As soon as I entered the Stansted Airport terminal, I was transported back in time and to another space – Italy. I wondered if only flights bound for Italy flew out of this terminal. The cafes advertised espressos and Italian snacks and sandwiches. We had already left the UK behind.
It was cold that morning, and it felt like winter was approaching. As I boarded my flight, I was further transported. Clothing circa the 1980s or early 1990s, if I’m being generous. I wondered if I was the only non-Italian (maybe non-Sicilian!) on the plane.
As the plane touched down in Palermo, there was a boisterous round of applause. We had not weathered any turbulence or faced any delays, so I wondered what that was all about. Then another round. Encore. And then a third?!
We deplaned and boarded a bus that drove us 50 feet to a crosswalk. Everyone laughed in union, complicit in acknowledging the ridiculousness of the situation. And as I tried to find a bus to the city center, a hustling woman intercepted me with a sign to go into the city for 7 EUR. And she gathered some more takers quickly. We lounged and congregated. Well, being the efficient American that I am, I immediately boarded while the rest of the passengers seemed to chat and socialize like a cocktail hour outside the bus. The cue was given finally and then everyone filed in. I wasn’t in sync with the rest of them and the etiquette here, I observed.
Palermo is beautiful. The 3000 year-old history of conquests by many civilizations and their distinctness as a people, their pride, can be felt in the air. I felt that I was at the crossroads of many civilizations. I could feel it in the architecture and the toughness, the no nonsense attitude of the Sicilian people. They had an almost Russian vibe (pretend like I know what I’m talking about).
The ochres, pink hues, and stones colored the cities buildings lending to the ambiance of antiquity while palm trees swayed lazily overhead. The dilapidated architecture, some to an extent that seemed historic – ancient – while in other cases, I could see the imprint of the city’s economic woes.
It was Sunday, and everything was closed, like majorly shut down. The streets were empty. Commerce was not happening. As I passed empty shop and empty shop emblazoned with “Saldi!” (sale!) signs in neon 80s font and stylings, I wondered what the city would be like on a bustling Monday. I was content to walk the streets and pass churches and monuments without looking too deeply into the history, just appreciating their aesthetic and making up my own stories.
That night, I finally slept. Crashed. After 3 nights of basically no sleep. When the alarm went off at 7am so I could make it to the terminal to catch my bus bound for Trapani, I was startled, panicked even. It was the first time I’ve woken up to my alarm in years.
“Where am I? Why is my alarm going off? Is there somewhere I need to be? Something I’m supposed to do?”
That’s how you know you slept well.
