You're Shakin My Confidence Baby

When I got off the train at Pollina, the station was empty, except for two station employees. At first they ignored me, so I just picked a direction and started walking off the platform. They whistled behind me and said something in Italian, which I presume was, 'hey asshole, where do you think you're going?' 'Pollina?' I asked. They smiled and looked at each other and waved me over and explained that thought I was technically headed in the right direction, the road to Pollina went from the other way and kind of wound around for 2km before getting there. They also explained six or seven other things about it, but they lost me pretty quickly. Love friendly Italians. They confirmed the presence of hotels there, at least, so I set off on the windy road- meant explicitly for cars, I should add. Six gallons of sweat and half an hour of wondering just what the fuck I was doing here later I got to what looked like a main drag of a street, where everything was closed, it being Easter Monday. The town was plain and unnatractive, far from the quaint and distinctly architectured Sicilian village I'd hoped for. Huh. Interesting. At least it was on the water.

After crossing through the entire town, I finally stumbled upon one hotel, and a sign for another one, and opted for the latter, assuming the one off the main street would be cheaper. I passed by it but was waved in the right direction by some locals, and finally found the doorbell. After ringing, waiting, ringing, waiting and ringing, I backed away and looked around. Nothing. From up above me I heard a woman's voice.
'Sonna, sonna,' she said, and I looked up to a third floor porch where one elderly woman stood, talking to another woman on the third floor porch of the building across the street.
'Sonna, sonna' she said again as she made the push the doorbell motion. I rang a few more times, forcefully now.
Then she started shouting down the street around the corner for about a minute, until she said something to me that implied that it was all taken care of. A minute later and a thin but older woman with a mustache I could only dream of sporting opened the door with a smile. Priceless. The ladies on the porch continued their conversation, and before I walked in, I accidentally dropped a penny and reached over to pick it up, when I saw out of the corner of my eye a Black man walking by eating fried chicken, who was almost struck by a swerving truck driven by an Asian woman, who screeched to a halt right before a soaking wet Mexican hopped onto the flatbed and said, 'need any drywall, meng?'

I spent the rest of the afternoon wondering why I had been sent to this place, but was temporarily entertained when some young (mostly) people rolled a ping pong table out into the middle of the street, started blasting music from a car stereo and began playing competitive mixed doubles with vivacity and joy that I thought was only attainable after 4-12 Natural lights.

It was pretty fun to watch, if only because their energy was contagious. That night I splurged on a Sicilian dinner of Pasta alla Pescatore, which was loaded with so much fresh mussels, squid, and fish that the pasta was gone well before the seafood was. After the wine and the food, I sat and wondered why I was here, and when the last time I had a conversation I understood was. I came up with answers to neither.

But the next day, I figured out that I was only maybe actually in Pollina. In the distance I could see a town on a hill, and there were signs that pointed sort of that way and said Pollina.

Asking my mustachioed hotel proprietor 'Pollina?' and lots of pointing at the ground and at that distant hill helped me understand that they were both called Pollina, or something, and that to get up there, I could take a bus at 2:30. One question answered. At 2:30 a big tour bus packed with middle aged Germans, presumably coming from Cefalu, swung through and brought me up to this awesome little town.

Tiny windy little alleys, a medieval theater and tower, a bunch of old Italian men gesturing and talking about God only knows what, considering they live on a huge hill twelve kilometeres from the nearest tiny fucking town, the place, minus the fifty ill fitting bright colored shirted and white tennis shorted despite the fog and brisk weather Germans, was the small town wonder I was looking for. The whole tour bus thing must be bizarre for the locals- they live in a town of a couple hundred people, but every day fifty Germans wander around for the afternoon.

From Pollina I took the train to Siracusa, which the Lonely Planet described as a highlight of a visit to Sicily, and coming off of two highlights, I was pretty psyched. Indeed, the paltry one day I'd alloted to Siracusa would be completely insufficient, and I could have stayed for weeks. The air was perfect, the scenery perfecter. The night I arrived, I wandered by an open door that had this inside:

In case you can't make them out, those are old peope dancing. I could have stayed there for hours watching, but after five minutes I felt creepy. Still, there is something inherently enjoyable about watching old Italians enjoy life.

The next day I got up early to make the most of my short time. The tourist attractions were split between the island of Ortigia, and the archeological zone across the city. In the morning I wandered through Ortigia, eyes wide and camera poised, unable to stop myself from taking pictures at every turn through the alleys and piazzas and along the coast.

The whole place was a veritable feast of architectural wonder, and I hadn't even gotten to the secondi piatti: Siracusa's extravagant Duomo. When I arrived, the sight was almost too awesome to behold:

Nemesis thy name is scaffold. On the inside it was nice though.

Despite that disappointment, Siracusa was an exercise in retinal orgasmica. After my a'wanderin' I spent an hour at the old castle on the water, and even waited until a large tour group passed by so I could sneak up past a barrier to get a prohibited view from the turret.

The photo was just okay, but the tingly exhilaration of minor mischief was pathetically satisfying, especially after I hopped the barrier on the way out and kind of spilled into the main hall where two people looked up after the thwap-crack of the wooden gate flapping after released from the burden of my weight, and gave me a puzzled where-did-you-come-from? look while I swept the dust off my trousers and said 'buon giorno.' (I feel that dust tends to be swept off of trousers, as opposed to pants).

I then walked across the city to the archeological zone, where they've got Greek and Roman stuff, some cool caves backed by impressive views over the city, and the Ear of Dionysus, a big cave supposedly named by Caravaggio.

Siracusa might be the most beautiful city I've ever seen, and certainly wins the I am a dickhead for not coming here with more time award. Still, with the Cinque Terre on my next day's plate, I couldn't lament for too long.