Landing

Sometimes you breathe in the air of a place - you step off a bus or a plane, inhale - and you suddenly feel everything has been put right. I tumbled out of my Alibus from the Catania airport, pulled over under the arch of a bridge a short walk from my lodgings, and some packet of neurons in the back of my head started screaming a fanfare of "WE'RE HOME!" 

I am, obviously, way behind on my updates here, and have a bunch of stuff about Greece that should be showing up in the coming week or so, as I have the time for it. But first: last night's arrival in Sicily, my home for the next few weeks before I move on to Bologna.

Coming from the white, dry heat of Athens, the mild, warm evening of Sicily's east coast was a balm, but there was something more than that. Everything just seemed to move right here. Within a few minutes I suddenly remembered: oh right, it's not just that I like Italy, it's that Italy is Good For Me. As I crossed a busy thoroughfare with the trusty "calmly look at oncoming traffic and move with purpose" approach, the parts of my brain that can sometimes get hung up on The Rules and How Are We Supposed To Be Right Now relaxed into the go-with-the-flow, just-become-water energy that's so much easier for me to tap into here.

I passed by a streetside fruit vendor (Cherries €1.99 a kilo, same as they were in Greece!) and wound past a roundabout before cutting up through a fish-smelling underpass evincing the remains of a market from earlier in the day to my bed and breakfast, whose owner I had been WhatsApping with my arrival information. His nephew had the charge of letting me in, but - I was now learning - he couldn't find his keys, and had to run to his uncle's place to look. Did I want to get a coffee near the bridge while I waited? Sure! I was too happy at this phase of the journey to mind even slightly. (My giddiness may have also had something to do with the fact that my Ryanair flight from Athens to Catania marks the last time I have to deal with flying until I head home to Chicago. Flying: no thanks, forever!)

Spotting a few eateries up the road, I mulled my options before ultimately deciding to circle back to the underpass, where I'd seen a stand advertising lemon and soda; on returning, I spotted a Messina beer in their offerings and went for it. Settling into a rickety table under the bridge, and apologetically waving off a young footballer asking me to buy him a beer, I felt my tempo slow as I watched guys from the neighborhood stop in, grab drinks for each other, and catch up.

The very famous beer from my very famous story about showing up somewhere! Wow!

Niko arrived, even more apologetic: he couldn't find his uncle's keys, maybe I could leave my bags at his place and have dinner while he tried to get ahold of his uncle and check me in after? It was at this point, for the first time, that a tiny voice in my head said: you know, this would be something of a classic scam, really. But, overriding that thought, I was feeling relaxed, and anyway, Niko had my number and information somehow, so if he wanted to steal a bag that was full of dirty laundry and shoes and some empty notebooks, I could I suppose get them back without much trouble, so why not. Along the walk, he ran into his dad, who rolled his eyes as Niko explained the situation. We walked on, as he explained to me that he'd just returned from visiting friends in Rome in anticipation of his going abroad looking for work in the surfing industry in Australia. (Ah, that explains the hang-loose emoji he'd sent me during our messaging.) "Italy's a pretty terrible place to look for work if you're my age," he mumbled.

I wandered up the road after dropping my bag, people-watching and deciding if I really wanted to settle in for dinner yet or not. The decision was cut short, as Niko's uncle was ready to meet us at the B&B, so I doubled back, in time to see Ale show up on his vespa, flip off his helmet, grin and shake his head at Niko, and set me up in the spot.

An hour later, I was perched at a small table to the side of a vermouth-focused salumeria that seemed like a hub for the neighborhood, with servers and diners alike jumping in and out of seats, passers-by weaving in to kiss and chat with their friends before making their way further down the busy drag, with DJ tunes and conversation and smoke and incredibly beautiful people all swirling with a kind of music that feels like nothing else on earth.

Italy's good, maybe. Maybe it's good to be back.