So, perhaps in part of my own search for "roots", I always had a burning desire to get to Sicily, my own personal “motherland”, pun intended. Being in Paris put me that much closer, and I finally bought a plane ticket. I could only go for a weekend, but my extremely friendly relations there encouraged me to come whenever and I decided to make it happen, or so help me!
I rose at THREE THIRTY A.M. to catch a taxi to Porte Maillot in Paris, to a shuttle bus to Beauvais airport outside of Paris. The upside of all this travel misery is that my tickets were dirt cheap.
On the way I chatted with the guy next to me in French. We quickly discovered that he was learning English and I was learning French so we spoke, him in English and me in French, to practice. He was from Senegal, and had left his country and his parents to try and pursue a career as a musician. He was on his way to Italy to visit his brother. We hit it off pretty well, and ended up sticking together at the airport. I checked in before him, “Après toi” he said. I waited for him, and when he came back I could immediately tell that something was wrong.
“I can’t go.”
“What?” I asked, startled. “Why?”
“They want thirty five euro to check my bag, and I don’t have it.”
I immediately had a flashback to the previous summer, when I had a similar situation with Ryan Air trying to charge me ridiculous fees for my bag; that’s how their tickets are so cheap. They have absurd regulations and charge outrageous fees for them. I had ended up boarding my flight looking like a sumo wrestler because I wore several layers of my own clothing to save weight in my bag.
Sidy was visibly upset. He went back up to the check in desk, and then went outside. I found him out there with his bags open, trying to decide what he could part with and what he could consolidate. He sat back on his haunches, and looked up and me. I saw the same look of frustration and desperation that I knew I had had as I padded myself with layers upon layers of clothing the summer before. He sighed. “I asked if they would take 25 euro for it. That’s all I have. They said no.” He stared into his bag as if it would pay for itself.
“So you can afford twenty five?” I asked.
He nodded.
I pulled out the ten euro bill I had in my wallet, and held it out to him. He looked up at me incredulously.
“Are you serious?”
“Absolutely.” I said.
I’ve been on the receiving end of more random acts of kindness than I deserve. I just told him to pay it forward someday.
The rest of our time together he referred to me as his guardian angel, and said that our sitting on the bus together was an act of fate. Me? I have no idea. I just know that I happened to have the money on me, and wasn’t hurting for it at the time. That and I just traveled across the Atlantic to see the love of my life thanks to the kindness of the people in my life. My first time in Paris, I never would have found my way without the kindness of a stranger, and DeAnna wouldn’t have made her flight to Spain without the kindness of yet another one. It felt really good to finally pay it forward.
On the flight he told me about Senegal. How everything is “local” and “organic” by default because they simply don’t have means for it to be any other way. How there is no need for retirement homes because people take care of their families. How people prepare extra food for dinner because it’s common for travelers, neighbors, or family to stop by. So, in exchange I got some insight into a different culture that I never would have learned about otherwise. He also gave me his last copy of his single, which cracked me up. I made him sign it for me. Call it naive, cheesy, whatever, but those are the kinds of experiences I live for when I travel. I think it’s really unfortunate when people travel far away from home, stay in a hotel with all of the comforts of home, and remain tragically separate from the local people and culture.
So, I left my new friend Sidy (who I actually got an e-mail from yesterday!) in Milan, and found my gate for my connecting flight to Palermo. Using my suitcase as a pillow (getting up at 3:30 AM was getting to me); I was getting some shut eye when I was startled awake by loud, raucous singing. Confused, I sat up on the hard airport bench, to see a large group of drunken football (not the American kind) fans at the airport bar, singing loudly in Italian, patting each other on the back, and grinning. It became clear after three more inebriated renditions that I was not going to be getting anymore sleep, but luckily it was almost time to board anyway. Surprise, surprise, my drunk “friends” were on my flight. I sat in the front, and the crew was debating about kicking them off when a female flight attendant ran up to the front screeching “One of them just licked my hand!” The male flight attendant who had checked my ticket as I boarded looked at me and said “in the States, they’d already be in court, eh?” They sure as hell wouldn’t have been on board anymore, that’s for sure.
Much to my dismay they were allowed to stay onboard, even the hand licker. It made for an interesting flight. As soon as the “Fasten Seatbelt” light was turned off they were out of their seats, talking loudly to each other, rubbing each other’s heads and other strange drunken signs of friendly affection.
Ignoring them, I watched out the window as we flew over the blue Mediterranean. I could see the white caps of the waves, and as we began our descent and the plane dipped to the right, I finally saw Sicily for the first time. I was floored by the thin coast, and the beautiful cliffs jutting out into the blue water. The green of vegetation led into the majestic mountains that made up the middle of the island. I was glued to the window as we landed. I was literally the very first one off the plane.
At this point, I started getting really nervous. I had talked with Enza Maria and Giuseppe online, but I really didn’t know them at all aside from they were really nice and enthusiastic (because they used a lot of exclamation points!!!!!) and that my uncle promised they would take good care of me. I stopped in the bathroom to see how horrible I looked after four hours of real sleep (suitcase sleep doesn’t count), and a day of travel. Not bad considering the circumstances. I squared my shoulders, took a deep breath, and walked into the airport.
There they were, waiting. We recognized each other instantly. There was a whirlwind of big smiles, greetings in English and Italian, cheek kisses, and totally unexpected emotions. I found myself choked up to finally be here, on this island, where my great grandparents were born and had lived, where they had left to find a “better life” in America. Everything had come full circle and my tear ducts reacted before my brain could.
Fortunately, before I became a basket case they whisked me off into the car. I sat in the back with Melania (seventeen) and Federico (eleven). Enza Maria sat in the passenger seat and Giuseppe drove (a Ford, interestingly enough!). Enza Maria is the only one who speaks English. The kids studied it in school but weren’t fluent. Sitting in the back of the car with my distant relatives, staring up at the mountains of Sicily, floored by the fact that I was actually THERE, I heard a familiar song come on the radio. For those of you around my age, it was Eamon’s hit single from when I was in high school, "F*** It (I Don't Want You Back). If you don’t know the song, let’s just say it’s a ridiculously vulgar break up song that I hadn’t heard in years. Uncensored. And loud. And I was the only one who could understood it, judging from the head bobbing that was going on in the car. It took all of my self control not to laugh. At least it cured my basket case problem.
The weekend flew by. They showed me their bright and warm apartment, and I shared Melania’s room. The first night I played Wii with Federico, and then we all went to dinner at Enza Maria’s friend’s restaurant. It was fantastic. This was the beginning of a pattern I would see throughout my time there: Everyone knows everyone in Terrasini. Enza Maria was greeted warmly by several people, and had to go and say goodbye to the owners of the restaurant before we left.
THEN, they took me to a café near their house, and we got dessert. I couldn’t say no, I was in Sicily for God’s sake.
The next day they took me to breakfast. I wanted to be polite, and asked Enza Maria if I could pay for breakfast. I will never forget her response. She looked at me as if the answer was obvious. “That is not possible.” she said, and smiled. And it was apparently not possible for me to pay for anything during my time there. I was really glad I had at least brought them a gift from Paris when I arrived. Then, they drove me to Palermo and showed me the old part of town that was heavily influenced by Turkish invaders. The architecture was beautiful.
I toured a lot of churches that were beautiful in a completely different way from the ones of Paris, and in fact, made the cathedrals of Paris seem a bit sparse. They were covered in mosaics, usually made of mostly gold, and in some of the most intricate detail I have ever seen.
Then, after lunch, they took me to Bar Aluia (my mom’s maiden name), and I got a picture outside. 
Then we walked around the new part of Palermo, and saw the theatre where the orchestra plays. There were horses and carriages among the cars. It was such a beautiful and charming town.
This was the first time I had ever experienced a language barrier, and to be honest it was a lot harder than I could have ever imagined. I could talk to Enza Maria, but sometimes I could tell she didn’t understand me, or wouldn’t tell the others what I said. My Italian was limited to what I picked up that weekend, and you can only say “Good!” and “Beautiful!” so many times before you start to feel like a parrot. I felt a little stuck in my own head that day, being unable to really express myself. It was really frustrating because Giuseppe was so nice, and I couldn’t just walk up and talk to him if I wanted to.
Later, Enza Maria and I dropped Federico and his friend off at the movies. It was the tiniest theatre I had ever seen! We inevitably ran into more friends, and one of them was complaining he had tried to see a movie twice and it was sold out both times!
Then, we went to get a pizza. I was really excited about real Italian pizza. We went to a place where of course, she knew everyone. There was a tiny Italian man who asked her about me, and tried to ask me if I knew his relatives in Detroit. He was adorable, kind of like a tiny BFG, and I hated to disappoint him.
We got to watch our pizza crust be tossed, topped, and then thrown into a wood fired oven. I have to be honest, it was really the best pizza I have ever had. The perfect crust, the fresh and flavorful sauce, and the authentic mozzarella cheese were all unbelievable. Together, it made for an unforgettable pizza experience that I cannot properly describe in words, and this picture really doesn't do it justice, but here you go.
Giuseppe had me try a couple of his favorite beers with it. The kids were out, so the three of us sat around and talked about life as Enza Maria translated, and got to know each other. Then, Giuseppe got out the rum.
He poured us each a shot. We said “Salute!” like they taught me, and I tossed it back. For the first time Giuseppe said something I could understand: “Wow!” I realized he had sipped his shot, and immediately blushed. I tried to lamely explain, “Sorry, I just graduated from college…” but he cut me off by finishing his and pouring another. Uh oh. I think he had the impression that I didn’t drink hard liquor because I couldn’t finish my Limoncello the night before (like lemon flavored gasoline), and he realized he had underestimated me. I was just happy to be communicating with him on any level. Four shots, a rough but rewarding conversation in “Engliano”, and lots of laughter later, Enza Maria cut us off. “We’re going for a walk!” she announced. I giggled and put on my coat. You might imagine my surprise when we headed for the car…hahaha. Then they drove me around Terrasini, and showed me important parts of their community. They showed me where my great-great grandfather, Matteo Aluia lived. All while cheesy old American songs like the Spice Girls played on the radio. It was a pretty unforgettable night.
We finally ended up down by the coast, and stopped the car. We sat inside for about fifteen minutes before I finally got the courage to ask Enza Maria if we could get out and go look around. She was starting to say no when Giuseppe asked her what I said. When she told him, he said “Si!” and jumped out of the car, and I scrambled out after him. We walked along the edge of the cliffs (don’t worry, there were guiderails!) and watched the blue seawater crash against the coast, listened the sound of the waves, and smelled the salty sea spray. It didn’t last long, but it is one of my favorite memories of my trip.
The next day, Enza Maria took me to see their new house. Giuseppe is an architect, and designed it himself. It is absolutely beautiful! We went to breakfast at a café in the main square of Terrasini, and once again ran into friends of hers, and as we ate our beignets and drank our coffee, they came up and said something in Italian, blew us a kiss, and walked away, while Enza Maria shook her head. I asked her what they said and she told me they had paid for our breakfast.
She told me that community was very important in Sicily. “Sometimes, it’s hard to know everyone so well.” She said. “But, it means you are never alone. It’s very important.”
This is a new concept for me, after not only moving around several times in the last few years, but having moved between two major cities in the last year.
She further proved this by taking me to her work, on her day off, because it was one of her co-worker’s birthdays. That would NEVER happen in the U.S.! I loved it. They sang “Happy Birthday” in Italian and I got to eat a piece of FANTASTIC pistachio cake. Everyone was so nice, and told me to come back soon. One lady even grabbed my face and said “Bella!” Hahaha. I loved it.
Then, Enza Maria had arranged a tour of the museum in Terrasini in French for me. I learned more about Sicily’s sea based culture. There are carts that proprietors would use to carry and sell food and other goods, and they would paint them to show how rich they were. I noticed one painted in black and white, and it featured a huge black octopus with each of its legs strangling a man. In French, the tour guide explained that it represented the Mafia. I asked if the Mafia still exists in Sicily. I could tell she didn’t want to answer me, but said “Yes. We don’t like it, but what can we do?”
We headed back home for one last lunch together. Enza Maria made amazing creamy salmon pasta, and a slew of Sicilian side dished and salads. I loved helping in any way that I could, and seeing her and Giuseppe cooking together. Then, it was time to go to the airport. They drove me, and walked me all the way to security. We stood around and talked for a bit. Then, to my surprise, Enza Maria’s eyes started to glisten, and she told me it was time to go in a choked up voice. Which of course made me get choked up. I gave them all hugs and thanked them for everything. They stood and waved until they couldn’t see me anymore. I am so lucky to be touched by their unbelievable generosity. I really hope I can make it back to see them again someday.
