Mission to Palermo

Palermo Central Train Station

Read Part I

Part II

As we stepped out of the town hall fortress, we pondered what to do until we left by overnight train. A cappuccino was certainly in order.

A nearby café fit the bill, and as we relaxed from the stress of the trip and yet another government office, I noticed several older guys in aviator sunglasses – another signature fashion statement of the city – who were watching the street and their cellphones like movie-character mafiosi. I chastened myself for stereotyping, but also noted would be hard for criminals to find new career path even if they wanted to.

The battle against the mafia might be on, but few are likely to retrain and become accountants, especially in a place with 30 percent unemployment. Sure gangsters must be plentiful. What else are they going to do? Reportedly they have literally moved up the food chain to bring their business acumen to supermarkets, offering to supply tomatoes you can’t refuse.

After booking the overnight train to Naples and on to Milan, we set out to explore the city a bit under a blazing Mediterranean sun. I was astounded. I had no idea Palermo’s history was so complex, colorful and ancient – even for a European city.

Founded by the Phoenicians in 734 BC, it was later controlled by Carthage, the Romans, the Byzantines, an Arab caliphate, the Normans on their way to the Crusades (including Richard the Lionheart), the Spanish, the French and even the Hapsburg Austrians before Italy was unified in 1860.

The streets are lined with buildings that are not only old, they appear extremely old, unlike Milan, whose very-old buildings are maintained in pristine condition. In Palermo, baroque buildings look like they have not been restored at all, or rarely cleaned, since they were built under the wildly varied range of conquering peoples.

One structure sent chills up my spine. It was an archway guarded by four bare-chested giants on its stone façade. With turbans, sweeping mustaches and bulging muscles, they looked well equipped indeed to stand sentinel and protect the city in whatever century they were so arduously crafted. But then one has to wonder how well they in fact did do their job. In the relative sweep of history, the place was almost constantly changing hands.

During an al fresco lunch at a plaza surrounded by dilapidated buildings, I wandered over to an historical marker on a stand near where we were seated. It said that place is the actual first area settled by the Phoenicians more than two millennia ago. Underneath foot right there are tombs with ancient bodies still accessible to view, at least according to the photos. Today the plaza includes an old church controlled by the Vatican, chained and locked up securely on the day we were there. On its pillars were pockmarks that sure looked like they could have been made by bullets. It wasn’t hard to imagine firefights raging in the plaza. The church could have served as a sanctuary for more than worship.

Though stunned by the history and heat, we made our way to the central train station. An overnight sleeping cabin was available, but it included four beds. Who would join us, arriving in the night from a stop in this still-wild land?

We booked the tickets.

After buying some food in a raucous open air market, we boarded the train. Soon it was clear something was afoot. Mariella overhead train staff talking about a search of the train underway looking for a stowaway “that could pose a danger to passengers.”

Police on an all-terrain vehicle then arrived. Either the fellow wasn’t found or he was never there – no one was led away in custody.

Then with a lurch, we began the long trip back from beyond the boot of Italy to the northern elegance of Milan.

The brusque conductor checked our tickets, snapped down the sleeping berths, and moved on to the next cabin. We tried to settle in, eating some luscious fruit along with bread and cheese, but soon a shout arose.

We peered out to see our conductor confronting a diminutive younger man in the corridor. With a small fabric bag under his arm, the fellow had his head down, attempting to burrow under the arm of the much-larger conductor blocking his way.

“Basta!” the staff guy shouted and gave him a shove. The trespasser retreated, but we would learn he had far from given up.

As we rattled into the night it became clear the only sensible thing to do was try to sleep. I took the upper berth and managed to doze off.

But it wasn’t long before the cabin door slammed open and a man appeared in the half-light. He took his large luggage and easily lifted it high onto the luggage rack. I noticed he was wearing a waistcoat and looked as burnished by the sun as the Sicilian landscape. No pushover, this guy.

But he was as unobtrusive as possible. Again I was able to doze off, yet was again awakened by another loud racket in the corridor. All three of us – now a team sharing this trip for better or worse – went out to find the source of the noise and found a couple of girls shouting.

I lived in China for eight years, where the people are rightly famed for their loud “conversation”. These southern Italian gals could shout down a Chinese peasant, I thought to myself.

Later Mariella told me what happened in Italian. Both she and our compatriot asked them to be quiet.

“This is not your private train,” the most aggressive of the girls said – loudly of course.

I didn’t know what was transpiring in Italian but I could tell from the tone it was not civil in any way. Exhausted and hot, I added some good old American, though I admit it was not my most shining moment.

“Just shut up!” I yelled.

Shocked, Tiger Girl took a moment to process the Anglo-Saxon.

“Ah, vaffanculo!” she shouted. I got the meaning. Even then I found it interesting that fuck off sounds similar in Italian. She followed with other comments, which I assumed were additional obscene oaths or threats. All of this transpired down the full length of a rail car at perhaps 2 am. Luckily our tickets had placed us at opposite ends.

We three went back to our beds and settled in. And were of course were soon awakened by the arrival of the fourth member of our cabin. I was surprised to see a Chinese guy joining us – from what in the night I imagined to be the real wilds of Sicily. With a white sports shirt, white shoes, buzz-cut flattop haircut and placid demeanor, he was a welcome addition in my mind. After my long tenure in China, I was comforted it was a Chinese fellow sleeping across from me on the top bunk as we rode out the remainder of this surprisingly colorful trip.

I then heard another fracas and realized the man with the fabric bag was again trying sneak through our car. I deduced he must have paid for a seat only and was searching for a bed to sleep in. I reminded myself that I was lucky to have one.

“Basta!” it was again. By now the cheap sheet that once covered my bed was snarled around me, leaving course fabric to grate on my skin. I had given hope of sleep.

Soon the train stopped, followed by the sounds of groaning metal. I got up yet again, sure Mariella was awake as well.

“We are going on the ferry,” she whispered, explaining that we were headed across the short Straits of Messina by a ship that carried the train.

We stepped out of the cabin, where the conductor told us we could go above. We climbed the metal stairs to the deck and breathed some welcome sea air. I noticed both our conductor and the man with the fabric bag in the same general area aboveboard. Neither took notice of the other. It was a cat-and-mouse game, but nothing personal it seems.

Then I was told the rest of what Tiger Girl said. She had vowed to teach us a lesson in the morning. I had a fleeting thought of Sicilians and their legendary vendettas, but by now was far too exhausted to fully entertain the notion.

Already unsteady, we then felt distinctly disoriented, and I realized the ship was rotating to change direction. Though I was actually getting dizzy, I was sure I then saw two clean-cut American youths wearing white shirts, neckties and name badges walk out of the murky sea night.

“Look, there are some Mormons,” said Mariella. “I have often seen them in Italy.”

Relieved she saw it too, I recalled that I have seen them many times in various countries while they undertake a two-year mission required by their faith.

Still, that additional image put me over the line.

“I really have to rest,” I said. Mariella agreed, and we carefully descended the sharp stairs back to the hold of the ship and our now too-familiar cabin.

As we entered, I caught a fleeting glimpse of the man with the fabric bag, head down and determined, as he scurried down the corridor with no conductor in sight.

I whispered a quiet wish for his good luck.

Dawn brought its perspective and the trip lightened with growing daylight. Before too long we were in Naples. We talked for a bit with the Chinese man – he is from Sichuan, but that is about all we know. He speaks just a little Italian. We bid arrivederci to our other bunkmate, when I noticed he didn’t look quite as muscular as he did in the confines of our cabin. In the station, I kept an eye out for Tiger Girl, but she too had vanished along with the rest of the cast.

We then boarded the high-speed train to Milan, and in the comfort of the plush seats in an air-conditioned car, watched as the stunning Tuscan countryside flashed by at 300 kph.

Back in Milan, the US Consulate document was accepted by Italy’s complex bureaucracy, whose wheels continue to turn. From all signs it looks to be a happy outcome.