Day 7: Acireale

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February 28, 2008: Santa Maria La Scala, Italy

A train rushed past on the side of the hill, its rhythmic gait gently waking me, reminding me that I shall, for the first time, be taking a train and leaving Sicily behind. There is a lot more of Sicily I would have liked to have seen, but time and circumstance have prevented any such excursions, as they were on the other side of the island.
Eat, shower, dress, wander--the routine I had become accustomed to. This morning, however, was different. A camper pulled in last evening while I was resting in my tent. My finely tuned skills of deduction led me to believe that the couple who emerged from it that morning were English. Perhaps it was the soccer (football) shorts, perhaps it was the ears and teeth, or the way they said "mornin' chap," that gave it away. Whatever it was, my sharp skills picked apart this puzzle like a master detective.
After stripping my bike of the parts I wanted, packing everything, I made a mental inventory. Backpack, check; tent and sleeping bag, check; food and provisions, check; panniers with miscellaneous biking gear and other essentials, check; a vague feeling that my bike is watching me with contempt and flipping me the bird, check. It was 9:30 in the morning; my train didn't leave until seven that night. What's one more day doing nothing, I told myself, as I sat, soaking in the morning sun on the patio overlooking the coastline. The fishermen were just starting their day, boats dappled the water unaware of my voyeurism high above them as I worked on my nice red Irish tan. A voice came from beside me, "Beautiful view innit?" (now who could that be?) I nodded.
For the first time in a week I was able to have an actual conversation with someone. Such little things as this are often taken for granted, so I grabbed it with both hands, my feet, and sunk my teeth into its jugular so as not to let it escape--the opportunity of conversation that is, not the Englishman; all of which took the form of a friendly chat over a mid-morning cup of tea (real English tea no less). What was so nice about it was how natural the conversation was. Nothing felt forced or felt like chit chat, neither of us pandered or feigned interest, no formalities were observed, neither of us were concerned about offending, yet neither were offended. It was a simple, friendly, candid discussion between two people of common interests. Such is as I remember it. However, this could be due to the fact that it was my first conversation in a while and could fall under the same vain as that of what one feels during a shower in an RV after a few days in the Tennessee woods: a crappy shower, yet it felt like the best ever. Regardless, I truly did enjoy his company.
So I waited. With nothing to do until that evening, I continued lazing in the sun and enjoying my quest to produce more freckles so I could at least play connect-the-dots on the train. An hour after my conversation with the Englishman ended I saw him approaching again, perhaps to continue our discussion on "Real Food Versus English Cooking: The Ultimate Showdown." Surprisingly, he told me that he and his wife were going to explore the town later that afternoon and asked if I wanted a ride to the train station. My mouth agape, I answered in the affirmative, which may have just come out as "ynghhhh...". You mean I don't have to walk up that damn hill with twenty-five pounds on my back and twenty in each hand (the panniers off of my bike)? "You'd be up there for quite some time without anything to do," he informed me. "That's OK," I said, "I've been practicing that most of the week."
Off we go in his little SmartCar. Tiny, yes, but there's nothing like a backpack wedged between me and the dashboard, so that neither one can move, to really give a feeling of safety. I watched the buildings blur as we reached a blazing--compared to my walking speed anyway--thirty kilometers per hour. Somehow Acireale looked more inviting as I was on my way to leave it. Everything seemed more friendly: the balconies, the signs, the people giving a pulse to this small metropolis, the plaques on the sides of buildings... plaques on the sides of buildings? Wait a minute... that was the road sign! Who makes a road sign that blends into the facade of the buildings, and why are they halfway down the block? I filed this under "good for future reference" in the "learned too late" section of my brain.
Having waited in countless airports, bus depots, and fast food lines, I am quite used to the muffled sounds that spew from speakers claiming to be coherent language. So waiting in a train station is nothing out of the ordinary... until I realized that loud speaker systems in Italy are apparently made in China as well. It's hard enough to understand someone in English who, I imagine, insists on putting the microphone inside his mouth before talking. Unfortunately, this happens to be standard procedure abroad as well. And I thought I was beginning to understand Italian better.
At the train station I found myself restless, unable to hold a thought, save for one: Venice. Questions clouded my mind so much that I hardly noticed the passing time as I paced. Will Venice live up to my expectations? What people will I meet at my first hostel experience? Are the ice cubes made from bottled water? The only clear thought shining through this haze came when I saw a man, a little younger than me, who walked onto the platform. He was with a friend, both of them were speaking in sign language. It occurred to me that my slight frustration with the language can't compare to what he has had to deal with his entire life. Whatever English words or phrases the Italians can glean from me, I'm almost positive the vast majority know no sign language. This man has a language barrier in his own country. The sight of him lifted my spirits and helped me to put things into perspective.
The train began to move, leaving behind the obstructions of Acireale. As we pulled into Taormina I saw, for the first time, the hills I would have had to ride through on my bike had my plans worked out as intended. It was then that I felt a sense of relief--not having to bike over them--as I almost wrenched my neck while looking up to their apex. In retrospect, the topographical maps I saw probably listed elevation in meters. These were hills with attitude, bodyguards to the western coast of Sicily; paid to keep the riff-raff out and doing a damn good job, like asshole bouncers at night clubs.
Only after leaving the station at Taormina did a disconcerting thought pop into my head. Sicily's an island, I thought, and I didn't notice anything on my ticket stating that I would have to switch trains or take a ferry. How exactly are we getting across the water. My cabin-mate informed me that the train would board a ferry and reconnect on the mainland. That's pretty damn cool, I thought as we began our queue to get onto the ferry. Once secured I went up on deck to see the lights of Messina fade into the distance--my last glimpse of Sicily. On the horizon shone Reggio di Calabria, the mainland, and hope of a renewed passion for my Italian host. The slight sway and rhythmic gait of the wheels rocked me to sleep as we sped toward Venice.

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