There were oodles of teenagers and young twenty somethings waiting for the bus to Catania. One petite man dressed in black with mask of an old man. He was surrounded by petite girls wearing black from head to toe and young men in close proximity, clearly his posse . Except for the one this represented no difference to any other day. I was a little disappointed. I thought something like Halloween would be a bit more ubiquitous.
All of them chain smoking and flirted with one another, an occasional shove or a slap or a spank after a comment. I did not understand what was being said but it was a familiar pattern recognized in any language. There was no end to it. Some couples, intertwined and smooching constantly. Even when they got on the bus more parts of their bodies were attached than apart. I don't know how they managed it honestly. Fascinating. I wonder if Jane Goodall feels like this when she observes monkeys. My staring went unnoticed by those that I observed and my travel companions just waited along with me in comfortable silence.
The bus ride to Catania was the loudest I had experienced so far. Kids piled in. For two hour journey they competed with one another to be heard talking simultaneously creating an ear popping cacophony of giggles and shrill nonsense. They sang Italian songs and American. It was wonderful honestly. As we approached Catania the bus driver stopped at a spot that seemed like no place. Half of the passengers filed off at a
pace that rocked the bus a little. Every one of the girls were dressed in red, no more black and their apparel was in various states of coverage, all of it in various stages of "not so much", each with red glitter devil horns and very high heels. The men in skin tight black and white striped shirts, like prisoners and sprayed on black pants. I wondered how they all managed this but it may have explained the drivers frequent glance in the rear view mirror.
Day light had found its place far away from night, the busy streets approaching downtown were lighted in a canopy of yellow. The congestion of cars, scooters and pedestrians grows and the streets narrowed quickly like a spout out of a funnel. The smell of exhaust and the chaos of horns barking in tandem was a cocktail of newness, strong and rendering me dizzy headed. It is astounding to me the skill of the bus drivers here. This one in particular was phased by nothing. I cannot image navigating such a huge bus on the capillary like streets. So many people doing what they want at high speeds assuming that everyone around them will stop. Sometimes the bus does but other times he moves forward as if to dare them. Surprisingly, like my passage in the car in Vallelunga, I am not afraid to be a passenger, I am comforted, knowing that if I was driving in this moment I would be nauseous and both my eyes would be twitching. Next it was our stop. We dismounted, got our goods and hit the street again. I the turtle, slow and with my very big house on my back and my additional goods in a suitcase in tow, took the rear of the line. We were in what resembled a horrible neighborhood. I was not sure if horrible had the same meaning here as it does in say New York, but I felt my shoulder creeping closer to my ears and I was looking forward to getting some place else quickly. I was not nervous exactly, their were three of us but i was not exactly comfortable. Zoe had the lead and in my book she was running. "Why are we going so fast" I blurted. "Oh sorry" she replied with a smile in her voice. They altered their pace to accommodate me. This ripples a low grade embarrassment and shame inside along with gratitude for their patience.
Here is a more candid picture for you. I have a thousand pound backpack and a suitcase that I bought for $10 on the street in Palermo. it has two wheels yes, but they are tiny wheels. For the content it bares, it really needs training wheels for a child's bicycle. Every time I hit a curve or a crack the suit case bounces from side to side, wobbling The side walks here are paved with lava tiles. They are not short on cracks. Every six inches is a grid of damn cracks. Beautiful, dark smoky grey, yes but currently a huge pain in the ass for me. It takes great effort on my part of keep it from falling on its side. I try to squeeze the handle a little to stabilize it. The palms of my hands and forearms are starting to ache and sweat is beading on my lip, down my spine and every where that flesh touches flesh. I know that I am testing the tinsel strength of the zipper and the fabric with the contents inside. In a nutshell. I am miserable. I am winded, sweaty and struggling to keep my suitcase from falling into disgusting wet street scum. Again I am wanting to get rid of everything except my tooth brush and a few pairs of underwear. Still I remained cheerful to those around me and I am trying to be nice to myself.
We are quickly out of the neighborhood that feels a little dangerous and creepy but we need a little reassurance that we are going in the right direction. We are finding our way with one of those silly maps in guide books. An old man is sitting in the park. "I think we should ask him." Zoe said. As we approach him, he seems deep in thought. Actually it becomes a little unclear if our question would jostle him into a rage or if we will be a welcomed respite from his pensive state. Honestly if we were in a larger city I probably would not have approached him at all. "Mi scusi signore," Zoe started her voice was soft like she was waking him from sleep. Zoe's eyes are always smiling which i think inspired his cheerfulness some. He greeted our request with a jack-o-lantern smile, sprung to his feet and walked with us a little way. He used huge sweeping gestures in the direction that we need to go and repeated himself a few times, blurted out every word he could to describe our land mark, getting more and more simple as he watched for signs of clarity in our faces. Once very fast, in his usual cadence and again more slowly with greater gestures. He was adorable. He even assured me directly that we were almost there with another big smile and a wink. Eying my pack and suitcase. Shaking his head as if to say, "What the hell is in there?" After he was sure we understood, he returned to his post and went back to his dreaming.
We found our way to the town center. Navigated through another neighborhood that seemed stark and shut down. It was desolate. It smelled damp and warm, like wet rock and decaying things but I refrained from judgment. I was certain that this was evidence of vitality, sleeping but with great potential for an adventure. I had excitement stir, knowing that tomorrow morning I would have my eyes will have their fill. All the store fronts were closed with the sliding gates and iron fences. One man stood behind his street side counter on the wet street under a street light that shined like a faded beacon. I approached him with great confidence and asked in Italian if we were close to the hotel. It turned out that we were, just one block away and I understood his directions perfectly. Granted there absolutely were grand sweeping hand and arms gestures to assist.
We rounded the corned after the Tabacci shop like he instructed. The narrow lava paved street opened to a small piazza. Behind the piazza was what would become our casa for now. The Agora Hostel. It too was the home to one of Catania's most popular bars. It felt a little like a mirage honestly. My first thought was am I going to be allowed to stay in a youth hostel, and if I do will I be sleeping tonight or have my head stuffed under a pillow trying to muffle out the sound of jovial drunkenness?
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