Trapani, Sicily: part three

A Sunday Kind of Love, the Sicilian kind

Disclaimer: The names of the people in this latest edition of We’re All Stories have been changed to maintain their anonymity and protect their privacy.

Within two weeks of my two month trip, I realized Sicilian Sundays were like no other I had ever experienced. I’d wake up early enough, set the stove for hot water and cut up my lemon. I’d get dressed for the day, packing my beach towel while drinking my tea. I’d make my bed, cut up some fruit and make my espresso in the quintessential moka pot… All by 9 am, or maybe 10 if the morning was followed by an extra late night. Now, that may be very late for the morning people out there, but it was Sunday and I am not a morning person. Apparently the Trapani locals weren’t either.

My apartment was quite small. In front of a quiet street, with a front door made of thick, smoked glass and served as the only window in my home-away-from-home, shielded from the outside only by a curtain. The neighbors above and the other travelers who would rent the apartment beside mine were always quiet. The only noise would come from the street early in the morning as everyone started their day, but on Sundays the street was always completely silent. After my first few days in Sicily, I quickly learnt that bakeries, markets, pharmacies and some caffès would be closed on that last day of the weekend and was always sure to run my errands during the week instead. Each week, I’d pass by every church trying to catch Sunday service, but they always seemed to be closed except in the case of weddings and I could never figure out when mass was despite my efforts.

And so on Sundays, like every other day, I’d grab my bags, slip on my shoes, lock my door and set sail. I always walked the same path, turning left out of the apartment and straight down Via Livio Bassi for a few miles, past homes and a few closed stores. I’d then turn right and cross the road that led to the center of the small town of Trapani, to the view of the beach all along Lungomare Dante Alighieri. Reuniting with the sea views was always my last thought before bed and my first thought when I woke up in the morning. I’d walk another few miles down the strip, separated from the waves by the tall defense wall on one side of me and the closed restaurant patios on the other side. There usually wasn’t a single person in sight, not until noon at least and by then, the beaches would start to fill up with umbrellas, dogs and families, grills and coolers filled with panini and birra. In a blink of an eye, the streets would go from complete silence to bursting with the sounds of laughter, music and singing. That was a Sicilian Sunday, slow to start and then everything all at once.

In retrospect, life with the boys was kind of like a Sicilian Sunday. We had spent the better part of two months together and despite being the only girl in our little group, no one had tried to cross that friendly line, and I was extra cautious not to give any false signals that would encourage any of them to do so. Marcello and I spent more time together than anyone else — we’d go on roadtrips to other villages or spend our nights rolling tobacco over a glass of wine, listening to music we both loved. And while we were both single and had bonded, there lacked any meaningful chemistry that would have had me ever consider more than a friendship with him. On the other hand, there was Domenico. He would always make sure I had something to eat, would make me cappuccinos every morning and would take away the cigarettes his brother rolled for me when he’d catch me coughing up after a single inhale. Most of our time together was spent with the other ragazzi, but a sort of curiosity filled the brief looks we shared in a room full of people. The times we’d find ourselves alone, there seemed to be a mutual understanding even in the quietest of moments, in the kind of way one knows someone long before they ever met. Despite that connection, we seemed to keep a conscious distance from each other. He had a beautiful girlfriend he had left back in Palermo for the summer while he managed the bar in Trapani and although they had found themselves at odds these past couple of months, due to his own fault, I encouraged him to understand her perspective on their disagreements.

As my last week in Sicily inched closer, I inevitably was filled with the many emotions that I knew I had to face when saying goodbye to the life and friendships I had built here. The months had gone by so slowly and quickly at the same time. Where not so long before we felt like we had all the time in the world ahead of us, out of nowhere, it soon turned to very few days left. I had checked off most of my to-do’s while I was here but had yet to visit Marsala. With the public transport being what it was in this Sicilian small town, which was mostly nonexistent, and with there being only manual cars for rent, which I didn’t know how to drive despite Marcello’s patient attempts to teach me, Marcello insisted on taking me himself and so we set off on a two-day trip. He took some time away from the bar and we headed to his family's beach house. Down the long dark road late at night, we made it to town and were greeted by a glimpse of the largest, most magical full golden moon we had both ever seen. Peeking from behind the horizon, it disappeared even faster than it had shown itself. We drove and drove trying to catch sight of it again before deciding we’d head to the beach to get a clear view. We laid blankets down on the sand immediately underneath its light and put some music on the speaker. The moon's light, the ocean tide, the starry sky, the layers we put over our shoulders to warm from the chill of the crashing waves… the night had all the fixings for utter romance. And Marcello took his chance.

Asking me if I was cold, he put his arms around me to warm me with his hands. Though he was kind, intelligent, patient, genuine, tall and handsome, there was no spark and something about his very simple touch made my skin crawl and left me unsettled. I could sense his next move coming, a chance to see if I shared his feelings. So before he could say another word, or make another move, I slid away from his touch and looked him in the eye.

“Marcello, let’s not cross this line and ruin the beautiful friendship we’ve built.” I said, searching in his eyes for any hurt or insult.

“I’ve been stupid not to try sooner… but realizing you’re leaving so soon… and it was that night we went to listen to jazz, in that white dress you wore and your skin glowing against it, that I realized how I’ve been feeling about you. So why don’t we try? What do we have to lose really? I can come to Canada, I’ve always wanted to visit. Or you can just stay here. You don’t even want to go back home. So just don’t, don’t leave…” he begged.

I had tried so hard to keep him at arm's length in a way. To avoid this — to avoid having to reject him. Any girl would have killed for this moment — laying under the moon by the Sicilian coast with an Italian man pleading with her to stay. Hell, I would have killed for this moment. But it wasn’t the right person, he wasn’t the right person and I felt it in the chill of my spine.

“It’s not about that. Not about me leaving or staying or coming back or even you coming to me. I just don’t feel that way for you. Even after all this time, and all the time we’ve spent together. I’m so sorry…”

I chose my words slowly, wanting to soften them. We had the whole night and next day ahead of us, not including the hour or so car ride back to Trapani tomorrow and I didn’t want there to be any tension.

“I understand, we can’t force a thing like this. But come back closer, you’re shivering.” he said as he wrapped the excess of the blanket that we sat on around me. And being the perfect gentleman he was, that was that. We headed back to the house soon after and woke up the next morning in the beautifully yellow painted cabin style home that hid nuzzled behind century old trees. It radiated like sunshine and brought those rays right into your soul from the moment you stepped in and so how could we even have an ounce of tension here? In this beautiful place… we couldn’t.

The rest of our day was spent beach hopping, swimming, and him jokingly pleading with me to change my return flight and just stay in Sicily. His voice laughed but his eyes carried the hope that I may change my mind, that I may say yes.

When we returned to Trapani, we headed into the bar and the boys looked at him and then me, and then back at him, trying to figure out if anything had happened. But it was Domenico that kept on staring at me, trying to will some sort of answer out of my eyes. And with that heavy gaze that held the weight of the world, I left to give them their time to debrief.

Before I knew it, I woke up and it was Sunday, my last full day in Sicily. I left the next night for Rome where I would stay for a few days before heading back home. And rather than being awakened by the morning sun's rays shining through my glass door as I always did, I woke up to a very loud and persistent banging on that very door. I leaped up. What was that?!

“Melodia!!! Melodia!!! Open… it’s me Melodiaaaa.” Bang. Bang. Bang.

Was that Domenico? I checked my phone for the time. It was nearly 4 in the morning. Was something wrong?! He kept on banging and singing my name until I had thrown some clothes on and unlocked the door.

“Domenico! What’s wrong? Are you okay?!” I said suddenly wide eyed and wide awake.

He was still in his strangely wet bar clothes and was very clearly drunk.

“Melodia, it’s your last day.” he said as he stepped into the doorway and wrapped me into his arms for a hug before he pushed through me and into my apartment, collapsing on my bed.

“Tomorrow’s my last day, not today.” I said laughing at his dramatics while pouring him a hefty glass of water. “Have you still not gone home since last night?”

“No, no. But it is your last day. Tomorrow is half day. It doesn’t count.” he said with that heavy Sicilian accent and took the glass from me only to take a single sip.

I sat on the bed next to him as my sleepiness settled back in, only half listening to him recount his evening and his early swim in the sea — hence the wet clothes. Somewhere in between the recollection of his night and his morning revelation, the drunken pirate boy began his muddled confession.

“Do you have any regrets Melodia?” he asked me, referring to my time in Sicily.

“No, of course not. Why would I?” I asked, trying to decipher his train of thought.

“There’s nothing you wish you could do before you leave…?” he replied, looking me deeply in the eyes searching for something he wasn’t going to find here. Just like with his brother a few days before, I could see where this was going.

“You have no regrets?” he asked again hoping the answer would be different.

No, and I didn’t want to have any, I thought to myself but simply told him no again.

“Do you want us to share a secret?” He asked, putting his hand on my leg, trying to spark something that was never going to happen. But, unlike his brother, his very touch didn’t feel jarring.

“No, Domenico. I don’t want to share any secrets with you. Not from your brother, or your sweet girlfriend.” I emphasized, reminding him of her.

Laying in bed, caressing the skin on my arms and legs, he went on — about how life was meant to be lived to the fullest, how we can all be dead tomorrow, how he didn’t want to go through life not doing the things he wanted to do, how we have such limited time left together, how we should act on our desires… because who knows how things can change in a moment’s time. It was all very philosophical, because what isn’t with Italian men?

He asked me if it hadn’t been for his relationship, would something have happened between us. I told him the truth… that of course there was some kind of connection, that maybe something could have happened or not, but in this moment, nothing would. And though there was some inexplicable thing between us, something that had been building for sometime, something we had both resisted… I was not that person, nor would I ever be.

With all the liquor running through him, I could see every doubt behind his eyes, every doubt running through his mind… Whether he was happy in his relationship and with his choices. What would have happened if he had never introduced me to his girlfriend? Would that have changed our relationship? What would happen if she ever found out he’d come here? What would happen if his brother did? His brother, who he knew had also tried this with me. He seemed to be questioning everything, wondering why he hadn’t said anything to me sooner.

Then he finally looked at me and asked me the single question that seemed to be haunting him the most. “Are we in love, Melodia?”

At that moment, I felt so completely struck by all that had happened up until this point. What kind of romcom movie was I living through?! It took everything in me not to burst out in laughter from the sheer ridiculousness of it all. But the look on Domenico’s face brought me back — sadness, uncertainty, lust… This man, who was really just trying to figure his life out, was confusing all the emotions that come with saying goodbye, with love.

“Domenico… this is not love, it’s just infatuation.” and with those words, something behind his eyes clicked. He knew I was right and even though he had tried his hardest to convince me to embrace this moment, I knew he was thankful that I didn’t give in to him, because that would have been something to regret.

With that, we both fell in and out of sleep until it was time to wake up. We decided we wouldn’t tell Marcello where Domenico had ended up when he didn’t come home at night. It was our secret — not the one he had wanted us to keep, but the one we had to keep so that Marcello wouldn’t be hurt, so that his imagination wouldn’t run wild.

And just like that, it was all over — my last day in Trapani. We spent our last night all together back at sea, beneath the stars. We ran into the midnight water, too numb from the high of it all to feel the cold, letting the waves carry us, floating on our backs and gazing up at the moon. With the sound of music drifting from the shore, the moment felt like the world had slowed down just for us, even though it truly seemed to have all passed so quickly. We sang, we laughed, and we cried (mostly me), reminiscing about the months that had passed — the moments that had woven us together. There was an unspoken sadness in the air as we talked about how much we would miss each other. I couldn’t help but feel the weight of goodbye settling between us, even as we promised it wouldn’t be the last time. It was all so bittersweet. I knew I had to leave, and I knew that had I stayed any longer, what had once been so simple, so effortless, would have gotten very complicated. Like a Sicilian Sunday, so we’re those Sicilian brothers, slow to start and then everything all at once.

Yours,
Melody

Ti dedico il mare: I dedicate the sea to you