Arriving to Palermo

A scratchy click followed by a garbled voice jolts me out of an all-too-brief sleep. Opening my eyes to utter darkness, I think, Geeeez, that was loud! Scrunching my eyes closed again, I listen intently to the melodic syllables streaming out of the loudspeaker. What are they saying? The melody shifts to a staccato volley, there’s another scratchy click, then silence. What WAS that? I could NOT understand a single word.

The quiet soon gives way to the sound of sleepy passengers slowly awakening: a toilet flushes in the next cabin, footsteps shuffle in the hallway, sheets rustle in the bunk below. To confirm that the loud intrusion was a wake-up call announcing our arrival, I pull back the plaid curtains covering the porthole.

The solid sea-sky blackness has lightened, the forms of cranes, containers, and ships emerge against the industrial dock-scape. The constant hum of the engines that lulled us to sleep during the overnight passage now rumbles into a roar as the captain steers the behemoth boat into port. From my starboard vantage point, the silhouette of Monte Pellegrino comes into view, her magnificence undaunted by the veil of drizzly mist. It is dawn, raining and mid-July. I have come to Sicily with my parents and daughter to retrace my dad’s family roots, and we have just arrived to Palermo by ferry from Naples.

Exactly one century ago, almost to the day, my great-grandfather Calogero Albanese left this very port with his widowed daughter, Teresa and her two sons, Vincenzo and Eugenio Di Giovanni. They sailed to Napoli where they boarded the Lombardi, the ship that carried them across the Atlantic Ocean to America. On that July day in 1905, the Di Giovanni - Albanese family forever left their homeland, and 10-year old Vincenzo, my grandfather, forever left his childhood.

I wriggle out from under the military tight bedclothes and sit up, careful to not bang my head on the ceiling. Peering over the side of my bunk, I announce to my cabin-mates, “Pssst, we’re here! Time to get up, everybody!”

In the top bunk across from mine, 13-year old Camille is completely buried beneath the covers. I surmise that she is either trying to escape the noisy intrusion or is completely unfazed by it.

Dad is already sitting up in the bunk below, rummaging through his toiletries bag, getting ready to wash-up and check his blood sugar. Thankfully, he’s wearing pajama shorts with his white undershirt. He always used to sleep in his BVDs, but Mom must’ve demanded pajamas when they got back together.

Mom is up too; sitting pigeon-toed off the edge of the bed, in her pink-flamingo PJs and white anklet socks. She’s slouched over, looking glumly at the floor, elbows and forearms resting on her knees, hands dangling down. Lifting her face to look up at me, she sighs loudly, then slowly shaking her head side to side says, “Uh, I don’t know about this, Gloria.”

Attempting to lighten her dark mood, I coax as perkily as possible, “Oh, come on, Mom. It’s an adventure!”

“I dunno, this may be more adventure than I bargained for.”

“Your hair is looking a little punk, Mom,” I tease.

Shaking her unnaturally blonde head, she says, “I went with a short perm this time, to make things easier for this trip.”

Perched on the top bunk with my legs hanging over the side, I check that ‘all is clear’ before jumping down onto the floor. The getting up process is not so simple in this postage-stamp sized cabin. Four bunks and a night table take up most of the real-estate, with our luggage and shoes littering any remaining space. I grab my ditty bag and walk the two-steps to the sink, to wash my face, brush my teeth and put in my contact lenses. I’ll let Camille sleep a bit longer, since there are four of us and one bathroom. The impossibly small bathroom has a teeny-tiny shower squeezed next to the toilet. Dad, a short man with a robust belly, decides showering is not worth the risk of getting stuck. In a show of solidarity, we all skip the shower.

I don’t have a clue about when or how we are supposed to get off the ferry. The information announcement was so distorted by the loudspeaker, I couldn’t understand the English, let alone the Italian. Hearing voices and scuffling outside our cabin door, I open it a crack to peek on what other passengers are doing. The hallway is jam-packed with people and luggage. They’re lined up to disembark, but the queue for the elevator is not moving. We decide not to rush. Why hurry up to wait? But Camille still hasn’t budged!

In the singsong voice I recall from my school-day mornings, my mother coaxes Camille to get up, “Rise and shine, Camille! Honey, it’s time to get up. Rise and shine, sweetie! Come on, now!”

The mountain of blanket and sheets trembles and squeaks, then out pops a head of tousled golden-brown hair pulled up in a cockeyed topknot, stray strands falling across rosy sleep-creased cheeks. “Ok, Grandma.Are we there already? Is Grandpop still in the bathroom? I have to go peeeee!”

We each had a turn in the tiny washroom, and are now dressed, packed and ready to go. Camille and I shrug into our travel backpacks, adjusting shoulder straps and securing belt buckles so our hands are free to take my parent’s two rolling suitcases and hand luggage. My seventy-something, in-not-so-good shape parents have trouble walking. Mom’s right knee has an undiagnosed (or she won’t tell) problem that she stoically deals with by wrapping it in an ace bandage and walking with a cane. Dad hobbles along with an arthritic hip, insisting on not using a cane, but has to sit and rest when the pain gets to be too much. Fortunately, the hallway has emptied and we can walk right onto the elevator without waiting. I push the button to take us down two levels to the auto parking garage. I jump at the sound of a phone ringing in my purse. It’s a EuroPhone, recommended by a travel guide book, and purchased just for this trip. It’s my first cell phone and I’ve yet to master using it.

Last week, while on the train to Rome, the phone beeped and the word Ciao suddenly appeared on the tiny screen. “Ach, what’s happening? The phone is doing something!” I yelped.

My daughter looked over at the phone, rolled her eyes, and with pubescent attitude huffed, “MoOoOooOom, it’s a TEXT message!”

Still bewildered, I asked “What’s a text message? Where does it come from?”

Incredulous that her mother is so clueless, Camille impatiently explained, “Mom, people can send you a text instead of calling.”

“How the heck do they type a message?”

“From the keypad, MOM!”

“You’re kidding me. On this tiny phone? How is that even possible? Well, I’m not going to text on the damn thing. I’m sticking with normal phone calls.”

The phone is still ringing. I unzip the black pocket-sized purse that I always wear close to my body, and pull out the phone. Taking a deep breath, I press the button with a green phone icon and muster the courage to speak. “Buon giorno”.

The woman caller returns the greeting, “Buon giorno” and that’s where my comprehension pretty much ends. Overwhelmed by her speedy Italian, I stammer to interrupt the one-sided conversation, “Ah, scusi, un momento, per favore!” Quickly handing the phone over to my father, I plead, “Dad, you talk to her!”

He takes the phone, says something in Italian, then gives it back to me to disconnect the call. I ask him, “Well, who was it? What did you say? What did she say?”

Not offering much information he replies,“I don’t know, but I told her to call back later.” My father is first generation Sicilian-American and he grew up speaking the language with his family and other Italians in the neighborhood. But as the old people died, he spoke it less, so his Italian is probably fairly rusty.

The elevator comes to a stop and the door opens onto the top floor of the parking garage. We have to take the stairs down the remaining four levels and it is VERY slow-going. It’s a good thing we waited rather than attempt this with a bunch of impatient people in a hurry.

We are among the last passengers to get off the boat. The vehicles disembarked first and are already gone. Charter buses for tour groups and cars picking up family or friends have loaded and are driving away. Passengers that left their cars in long-term parking are now lined up to leave the lot. The place is clearing out fast. The four of us huddle together on the dock, surrounded by our luggage. I nervously wonder, How will we get to the auto rental agency? There’s not a shuttle, bus or taxi in sight! I’m appalled that I missed this crucial detail in my meticulous itinerary. Everything is closed, even the ferry office, on this wet and dreary Sunday morning. There are no cafes or sheltered areas where we can sit while I figure out what to do next. Spotting one of the boat attendants, I run up to him and ask, “C’e’ un autobus? taxi? Dov’e’ Europcar e Via Messina?” [Is there a bus? Taxi? Where is Europcar and Via Messina?]

Once again, not understanding the Sicilian response, I turn to my father and ask, “Do you know what he said?” Dad shrugs his shoulders, bends his elbows against his torso, flips his palms upward, then sharply juts out his chin. No words are necessary for me to grasp his Sicilian gestures for ‘I haven’t a clue!’ The attendant patiently repeats what he said, this time speaking more slowly. Finally, thanks to Dad dredging his memory, my nascent vocabulary, and a great deal of head shaking, finger wagging and hand waving, we figure out that there are no buses or taxis today, and Via Messina is in that direction, but too far to walk.Sensing our desperation, the attendant hails over a white cargo van and speaks with the driver. Before you can say arrivederci we are crammed inside that rusty old van with our luggage and four rough-looking dockyard laborers. The van is missing a bench seat and there are no seat belts, but we have a ride and feel safe with the kind-hearted men.

As the van drives away from the port, my mobile phone rings again. It’s the same woman who called while we were disembarking from the ferry. Weary from trying to make sense of a foreign language on the phone, Dad and I pass the phone to one of the workers. He obliges our request and speaks to the woman on the phone for what seemed like a long time, then relays to us an abbreviated version. Thanks to our meager Sicilian/Italian and LOTS of gesturing we got the gist of the conversation. The worker told the woman that they are driving us to the car rental office and she told him that the office is closed, but that she would meet us there.Okay! Mystery solved. I’m relieved that the woman probably won’t call again, then I hesitate. Why would the car rental agent call when the office is closed? Oh, whatever! What I need to do now is mentally prepare for driving Sicilian roads, up to the mountain village where both my grandparents were born.

The van pulls up in front of a metal shuttered store-front, with the green Europcar sign above the door. The place is indeed closed. The workers help us unload our bags in a pile on the sidewalk. Dad walks over to the driver, shakes his hand, tucking 10 euros into his palm. “Grazie!”we shout to the men as the van drives off. They wave “Ciao!” as the van pulls away. It’s around 8 am so we have about an hour until the car rental place opens. Fortunately, the Messina Bar e Pasticceria across the street is open! We are all a bit stressed and ready to sit down and have some breakfast! Camille and I tote the luggage, while my parentals carefully make their way across the uneven cobblestone street.

My mother plops down at a table, leans back in her chair, puffs out an exasperated sigh and says, “Now THAT was exhausting. You did a good job, Gloria --- you got us here. Camille, honey, go get Grandma a cup of cawffee.Make sure it’s not too strong. Jesus, the cawffee in this country tastes like shit! Next time I’m bringing my own Nescafe. I don’t see any Sweet and Low on the table. Camille, honey, ask the lady if they have any packets of Sweet and Low.”

“Ok, Grandma.Do you want some water? Something to eat?”

“Nah, I don’t like water and I don’t eat in the morning. Just the cawffee please, honey.”

Still panting from the effort of walking across the street, Dad pulls a leather billfold from his back pants pocket. He grabs a few euros and handing them to Camille, puts in his own order, “Get me a sfogliatell’ (ssfol-ya-tell) and a cappuccino. It’s the pastry that looks like a clamshell. Get something for yourself, whatever you want.”

“Okay, Grandpop!”

Turning sharply, I snap, “Really, Dad?” “Aren’t you NOT supposed to be eating sugar?” Unbelievable, but not surprising. My father is diabetic and has had two quadruple bypasses, but he continues to eat the sweets he loves, measures his blood sugar, and shoots the insulin accordingly. I call it Russian roulette. It’s just maddening!

Feeling a bit hungry and in need of some caffeine, I join Camille to help place our breakfast order. The cafe is empty except for us and the lady behind the counter. Returning to the table, I lay out the map to get oriented.My plan, once we pick up the car, is to drive to our farm-stay lodging in the heart of Sicily, settle in and rest a bit before trying to locate relatives. I want to avoid the horrific traffic of Palermo, so I’m looking for a route that will get us on to the autostrada with minimal driving on the city’s chaotic streets.

A woman about my age, wearing tan capris and a purple top, comes into the café.Walking up to our table she looks at me and inquires, “Gloria Di Giovanni?”

Tentatively, I reply slowly, “Si, sono Gloria.” [Yes, I’m Gloria]. The woman smiles, pleased that she found the right person. “Ah, bene!” Then gives me a warm hug and kisses both my cheeks.

I’m a bit puzzled, thinking, What a friendly car rental lady! I bet she’s the one who called!

Pointing to the car rental place across the street, the woman repeats the information she shared earlier on the phone “E’ chiuso.” [It is closed].

I nod in agreement and to confirm, I tell her “Aspettiamo aprire per il ufficio.” [We are waiting for the office to open]. At the same time, I’m thinking, How kind of her to retrieve us before she opens up the office.

A curly dark-haired woman in her mid-twenties, wearing jeans and a tee-shirt, enters the café walks up to us and speaks to the woman in capris. Nodding, the woman in capris says, “Si, Si”. She points to herself, then points to the curly-haired woman saying, “famiglia”

I nod to show that I understand, thinking Oh, it’s a family business. I politely introduce my family by pointing to myself, my parents and Camille and inform them, “Si, famiglia: mia mamma, mia papa’, mia figlia [my daughter]”.

The women look at each other and laugh. The woman in capris turns to me, earnestly repeating something about famiglia. I smile and nod, not quite getting the point of this conversation.

Sensing my confusion, the woman tilts her head back and lets out a frustrated sigh. She opens her purse, fumbles inside, then pulls out a piece a paper, which she unfolds and holds in front of my face. I immediately recognize the typed page with the embedded photos of myself and family as the letter I wrote with the help of my Italian instructor. Holding the letter in one hand and gently grabbing my shoulder with the other, she points to me with her chin, and says smiling, “Siamo cugini, cugina!” [We are cousins, cousin!]

Finally getting it, I shout, “Oh my god!Dad! This is the letter I mailed to all the addresses you gave me for our Sicilian relatives! These are our cousins!”

We are all out of our seats now, hugging and kissing and laughing and crying.The bar owner comes running out from behind counter clapping her hands above her head, exclaiming “Ah, famiglia dagli Stati Uniti. Che bellisima!” [Ah family from the United States. How beautiful!]