my nose with my coat when his back was turned, breathing down into my sleeve, whipping my hands around my back when he turned to face me. He had this weird way of looking at a person, almost as though his head was too heavy on his thinned neck, like a dinosaur, like it required strength to stand up right, so that he slouched and looked out under hooded, heavy eyelids, his body sort of swayed. He seemed nice enough.
Christopher showed me around the farm, which was a truly beautiful place. There were big prickly pear cactuses, and a special tool used to get the fruit without letting it touch your hands. Pomegranate trees grew beside the house, and sage and mint grew wild in patches. The house was old, but comfortable, and a shelf in the kitchen had a row of wonderful Sicilian cookbooks, hand drawn and sketched. The view out to the olive groves was impressive: hills filled with rows of olive trees, 300 hectres, I believe. One could not see the end of it. Each tree was planted by hand by the mama, Rosalina, about ten years ago. I had a hard time even comprehending the magnitude of that. A little further down was the walnut grove, almost too far to see clearly. In every direction mountains peaked and hills rolled. The colors were magnificent, but bold, masculine, confusing the eye. I could not tell if I was seeing a valley or a town or just a shadow, I could not judge depth. It felt like being on the moon, I felt utterly detached from the world, as though I truly had no point of reference for where I was.
Christopher vaguely explained the situation with the family: they had spent all summer remodeling their house, had counted on it being done in August. As it is Sicily, August turned to October, and the house was still not complete. The family all had lives in Palermo, jobs and such, and they traveled back and forth when they could. And Christopher was here because…finally getting around to that question, as he had been saying “we” and “our” and all sorts of things which left me utterly confused about where I was and whether these were Sicilians or Brits we were talking about, he told his tale. He had come to this farm last autumn as a WWOOFer, had met Laura, one of the daughters, had fallen in love, gone back to England, cleaned out his desk at his office in London, and had moved back to Sicily in February of this year. As Laura’s boyfriend he stayed on the farm and held down the fort while the family attended to their other professional lives in the city.
He was quite obsessed with his personal tale, I gathered, having assessed already the character, mannerisms, and quirks of the Sicilians as though he had lived here his entire life, or was in fact Sicilian. This sort of thing bugs the hell out of me. As an anthropologist I am convinced that a person cannot possibly go to another country, into another culture, and fully understand or become one with the people, not even after years and years. People and cultures are fundamentally different. We can all live in peace, we may all love the same things and agree on the same values and even be the best of friends, but no matter how many times I visit a city, I will never claim to know it. No matter how long I live in Italy, I will never be an Italian. I know Marietta, I am American. Every other place, all people in the world outside of this, are, for me, to be observed, respected, and comprehended, but never cheapened with the insulting idea that I have anything to do with them fundamentally, that I know them. I don’t ever want to! That would take all the fun and allure out of things. I value the complexity, fragility and beauty of culture too much to try and pull this crap. But I bit my tongue and listened to him droll on and on. He seemed nice enough.
Late that night the mama, Rosalina, and the daughter, Laura, arrived. They seemed sweet and kind, kissing my cheeks and making sure I was comfortable. We passed a quiet, lovely dinner together- pasta and fresh tomatoes and zucchini from the garden, so fresh and simple- and I fell asleep about 10pm. It was absolutely silent. No sounds, not a stir. The moonlight was so bright I had to shut the blinds. I slept soundly, wondering what the next days would bring in this isolated, iffy yet beautiful place.