|
A long time ago, there existed friendly but mischievous beings known as nymphs. These nymphs acted as messengers between the humans and the gods. Through their spirit and their action, they made the land more holy.
After many centuries, humans felt they no longer needed these messengers. They wanted independence.
Zeus, a stern but benevolent god, did as his people asked. He banished the nymphs to Mt. Olympus, where they remained for 280 years.
Many of the nymphs were happy to live with the gods on Mt. Olympus. But three of the most spirited nymphs missed Earth: flowers and fruit, and, most of all, people.
So the nymphs escaped from Mt. Olympus and returned to Earth.
 |
Dave, Marc, and Carmine |
"Hey, Dave." Marc is intensely studying a book called Merda: The Real Italian You Were Never Taught in School. "Check it out. There’s actually a word for ‘you have a really big nose.’"
"Scuza," says the boy next to Marc.
Maybe this is the word for "you have a really big nose."
"Scuza," the boy repeats. His black hair is slicked back, and he wears a white t-shirt and a gold chain. "My name is Carmine. Do you ever wonder how the plane can stay in the air?"
"I’m not going to worry about that right now," Marc says uneasily, his brow tensing. "I’m just going to assume that there is some science keeping us up here, that there’s some reason we’re not down there."
Carmine hopes to see sunrise out of the plane window, but it’s too early.
"Niente luche," Marc tells Carmine. No light.
"Do you smell food?" Marc asks.
"Yeah," I reply. "Is it time for breakfast?"
Carmine says soon. It’s six o’clock in Italy.
Over biscuits and coffee, Carmine tells us about his nono, his grandfather and namesake. Carmine the first drove a yellow, three-wheeled pick-up truck. All of the trucks in Italy have three wheels, Carmine says.
"What was his job?" Marc asks.
"His job?" Carmine looks puzzled. "He didn’t have a job." One third of Sicilians don’t.
The first moments of the Italian dawn begin to glimmer through the plane’s small windows. Carmine smiles.
"Pocino luche," he says. A little light.
The black of night fades into daybreak pastels. The sky welcomes us like colored eggs on Easter morning. The sheer black granite of the Italian Alps cuts into the clouds, which flow between the peaks like rivers through valleys.
"That’s what divides Italy with France and Germany," Carmine says.
The plane jostles into descent, as if it were startled. Marc hastily removes a vomit bag from under his seat. Carmine looks at him nervously.
"No," Marc clarifies. "I’m not going to be sick. It’s for a souvenir."
Carmine looks at the writing on the bag.
"Allunga le tue vacanze," he reads. "‘Take a longer vacation.’ You’ll want to."
The Muzak version of "Sitting on the Dock of the Bay" begins to play, signifying our landing. It’s the official song of Alitalia.
As the plane lands, Marc and I say ciao to Carmine forever. We say goodbye to a person who taught us a little about the Italian language, a little about Italian pick-up trucks, a lot about Italian hospitality and a person who considers us his paizans.
 |
Dave and the Mayor of Agrigento |
Today, I met the mayor of Agrigento. Or at least that’s how he introduced himself.
And though normally a very trusting person, I had my doubts about the Sindaco de Agrigento being a fourth grader. But I played along.
"Sindaco, muho gusto." Nice to meet you. In Spanish. I think.
My Italian certainly left something to be desired. In fact, my Italian left everything to be desired.
But I had to give it a shot. Laura and I were lost in the Greek temples of Agrigento, surrounded by friendly being half our size who spoke gibberish who seemed to think we were just about the most interesting things in the world.
We were Luke and Leia in Return of the Jedi, and they were the Ewoks.
"Cantadores famosas de America?" the Sindaco asked, pointing to me and Laura. It means "famous singers from America" in Spanish. I assumed it meant the same in Italian.
"No, no," I replied. But that wasn’t good enough for the mayor.
I assumed that he, being the mayor and all, knew at least a little Spanish. "Nosotros somos estudiantes de America," I explained.
"ESTUDIANTES DE AMERICA?" The mayor’s classmates went wild. So did his teachers.
"AUTOGRAFIA!" they shouted. "AUTOGRAFIA!"
Laura and I spent that afternoon signing autographs for Agrigento children who were more impressed by American students than famous singers.
The Agrigento students showed me a notebook they kept of predicted soccer scores. Today’s debate was over the Florentina Manchester United game. The mayor, wearing an Adidas soccer hat, had chosen the Italian team, Florentina, to be victor.
I knew Manchester United to be the best soccer team in Europe, and perhaps the world. I took my pen and amended the Sindaco’s prediction.
It was soon time for our bus to depart. I shook the little hand of the Sindaco. Laura and I thanked him for introducing us to his classmates, which he referred to as, not surprisingly, his "citizens."
"Prego," he replied. You’re welcome.
The next day, I learned that Florentina had won the evening’s game. Agrigento’s youngest ambassador had correctly predicted the upset.
"Sengferguy?"
Great. The first five minutes in Sicily that Marc and I are not side-by-side, and someone is already trying to talk to me in Italian. I knew I should have paid more attention to Carmine’s lesson.
"Sengferguy?" he repeated.
"Scuza." I couldn’t remember if that one meant "excuse me" or "sorry." I guess either would be applicable. I just hoped I wasn’t confusing the word for "sorry" with the word for "you have a really big nose."
The man with the big nose saw that I didn’t understand. He composed himself and tried again.
"Song for Guy." He searched for the right words. English was clearly very difficult for him. "You requested ‘Song for Guy’ at my bar last night. The Elton John song. Do you not remember, Davide?"
"Si!" I finally understood. "Grazie!"
After a week in Sicily, all I could say was "yes," "thank you," and "no, I’m not a famous singer." And mabe "sorry." Or maybe "you have a really big nose."
I risked appearing ignorant and rude.
"Will you be at the bar tonight?" I asked slowly, hoping to show the pianist a fraction of the hospitality he had shown me.
He became frustrated once more. "Davide, I don’t understand the English too good."
He smiled and left the store. I would see him that night at the bar. I would shake his hand. I would say "thank you for playing my song."
There was a new pianist at the bar that evening. Massiciano had left for a vacation, and would not return to Taormina until I was back home. I would never again see this man who remembered my name and the song I requested.
I learned in Sicily that every human encounter is important. Every one.
The nymphs knew that their time on Earth was limited. They brought a basket with them to capture all that was naturally beautiful the flowers, the fruit, the soil to bring back to Mt. Olympus.
Zeus soon received word of the three disobedient nymphs and became angry. He sent Apollo, the god of sun, to punish them.
As the nymphs flew back to Mt. Olympus, they saw the wrathful Apollo and became frightened. They each fled to a corner of the triangularly-shaped Mediterranean Sea, dropping their basket of natural beauty into the ocean.
To teach the nymphs a lesson, the gods conjured the worst hurricane known to man, and threw it into the Mediterranean. The nymphs hid from the storm, but watched as a lightning bolt hit the basket of natural beauty, transforming it into a naturally beautiful island. Sicily.
Zeus condemned the nymphs to guard the three corners of the island. They remain there to this day.
 |