Trip to Sicily. Departure Day — Arrival Day. From Ridgewood to Frankfurt, to Milan, to Palermo.

— Small or large?

Barista at the Newark Airport’s Terminal C was a broken record. So were the travelers ordering beer at her counter:

— Large.

An airport bar, a starting point of a journey, it hands a legitimate excuse to do nothing and choose any time zone to live by without guilt.

Food selection at the terminal was not exciting. Not even a burger. Both very hungry, we split a salad and some sort of a wrap. On the bright side — with less food, golden glow comes faster, lasts longer, and is more exciting.

Scrolling through his work phone, Tom found some promising news from the city of our destination.

A gang in Palermo was breaking people’s bones to get money from their medical insurance. There’s always something to look forward to.

On a cross Atlantic flight we got really lucky. The plane was barely two thirds full and one seat in our row of three was empty. We spread around.

The flight was easy. Tom slept. I watched “Stand by Me” that was my dream to revisit for so long. The ode to childhood friendship — let me know if there’s a better one — set my mind the right way and I do not remember what happened next. This means I probably dozed off.

On a bathroom trip before landing, I discovered that the back of the plane was almost empty. if we did that reconnaissance before, we could have found a place to take a horizontal position. Both of us.

Since we gave up driving to airports in favor of public transportation, our timing became more reliable and environment less stressful. Seeing us clanking our carry ons along the road, neighbors could never tell if we’re off to a farmers market or China, to the village cobbler or Russia, recycling center or Sicily, London, LA, Jerusalem.

This trip consisted of a few legs:

— a 20-minute walk to the train station;

— a 30-minute train to the Secaucus transfer;

— a 30-minute train to the airport;

— a 10-minute Airtrain to the terminal;

— 7 hours to Frankfurt;

— 2 hours to Milan;

— 2.5 hour to Palermo.

Lizzie was making her own trip from New York through Brussels where she was meeting with one of the friends from her times in China.

These screenshots from Tom’s phone remind me what our family friend Bruce Murray once said.

In 1990, Bruce, the first American visitor — the first foreigner for that matter — to ever set foot into our carefully guarded by the iron curtain Moscow quarters, was comforting my mother in our kitchen on the eve of my first trip out of the country:

— Veronica, the world is getting smaller and smaller. Every year. These trips from country to country will soon be like trips to a house next door.

It was easy for Bruce to say that — even back then his mind was already on Mars.

First five legs of our trip were relatively uneventful. 

The sixth one almost didn’t happen. 

Our plane was late to Frankfurt making a two hour layover even shorter. Following the signs to all gates A, we crossed the entire length of the airport looking for our A23, only to discover gates A1-A20 and gates A30-A80. Gates A20-A30 were in the opposite wing and all this running around took almost an hour.

At the correct gate 15 minutes before the boarding was to close, we lined up at the passport control behind a group of extremely slow American students.

Three minutes before close, Tom was questioned by the passport control officer:

— And how long are you planning to stay in Germany?

— Hopefully, not more than 10 minutes.

It looked like we were not the only one off “that plane from Newark” and they held the one to Milan for good 40 minutes to get everyone on board.

We made it.

.

My first Italian gastronomic experience took place at Milano airport.

Absolutely starving, I wandered towards the food stalls and was musing over the slice of mortadella pizza when the gate announcement pulled me away.

At the gate, anticipating another hour wait, I lost my will power in front of Roman focaccia stuffed with prosciutto, truffles, and mozzarella cream. As I was devouring it, Tom declared airport food a mistake. Maybe. Truffle fumes lingered with me the entire two hour flight to Palermo and I am not sure which one of us was more happy.

Ryanair, a colorful bus with wings that accommodates flights around Europe. No food, no drinks, nothing reclining. They do have bathrooms though and get you to your destination.

In Italy, everyone knows everyone. Or so that feels. And they fly large family-&-friends clans together.

On a plane from Milan to Palermo, Tom and I got priority boarding passes. We went through the priority checkpoint and positioned ourselves near the doors to the outside — no jetways for Ryanair, you have to climb up the stairs into the aircraft.

An Italian couple squeezed in front of us. We moved back, giving them room. They immediately waved in another couple which, in a few moments, was joined by a group of elderly relatives with a younger friend traveling with two children. Lively Italian conversation took off in front of us as more friends and relatives were joining the group. 

As the time went, someone from now large crowd in front of us waved in a woman on crutches — skiing accident — with a companion, who as we later found out was boarding the plane with another friend, friend’s parents and a few children.

A middle aged brunette with flowing hair, Anna Magnani lookalike, clad in all leather pushed by and threw herself on the chair also in front of us — at that point we were moved back to the sitting area — hand over forehead and dramatically addressed no one in particular and everyone at the same time. In Italian, of course.

Oje vita, oje vita mia…
oje core ‘e chistu core…

Eventually, the door opened and very slowly, led by the woman on crutches, the flying group started onto the runway. Where was Fellini to capture this procession?

When on the plane, Tom and I were seated separately. Not sure what was happening around Tom, around me there was a party. 

Of course I was in the middle seat. A quiet girl scrolling though TikTok on my left was constantly nudged by the women right front diagonal from me. The woman on my right, took a couple of cat naps being constantly interrupted by a man across the aisle behind her and the one in front. A person directly behind me periodically was passing something to the person two rows in front of me — hand to hand.

At the end of the flight, it felt like they all were going down the stairs holding hands.

Sicilia greeted me at the airport with arancini. I resisted.

I did resist the cannoli, too.

Sicilian mountainous landscape was striking. Although as we were navigating the roads to Palermo, the contrast between the grandiose beautiful nature and somewhat unkempt trace of human activity was hard to avoid.

Driving and parking in Palermo is not for the faint at heart — streets are narrow, unexpectedly winding in every which way, lots of cars, and stop signs are there just for a decoration.

We left our car at the designated lot by Palazzo Di Giustizia and took off along the cobblestones with our carry-ons towards the hotel — about a 20-minute walk to Piazza San Domenico.

It was a Sunday night and Sunday is a fun day in Palermo. Our direct route was completely blocked by partying Sicialians and the guests of the island. There was no way we could plow through the tights crowds with our luggage. We took an alternative route.

Maybe it was an adrenaline that took over but I was excited to wander around unfamiliar streets even if with luggage banging on the cobblestones.

Every turn was a picture from a movie and I was clicking my camera nonstop lagging behind Tom.

So glad Tom took care of the navigation and I didn’t have to pay attention to directions and rather feel the place. All kinds of movies and books about Italy in general and Sicily in particular were floating through my mind. It was nice to lose the sense of time, age, and all that rational nonsense.

We passed by Massimo Theater, the largest one in Italy and third one to Paris Opera and Viennese Staatoper in Europe, from the back. It’s all symmetry and clean classical lines inspired by Greek temples. And it is huge! A quick research showed that these walls have heard Wagrner, Pavarotti, Maria Callas.

It is on these steps, the worst movie in the history of cinema — forgive me — has been shot. Yes, The Godfather III. The finale of the film when Michael is crying over the loss of his daughter was filmed on the front stairs of Massimo Theater.

Looking back towards Via Maqueda. These mountains in the back were similar to the Georgian landscape around the Black Sea of my childhood. My eyesight was bad as long as I remember myself. Looking at a gray collar above the buildings,  little me thought those were heavy dark clouds and I was amazed how consistently they hung in the same place without movement.

Sunday festivities mixing with the activity of street vendors continued all around Teatro Massimo.

Towards Via Roma, the crowds thinned out and disappeared. We moved faster.

Couldn’t resist to take a shot of the classic movie worthy laundry on the balcony scene.

Piazza San Domenico — our home for the next couple of nights.

Rooms of Le Stanze di Triyah where we stayed were located on the third floor directly above Maccheronai Vucciria. It was not a hotel, nor Airbnb but something categorized as specialty lodging or affittacamere.

Tom has a phenomenal ability finding these special interesting little places in primo locations for a decent price. Of course there were no elevators in the old buildings. But the climb up the marble staircase adorned with wrought iron, stone fountains, brick ornaments felt regal. To the contrast, all amenities in the room were the most modern. Our girls were impressed as much as I was.

When asked how did he find this exquisite guest house my talkative husband said:

— Dunno, I was looking.

The view from our balcony to the right was to Piazza San Domenico and we could hear the clock chiming every morning.

The view to the left was that of the market with all its shops and restaurants. 

On the day of our arrival lights and music were blasting.

That’s me in a slight disbelief about my whereabouts.

By each of our beds in the room, we found a set of earplugs which was unusual. And unnerving. Our hostess Anabella explained that it could get pretty loud at the market on weekend nights.

Nothing of sorts happened during our stay and we all slept soundly through the night. Plugs were left untouched.

Cleaned up and rested we ventured outside. Not ready for dinner we went for a walk.

It was getting dark but piazzas were still crowded with people eating, drinking, smoking.

Residential areas were more quiet.

Even at 10 o’clock the doors of food establishments were open.

At first, we moved towards Ballaro Market but it was closed and the streets around it were dark. We turned around towards main avenues.

Quatro Canti, Four Corners, the center of Palermo historic quarters where two major streets — Via Maqueada and Corso Vittorio Emmanuelle — intersect. Four concave buildings are framing the square. At the level of the first and second floors of each building there is a fountain with figures symbolizing four seasons of the year. Third levels are decorated with the figures of Spanish rulers of Sicily. Above them are female patron saints of Palermo.

Another place that can be found in so many movies. Wim Wenders’s “Palermo Shooting” is one of them.

Via Maqueda, one of the main streets Palermo. The stretch of it from the Four Corners to Piazza Verdi, for most of the day, is closed to traffic. It is hopping with restaurants, little shops, and crowds.

For our first Sicilian bite we landed at Vucia Ristorante on Via Maqueda.

Hoping to try as many places as possible but aware of becoming serious lightweights when it comes to food, we limited ourselves to I Taglieri di Salumi & Formaggi Tipici Siciliani — a board of typical Sicilian meats and cheeses.

Honestly, I can eat cured meats morning, day, and night and what we can get in our area of the United States is quite comparable. I was much more taken by the way these potatoes were infused with rosemary — different, caponata — very different with celery and raisins, marmalade — same, the favor was more vivid. That row on the right of the board made the one on the left different, too.

And the night, and the vibes, and the man across the table — all was contributing to the golden glow of the moment.

With Trinacria — a female head with three legs bent to resemble the shape of the island — being the official symbol of Sicily there are unofficial ones. Big bright yellow lemons definitely speak Sicily. And they are everywhere — on textiles, ceramics, buildings.

Restaurants take time and care to grow real lemons in pots just for a decoration. And they are so perfect — leaves and fruit — that they look unreal.

Speaking of restaurants. Once off the main street, we found this little gem of a hangout for locals with tables placed outside on a quite a slope. 

Here, everyone knew everyone, like on that flight from Milan. Everyone knew the owner and he knew them all, too.

Taverna Celso — the best people watching place in Palermo.

The man of the house was with his dog at the cashier register.

White fitted jacket, no obvious shirt but a beautiful colorful scarf around his neck, and a cigar, he ruled a place without a word or facial expression. Young employees at the counter seemed to be getting the vibes of communication through the air.

Meanwhile outside emotions were spilling over.

Occasionally, the man would step to the front door to look around his kingdom.

People were coming and going and everyone was greeting everyone as friends would.

Years ago, fresh from Manhattan to New Jersey, we lived next to an American family with three daughters of kindergarten-elementrary school age. Still on my Moscow-New York habits of sitting down for dinner around 8 pm, I was so surprised that the little girls were sent to bed so early that they have never seen lightning bugs, one of the greatest pleasures of American early summers.

In Sicily, children’s bedtime point tipped the other direction. Way past the usual hours, the mothers were gathering here with babies in their strollers for a drink and a puff. Very well behaved and obviously accustomed to the ritual children were sleeping or quietly sitting in their strollers.

Meanwhile, the man inside continued greeting his regulars — still without many words — looking very regal.

Just one last look back at the place before heading towards dinner and bed.

My early images of Italy go not to the neorealism of Visconti, Antonioni, or De Sica. Obsessed with suspense, my mom was binging on Damiano Damiani. Parental discretion out the door, I was there next to her agonizing over the fate of the republic.

Finding some of these images now, after all these years, in real life. Interesting surreal feelings.

Italy and football, the one known in America as soccer. Here, it’s not just about game and goals. It’s about community, pride, passion, culture, identity. We were in Palermo off season and even during slow times people were congregating around outdoor TV monitors to check the score — all ages, genders, cultures.

Via Roma at night.

We approached our Vucciria quarters from Via Vittorio Emanuele and the place was definitely winding down. Just a few hours ago, this little square was packed with people dancing, drinking, just hanging out.

A few osterias were still open and servers strategically positioned outside were luring passers by in.

We gave in at Osteria Dadalia. Who knows why. Maybe we were dangerously close to our hotel and had to eat before we turned in. Maybe the servers were especially energetic and enigmatic with their calls. Maybe the sitting arrangement was romantic. Maybe we were plain tired. Everything what we saw on our walk looked great — you gotta land somewhere.

Deceivingly titled in English, inside, menus were all Italian. And although I do not speak Italian, for some reason, the content was easy to understand.

If at Vucciria’s Dadalia they served only bread, I’d go there just for that.

Usually the one to avoid bread to save the space for what’s coming, I really loaded up on this charred goodness. Antonio, our server, said they make this bread from leftover pizza dough on premises. Imagine that!

Caponata #2. Honestly, I’ve just learned that this dish is a Sicilian thing. I knew it was Italian but that was so specific to this island that was new to me.

Many cultures have this stewed eggplant variation. Russian eggplant caviar for one. Georgian adjapsamdali. Greeks and Moroccans have their own. What was striking here is olives contributing the brine, sweetness delivered by raisins, and celery. I like celery but never would I think to add it here. It so works! Although Sicilian celery is different from what we have in America — much more tender and mellow. The subtle crunch of it is so perfect.

On a trip to a foreign country, most people try to learn basic phrases in the language of that country: hello, good night, please, thank you. I have my emergency vocabulary ready, too. Not speaking Italian, I can say Frutti di Mare.

Hearing that, our server nodded eagerly and in a few minutes appeared with this plate.

It pays to be prepared.

Spaghetti alle vongole was extremely al dente. So much so that we suspected they rushed the dish to get us out quickly as the place was probably closing. Nevertheless, it was good and that little crunch didn’t put us off.

By the morning — we took leftovers to our room — pasta reached the perfect state of readiness and I had a good snack on the balcony while Tom was still sleeping.