Day 2: Acireale

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February 23, 2008: Acireale, Italy

Waking to the sun rising over the Mediterranean, seeing the oranges glow in the tree above me, and the dew sparkle off of the bright green grass, I can't help but smile. Sicily is finally offering a greeting I can enjoy, not the soiled hand that was extended yesterday. The smells, the sights, the realization that I'm at the start of an exciting trip lifts my mood as I walk through the wet morning grass and to the overlook 200 feet above the shoreline. My morning routine offers a certain comfort in its familiarity. The oatmeal is filling, the shower is warm, the clothes are clean, and the... OK that's weird, the toilets have no seats; but the toilet paper is two-ply so that makes up for it. I begin my first full day in Sicily energized and ready to explore what wonders it offers. Though apprehension still lingers in the back of my mind as I recall the hill used to access Acireale above me. I do the math: no shoulder + windy road + Italian drivers + holy shit, the bus comes this way! (kudos to the driver though) = 150 pounds of American cat food. But I didn't come all this way to sit at the campsite.
Cleaned and refreshed, I make my way to the front desk to inquire about the sights and any place I could pick up information regarding what to do with my bike. Plus, this gives me a chance to practice my Italian which, as I discovered yesterday, is severely lacking; and practice I did. The conversation went as I expected: poorly. I tried my best to speak and understand Italian, but in the end most communication was made through the timeless art of hand signals and body language. The front desk was bustling as I stood there flipping through my Italian-English dictionary. A man arrived selling rolls and pastries, of which I was offered a few. Despite my insistence to pay, his insistence that I not pay won out. A French couple were checking out, and an Italian woman rode up from her bungalow, ready to start her day. Still engrossed in my dictionary, the newcomers conversed all around me. The woman at the front desk, apparently feeling bad for the poor American who can't navigate, told the Italian woman (whose name escapes me) about my situation. Without hesitation she offered to take me into town and help me out.
Away we go in her Mini Cooper, up to the train station to see if we can get some information. In keeping with the theme of my travels, no clerk up there had any real information for us. So we say the hell with that and drive back to Piazza Duomo, the center of town. At this point I figure we're going to walk around town and take in some of the sights, but she leads me down an obscure alleyway and into a door I didn't even notice because of the construction. Brochures and posters that adorn the walls betray the nature of this out-of-the-way place: a travel agency. Apparently we didn't give up on finding some information. Despite the less-than-stellar help I've had at previous help desks and information booths, my hope held out since this is a place of business with a vested interest in not being as uninterested in my questions as possible. As luck would have it I was right. Not only was I right but there was a woman there (Gina) who was raised in New York. The quick, and completely understandable, conversation left me with many questions answered, many concerns assuaged, and the rest of the afternoon spent not searching through my dictionary for the right words.
At this point I find it important to mention part of the conversation that took place between myself and Gina: "Is there a luggage car where I store my bike, or is there enough room in the car?" Never having been on a train before I felt this a valid question.
"Is it a fold-up bike?"
"No."
"Will it be in a box?"
"I have to disassemble it everytime I want to ride a train?"
"Yeah. There isn't room on the train for an assembled bike." At this point a strange mix of feelings ran its laps around my head: Feeling number one consisted simply of "eep!". That melted into a sense of confusion over how I could have missed such a vital piece of information in all my months of research beforehand. Finally, I was left with a longing to kick in the throat the man who wrote the information about taking bikes on trains in Europe. All of these quickly fizzled as I decided to make the most of it and find out what my options were. As it turned out, shipping the bike back home would cost more than it was worth. After returning to the campsite late that afternoon I had a serious talk with my bike. Amid its confused looks and tearful pleas I calmly explained why it would have a chance to become better acquainted with Italian culture, at least whatever culture exists below the waist. Seeing as I spent the better part of a week in Sicily, perhaps the second day was the wrong time to break this information. The rest of my time was filled with nervous niceties and trying to avoid its awkward glances-lesson learned.
Music has always been a big part of my life. From an early age our house was filled with music; whether it was my mom teaching my siblings and I to sing Joan Baez or the Beatles, or my dad playing his favorite Chicago album, music has permeated my life. It was only later on that I truly gained a passion for it when I began to seriously learn how to sing and play the guitar. Being able to meet like-minded people through what music scene exists in my home town has certainly fueled this passion. It was only as I walked around Acireale with my guide that I began to think about why I enjoy music so much. This came about when she asked what sort of music I liked, to which I wasn't sure how to reply. For a novice to the Italian language it's hard to convey "As long as it's done well and with feeling, it's good in my book," but I did my best. She proceeded to offer me her MP3 player to listen to a few of her favorite Italian artists. This is ska, I thought to myself, and it's done really well. I couldn't understand what the singer was saying, but that didn't matter, I could understand how he felt when he wrote the song. That's when it hit me: music is universal. No matter where in the world one goes, music is understood. It's a constant: something we all share and can appreciate. There is so much that can be expressed through music that transcends any barriers language happens to construct. Lyrics are a big part of music as well, but truly good artists can convey their emotions without them. How many people enjoy operas without knowing a word of the language it was written in? There was something reassuring about spending the day with someone who enjoyed music as much as I, and who seemed to understand that I didn't need to know the words to appreciate the song.
It's funny how the mind works. Sometimes it wanders through a thought like an old man strolling through a park. Other times it sparks like a lightning bolt and runs it course in a second, without yielding any of its potency. I experienced the latter during my musical revelation, as thoughts flooded my conscious and spun the wheels, giving the poor little hamster in my head quite a workout. Before we had reached the end of the block, contemplation was done, the hamster collapsed in exhaustion (Wake up! I still need to think), and we continued our exploration of Acireale.
Walking through Acireale carries with it some very serious hazards. Besides the obvious traffic issues and blind alleys are the abundance of intricately constructed balconies that accent most buildings. On the surface these appear relatively harmless, but one has to be careful to not spend too much time looking up at such wonderful displays of craftsmanship, for the sidewalks are narrow, the foot traffic heavy, and the poles spontaneous. Without too much damage to my pride, or face, (damn poles) we wander around enjoying what Acireale has to offer.
The architecture in Acireale is unlike anything back home. The whole town is awash in Baroque buildings--a product of rebuilding efforts after a massive earthquake in 1693. From the buildings around Piazza Duomo, to the many basilicas, to the homes and shops, and even municipal buildings. What would pass for an amazing feat of art and engineering back home is met with apathy here, and seems to go unappreciated by the locals. No one was taking the time to enjoy their surroundings, which I am certainly guilty of back home when such things become commonplace. A sense of novelty and history spurns my exploration, but in doing so I notice that most of the buildings only keep the Baroque architecture, with its intricacies and exquisite attention to detail, as a facade. In fact, the only time I felt like I walked into an actual Baroque building was when visiting the basilicas, which left nothing wanting for the sort of historical and artistic experience I had been longing for since I arrived.
Having a native speaker accompanying me during this excursion proved invaluable. One thing we both wanted to see was the open-air market. Unfortunately neither of us had any idea where it was, and I know that even if I could successfully ask for directions, understanding them would be a different story. So what would have been an all day adventure for me turned into a twenty minute walk. The market was reminiscent of farmers markets back home (this one turned out to be half farmer's market half flea market), only the language had changed. Even so, it was nice to see local Sicilians selling their wares, and to get away from tourist areas to experience something authentic.
Despite our language barrier (her English was about as good as my Italian) we were not only able to hold relatively sustained conversations in Italian, but find out a good deal about each other in the process. Though, by this time much of our communication was thanks to the universal, and bastardized, language of hand gestures and body language. She told me why she had been in Acireale: Ferrera, where she is from, is a twelve-hour drive from Acireale. Apparently she had come all this way to meet someone she had been talking to via the internet and over the phone for about a year. When she got here he was nowhere to be found. Instead of the romantic getaway that was planned, she ended up spending a week at the campsite by herself. We walked back to the car, finding new and exciting ways to insult that man, and speaking on the general theme of his bastardness. Along the way, while trying to avoid the drivers who feel pedestrian tag is a legitimate sport, she offered to cook lunch for me back at her bungalow. Like me, I think she was in need of some company, so I graciously accepted.
Her bungalow was situated slightly downhill from my camp and overlooked the Mediterranean. Arriving on her porch I couldn't help but notice that we were right on the edge of the cliff, over one-hundred feet above the brilliant blue waves crashing into the craggy ebony-colored rocks below. Ordinarily I would be a bit apprehensive about leaning over the rickety railing to get a better view, but I figured if I'm going to go what better way than enjoying such a view (albeit while bouncing off of large pointy rocks). My stomach, squealing with glee and acting on its own authority, tugged me back inside as I caught the beautiful smells drifting out of the open door. Lunch consisted of pasta, squid and fresh tomatoes that we picked up at the market, and olive oil (pasta calamari con pomodori). Perhaps it was the fact that this was the only real food I'd had to eat in almost three days, perhaps it was because I had been walking all day and had acquired an appetite, perhaps it was because she is an excellent cook; for whichever reason (or a combination of all three) that was some of the best pasta I'd ever eaten. The meal was exactly what I needed: a sense of the real Italy. No rushing around, no dodging traffic, no anxiety, just sharing pleasant company over pasta, bread, and some wine.
I offered to clean the dishes since she wouldn't let me help her cook. After washing everything, we sat on the porch, watched the fishing boats that dappled the sunlit water, and enjoyed a cup of coffee. I thanked her for everything and headed back to my camp where I spent the rest of the afternoon sketching the coast. Night set in and I crawled into my tent after a meager dinner. Given the nature of the street leading away from the campsite I am still uncomfortable venturing out at night, as I have no reflective clothing. The night is spent reading and making plans for the next day until sleep overtakes me.

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