July 20, 2015
(sung) Palermo Palermo Palermo. Pal-err-mo!
There is a bit of a breeze. The palm thongs visible from the breakfast-room window wave furiously back and forth.
Then at eleven o'clock I step out of the hostel into the sunny street and a hot air fan meets me. The hostel side of the street is just too hot. The heat radiates off the wall and the paving slabs. And as soon as there's a break in the traffic, I make a dash for it across to the shaded side of the street, where all the people walk. The pharmacy sign a little further shows +44.
The Dutch guy staying in the hostel says to me in a preachy manner "You've been here a week, and you haven't been to the beach. When it's so hot, the only thing you can do is go to the beach." I counter "I'm not a beach person. Anyway, do you have to be doing something, like going to the beach."
Come to Sicily in the cooler months: March would be ideal.
Despite humidity, which make thin Summer wear wet and translucent, my days here have been worthwhile. I've finish my book: The Conservationist, by Nadine Gardener: a good read, though without plot and open to reader interpretation. The journal is up to the present. And I've enjoyed spending time with others staying in the hostel.
Mat and Kabrina from New York were always good company and Aude from Paris spent a whole day chatting with me. My birthday. What more birthday present could I ask for. A mature thirty-six year old in perfect shape. I was smitten by her pale blue eyes and blond hair and her musicality, playing the piano in the common room, playing drums and she also has a great singing voice. Palermo Palermo Palermo. Pal-err-mo, she improvised with soprano voice, dropping the tone in Pal-err-mo, at the end.
This morning I'm on my way to the ferry terminal to buy a ticket for the evening sailing to Genova. I remain on the cooler shaded side of the street, toddling along in the crowded narrow walkways by construction site hoarding to the waterfront where five big ferries are docked ticking over with an audible murmur; and a sixth ship, a cruise-liner, all ten decks tower above the others.
A man is ahead of me in the ticket office discussing his possible options with the girl seated behind the glass window. Then having decided, begins buying a ticket, the girl asks for his passport. "Hello" an alarm goes off in my head, followed by a tweeter of birdsong. Shouldn't I have brought along my passport?
I rise and leave. I don't bother with the shaded side of the street as I dash back to the hostel on the empty hot sunny side. Forty minutes later I've returned and have bought my ticket. Todays price is a hundred and eight-six euros, economy with a cabin. A seat ticket is only six euros cheaper.
I return to the hostel where I remain until its time to return for the ferry. I reply to guestbook messages in this journal. Thanks for sending. And engross myself in the BBC World Service program "World Book Club" featuring Mark Haddon answering questions on his book "The Strange Incident Of The Dog In The Night". Thanks to Graham Finch for sending the link. Then watch the Tour De France, stage sixteen to Gap. The helicopter shots show incredible scenery.
I set off for the port at seven. The loaded bike feels unwieldy after eight days off and the tyres should have been topped up with air of course.
I stop in the piazza down from the hostel to do so, leaning the bike against a wall and remove the rear left pannier for better access for the pump. Then once I've done, I ride on, making quick progress in the melee of cars and scooters. Outside the ticket office where I'll get my boarding pass, I pick the bike up, nothing more than to see how heavy it is; and notice it is a lot lighter than usual. Then, see the rear left pannier isn't there. I forgot to put it back on when I stopped to pump the tyres, Haven't I.
The pannier would no longer be there. Someone would've lifted it by now, crosses my mind as I ride back out of the port. I'll be buying new rear panniers because of a moment's absent-mindedness. And remember then, I'm not only losing my rear pannier, my cycling shoes are in there; and moments later it comes to me that, the Trangia stove and cooking gear are also in the bag. A big lost and a big inconvenience for a while until I get the chance to replace things.
I put all my former cycle-courier skill to the test as I ride fast and efficiently through gaps in traffic, back to the spot. I don't see the pannier at first, until my gaze follows the wall further, and there it is sitting propped against the building by a basement grill as I'd left it.
Later the ferry is barely half full and I've the whole four berth cabin to myself. I shower and later have dinner: a beef stew costing eight euros and afterwards, have a half litre of wheat beer for another five ninety, before going to bed at half eleven.
Tuesday
In a cabin without natural light there is no morning. I wake up sometime and laying awake, think it must be early. But soon there's a tannoy announcement: the English "The self-service restaurant on deck seven, will be closing in ten minutes......."
Jumping out of bed, I take my broken watch-strap timepiece from my trousers' pocket and see it is ten to ten. Dressed, I head for the Ocean Café and have a cappuccino and muffin breakfast for four euros ninety. Extortion.
Of what remains of the morning I write my diary up to date.
At a lunchtime I see lots of passengers bring out their own food in big thermal picnic boxes: the sort you put in the boots of cars. No wonder. I to my detriment have failed to do any shopping in preparation for the voyage. I could starve, but decide to spend money instead and go to the self-service restaurant. The queue is long and by the time I've reached the food display and seen all the nice dishes fellow passengers have put on their trays, I've mellowed to the idea of spending money. I take a fish salad; a main coarse of turkey breast; runner bean and carrots, which is charged extra to the main coarse; and, I can't resist a 375ml bottle of Cab Sau; which, at the cashier rings the total up to thirty euros. A small fortune. At least I'm not hungry for the rest of the day.
I spend the afternoon in the Ocean Café reading a photography magazine.
The ferry arrives on schedule at five and I return to the same hostel I stayed in at the beginning of April, but being high-season, they're full. The owner Mathis, kindly rings up and reserves a place for me at the "Ostell Di Gioventi": the Italian Hosteling International, located on top of a hill overlooking the centre and port: it is a fair old climb getting there.
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