Trapani, Sicily: part two

Lost & found in Sicily

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.

My first few days in Trapani were quiet as I settled into my apartment and became familiar with everything around me and the spots where I’d become a regular at. So far, I had found a little spot nearby called Il Tortellino that always had fresh food to bring home, perfect for whenever I didn’t want to cook dinner. Something in between a panificio and a restaurant. I would walk to Mazzara Salvatore whenever I was in need of the freshest bread or craving the sweetest desserts. I would make my way to the other end of town to find the only mercato di frutta e verdura open on Sundays, the one nearest to my apartment for whenever I needed something at the last minute and the one with the freshest selection which I’d visit weekly. I made the mistake of eating at touristy spots on Corso Vittorio Emanuele, the main street in the city center where I knew not to go back again, but became wholly obsessed with panificio Oddo Michele that I shamelessly bought my arancino and focaccia from several times a week — though they closed for hours in the middle of the day, they never failed to have a line of locals waiting for them to open back up again. I had delicious gelato almost every day at nearly every gelateria I stopped in, but always found myself going back to Meno Tredici, the always busy gelato spot right across the port. 

Just like it had been second nature, it was easy getting used to the slow Sicilian life even while working remotely. Going and coming from the beach in the morning and throughout the day until I finished work late at night. I found quiet beach spots closest to home and uncrowded corners on the sand. I explored and got lost in backstreets only to find a secluded hideaway by the water that was stowed behind apartment buildings, facing one of the many piers where I would go to be by myself and read for hours. But, my ultimate discovery was that I could walk through the water from the shallowish shore with my things carried above my head, to the big bouldering westward facing rocks which I would climb up onto to escape the beach crowds. I’d lay there for hours every day with nothing but my bikini bottom on, watching the vigorous waves come crashing into the rocks I laid on, slowing them down before they made it to shore. I would mount and jump and collect seashells while the sun shined the brightest and would never miss swimming out into the sunset, watching it set fire to the sea as it made its descent. It became my favorite nook in the whole city, one where a day wouldn’t go by without me disappearing to, one where I would read, write, dream, contemplate, envision, manifest and feel in. One where I had created my own world in.

Although I was getting to know the city, I wasn’t making any connections. The people that lived in Trapani were mostly all much older and those that were young weren’t very friendly — it was a small town where all the locals knew each other and weren’t really open to socializing outside of their own. I was surprised at how few people spoke English and how quiet the town was during the week. The closest thing to a friend I had made was with a sweet old woman who stopped me in the street not far from home. She waited for me to catch up to her after spotting me. Not having seen me before, she spoke quickly in Italian asking me where I was from. I asked her to parlare più lentamente so that I could understand what she was saying as she escorted me to the mercato di frutta e verdura. Trying to understand one another, she left me with a hug, a kiss on either cheek and an invitation to her home anytime, albeit I had no idea where she lived.

It hadn’t been very long since I had arrived but I couldn’t help feeling a little lost and hopeless, which realistically, I knew was ridiculous. I began questioning myself and how I could have made such a commitment to this place. I had no one to really talk to apart from calls to my family and friends and it was starting to get to me. Not being able to decipher the Trapanese dialect was proving to be a bit of a challenge in really communicating with anyone. When people told me no one in Sicily spoke English or even Italian, I thought it was an exaggeration. I wasn’t necessarily looking to make friends… I hadn’t had any expectations, really. I simply wanted to be able to converse enough to unravel what this place was all about — to discover the local-favorites and have that authentic Sicilian experience I had dreamt of. Where I should spend my nights, which islands I should visit, where I could find the most authentic food... I wanted to be able to talk to people, to have conversations that would give me a look into the culture, into the way of living, into the simplicities of that quintessential Sicilian life.

It had officially been one week since I got to Trapani and I had spent my morning hidden away at the other end of town near the port, reading and letting the sun bronze my skin that had already begun to turn from its pale hue to a beautiful golden. It was early afternoon but I was ready to head back home where I knew I had some leftovers waiting for me to eat before they would go bad. I began the journey back, walking atop the city’s wall. Inevitably my route led me alongside the old ship wrecked bar which I had passed by almost every day since my first day here. Quickly glancing in, I found it empty and kept walking but something inside me willed me to turn around and go in. I was craving an espresso and could have easily made myself one at home, but the inexplicable pull to the bar was stronger than me, as was the smell of caffeine. By the time I turned back and walked through the tall glass doors, an unfamiliar face was standing behind the counter. He was much taller than the pirate boy, with short brown hair and small round glasses that gave him a kind of studious air. His olive skin tone spoke of a life along the Mediterranean coast, where the sun’s warmth was ever-present and his energy felt more inviting than that first bartender I had met here the week before.

“Ciao benvenuti! Cosa posso fare per te?” he said, greeting me with a friendly smile. 

“Salve, un espresso per favore.” I replied as I hauled myself up to the tall stool in front of the bar. 

“Pronto, pronto. Di dove sei?” He asked, correctly assuming I wasn’t from around here. 

“Sono Canadese.” I replied and something about my accent gave me and my poor Italian away. 

“Ah wow Canada, so far away. You are English.” It wasn’t a question. “What are you doing here?” he said while preparing my espresso.

“I came to live in Sicily for a little while. I just got to Trapani a week ago and I’m looking for some friends.” I blurted out to my own surprise.

He beamed, a big smile on his face showing the gap between his two front teeth. “We’ll be your friends.” he said, referring to himself and the boy that had joined him behind the bar. “I’m Marcello.” 

And that was that. I had made my first friends. It was easy, simple, innocent and the most honest interaction I could have had. He introduced me to the shorter blonde boy who came to and fro from the bar — frazzled and mumbling to himself. I almost hadn’t had a chance to finish my coffee before he opened two new bottles of wine for taste testing. He poured me a very small glass of each, interested to see which I preferred. We sat there talking and drinking for a little while and just as I was preparing to head out, the pirate boy walked up from behind the bar and gave me a look I couldn’t even begin to decipher. My new tall friend introduced me to him. 

“Domenico, this is Melody. She is from Canada but speaks Italian.” an exaggeration on his part.  “Melody, this is my younger brother.” 

“Nice to meet you.” I said with a smile although we had already technically met. “I have to head back home but I’ll come back this evening.” I said looking at Marcello while hopping off the tall stool.

And I did… I would return almost every evening and wait for the boys to close up shop way past midnight so we could walk back to our apartments together, which happened to conveniently be located a street apart. Those first few days I began going to the bar, Domenico had been rude and teasing which made me standoffish around him, but when we had finally warmed up to each other, we’d drive around town together and he’d vent about his then-rocky relationship or we’d go for sunset swims and talk about fate, about how true love should feel, about all the places we dreamt of seeing. There was a sort of unspoken unsureness between us. Something we both seemed to be trying to understand but simply ignored. 

With Marcello, it had been easy for us to fall into our own kind of rhythm. We’d have dinner together almost every night after he had finished work at the bar. He’d teach me how to cook traditional dishes or we’d go out to discover restaurants and jazz bars. Sometimes we’d go back to the bar for a drink to keep the other boys company and I’d force them to play the music louder. On some really late nights, we’d all head back to my apartment to make pasta al pesto di pistacchio where the boys would scold me on how to boil the water (with lots of salt… after the water has already boiled). Some nights we’d meet other tourists that were passing through and spend the night sharing stories, places we’d visited or wanted to visit. When we were all feeling particularly sentimental, the bar would stay open later into the night and we’d play guitar, singing and laughing too loudly until someone threatened to call the polizia. On those days that the sun had shined a little brighter and we knew the water would be warm, we’d head to the beach late at night for a midnight swim where the only light came from the moon and stars. 

Every day and every night was different… magical in its own way. I never really made plans, letting the moments come and unfold on their own. But, whatever the day held, a few things were always guaranteed — I was always surrounded by love and taken care of, with people that took me in as one of their own. They would feed me and make sure I was always hydrated when the only thing I cared about was laying by the sea. They would translate for me and drive me around to new places that were too far to explore by foot when I couldn’t rent a car. They’d pull out spikes of sea urchins from the bottoms of my feet with nothing but a needle, a knife and some hard liquor to sterilize and they would disinfect my cuts when I had been careless climbing rocks, which was always. And although it felt foreign to me, as I was so accustomed to only ever relying on myself, I let down my walls and gave in to their nurture. They taught me what it is to allow others to take care of you, to trust, and to surrender to kindness. They taught me how men could be gentle and maternal in a way. They taught me how strangers could quickly turn into family.

It didn’t take long before I truly understood what it was about all along. The Sicilian culture, that is. Being seen, being accepted, being welcomed, being taken care of. As though you have always been a part of the family. There isn’t anything else to it. Lost and then finally found. Lonely and then anchored in belonging. Cold and then the warmest of welcomes. Because once you’re in, you’re really in. A degree of genuinity, kindness, kinship and love that’s hard to come by. You don’t find it in most places really. But if you’re lucky, and I most definitely was, you find it in Sicily.

Yours,
Melody