And just like that. Well, after 24 hours with no sleep, greyhound buses for nine hours from Piedras Negras to Houston, an Atlantic crossing, nine hours, a five hour wait at the airport, a flight to Palermo, another three hours, and we are finally in Palermo, Dani’s hometown. Whew!
And what a place it is. This is where they blow up judges who dare to prosecute the Cosa Nostra or shoot wayward politicians who have the audacity to try to reign in the mafias levies.
Its busy here, vibrant, sketchy and alive. People are friendly, though not entirely welcoming. It’s just not in their nurture. Always be suspicious is their mantra. Newcomers are treated with a certain amount of disdain. The Italians have an air of superiority about them. After all who else can cook pasta or wear chic clothing like they do?
It’s chaotic, random and run down. Ancient Buildings crumble and I wouldn’t trust half of the balconies. You’d think the Roman’s might have taught them something but unfortunately that isn’t the case. Corruption and mafia influence doesn’t make for great construction or architecture.
It does have charm though. At least the people aren’t crumbling. As always the Italians dress to impress. Stylish and cool. If only they spent such effort with their buildings. It could be incredible but the legacy left by countless invaders has long been forgotten. Left to erode in the mists of time. All the most ancient buildings huddled between flaking concrete monoliths squeezed and oppressed into submission, which, though ugly, does make for an interesting place to amble.
Unless you get hit by a car of course! They are everywhere. More cars than people it would seem. There are just too many in a town that wasn’t designed for half the quantity. Double, even triple parking is the norm. Get to where you’re going and just stop, you have arrived. It’s hectic and hilarious. I don’t know of a more inherently self serving race of people than the Italians. The road, along with everything else, belongs to them and to hell with everybody else.
Then there are the up and down looks. Checking out ones dress sense establishes ones dynasty. Mine must be odd. Shorts and T shirt and sandals in the rain? Obviously not from around here, worthy of a little extra of that reserved distrust. I would expect nothing less. I just don’t fit. I’m not from these parts.
At least we didn’t invade them though. Or did we? Everybody else seems to have had a go at some time or other. Evidence of the Sicilian provenance is everywhere. Buildings betray their various cultural heritage. You just have to look closer and you see the signs. Roman, Greek, Ottoman, Norman, they all came through at some point and made it a staging post for various rampages. Even the vikings ran amok here. It is a fascinating site for an archaeologist.
I love it. It’s a fantastically random concoction of cultures cooked to couture perfection, slightly hard round the edges, al dente, like the pasta, but once bitten it is a very easy place to swallow.
