15 Oct 1985, Posted by Scott An Chora in Travelogue, No Comments.
10/15 Positano, Italy
Just as the sun was setting I was on a train bound toward Sicily. I entered a compartment were an older gentleman and two young ladies had made themselves at home. First I thought that he was a dirty old man trying to pick up two young Italian beauties. Once he found out that I spoke English he included a few English words in every other sentence as if he was trying to invite me in their conversations. Some of the dialog would normally seem inappropriate outside of a brothel and perhaps could have landed him in jail. But they would laugh, smile and giggle as if he knew what buttons to push. Those girls were getting hot and I kept finding myself staring at one of those girl’s nipples. I swear they’re three times larger than they were just seconds ago. Then the old man sporting a smile I’ll never forget turn to me and questioned, “Would you like to date one of my daughters?” First I thought he was just pulling my leg, then he repeated the question in almost perfect English. “He is our father” one of them said while the other nodded in agreement. His mannerisms gave me the impression that mounting one of these young ladies right there was a good first move. I didn’t believe them. My mouth opened and the word “Wife” just rolled off my tongue. “Me have wife” he replied and gave another smile that was just as classic as the first and then pointed to the ring on his finger gesturing that he knew what I was talking about. He reached down, unzipped a bag and pulled out a bottle of cognac. He opened it up, took a drink and while handing it across the aisle to me he gave me a look as if he wanted me to know that he had been there also and then laughed. The four of us laughed and traded stories until we reached their stop. He translated everything I said into Italian so I never really knew if the joke was on me. About the time we had finished off the bottle the train had pulled into their destination, “One of my daughters?” “Sorry” I sighed. He shook my hand and I traded kisses with the two girls and watched them depart the platform from the window of my compartment wondering where that path might have taken me.
I was looking at an empty train with only my reflection keeping me company from the window that separated me from the darkness. I arrived at Villa Giovanni where I took a ferry to Sicily. I laid myself down along side one of the many windows. I don’t remember closing my eyes but I do remember the face of a janitor who popped me a couple of times with his broom and told me to get the hell off the boat. Apparently it had been docked for hours and besides the janitor it appeared I was the only other person onboard. It was an odd feeling walking off an empty ferry. It was late and I wasn’t up for walking so I walked in the door of the first florescent light I saw. It was quite a dive but I assumed it wasn’t very far from the next day’s boat. It all looked even worse in the light of day. I was surprised I wasn’t charged by the hour so I distanced myself quickly so nobody would associate me with that location.
When I reached Milazzo everything started getting weird. People that I crossed paths with began treating me as if I had committed a crime, as if I was covered in blood. I walked among them naive of their reasoning. I asked one gentlemen for directions. Once he realized I was an American he spit at my feet and said something in Italian in a tone that was cause for concern. I then crossed paths with a German about my age going in the same direction and it seemed wise to follow and let him do the talking. We both chartered a hydrofoil to Lipari, an island just off the coast of Sicily. We started out following a pair of young ladies that successfully lead to a pair of cold beers along the waterfront. When we reached the hostel we discovered that its doors would not be opened until early evening so we decided to go for a swim. It was a beautiful sunny day and we found a jetty where we could do some diving. I think it was the third time we were climbing back up the jetty when my German friend had cut his hand on a barnacle. The cut was deep enough to require stitches and he was bleeding all over the place so we flagged down a gentleman in view that was sporting a moped. We persuaded him to transport our injured friend to a local doctor.
My destination was a small island at the end of the island chain called Stromboli. While in Rome I met a young man who suggested that even though it was kind of an inconvenient trek, the view of the active volcano at night was worth the journey. Thank God the hostel here in Lipari handed out blankets because I was sporting only a bed sheet, bath towel and a jacket. I had made my mind up to steal the blanket on my way out and take it to Stromboli. Well borrow it. I’ll return it on my way back. That was my reasoning that made it OK. I claimed myself a bed and headed back down toward the harbor for a beer and to see if anything looked worthwhile. The company was not so good so I headed off to an early sleep.
