We happen to have landed in Syracusa, in south-eastern Sicily.
Syracusa is a wonderful city, smack dab on the sea. Syracusa plays no favorites; it has both a Greek amphitheater and a Roman one. There are castles and temples and all manner of tourist fodder.
But back then, the streets were owned by young men guiding Vespas with whichever hand wasn't gesticulating wildly.
In Sicily, circa 1984, it seemed every young boy was handsomely endowed with a special gene that produced a particular type of annoyance. This gene evidently compelled the young lads to:
- Obtain a Vespa by any means possible
- Acquire a hammer and nails
- Bang nails into the rudamentary "muffler" of the Vespa, leaving the tailpipe riddled with holes
- Ride said snarling Vespa amongst dense packs of Vespas through the main shopping streets in town--preferably with a young lady balanced on the flimsy back fender--ignoring pedestrians, one-way signs, police wielding Uzis, and little old ladies carrying bags of fish
- Turn Vespa around and repeat as necessary, or until each citizen trying to cross the street senza Vespa develops murderous fantasies.
It was not pleasant walking the streets of Syracusa on a summer's eve in 1984. Old women clutching shopping bags pushed befuddled tourists out onto the streets as Vespa bait, hoping our run-over bodies would eventually pile up so high the Vespas, weighted down with their hanger-on love-bunnies, couldn't make it over the top. If victorious, the women would cross the ingenious body-bridge to get home before their precious anchovies rotted.
I fumed. Vespas passed. They fumed too.
I hardly knew what day it had become by the time I reached my hotel. I didn't care. With the ire of a man who's spent countless hours at the side of the road waiting for a hole in the endless, snarling herd of Vespas, I devised a plan to get back my sanity.
I would eat my way through this.
Really, the antidote for venomous thoughts, as everyone knows, is a well crafted meal enhanced by copious amounts of vino. We left the hotel and entered the first restaurant we saw that displayed the box of seafood on ice, you know, the one where the fish gaze at you, lusty as streetwalkers, "Pick me! Fry me! I'm fresh as a daisy! Oil me up and lay me down on a hot grill!"
I fumbled with a roll of lire in my pocket. There were lots, but then again...they were lire.
Before the waiter could drag us over to a table, I pointed to a nice lobster, some scampi, and a few clams spitting deliriously. "Have them cooked the way the chef recommends," I told the waiter as if I was used to having money.
We feasted on fruits of the sea. We drank wine.
Wine, of course, lubricates one's foreign-language-speaking machinery. After we had folded our napkins in resignation at the end of our meal, the waiter zipped over. He wanted to talk about the Olympics. We were willing.
We carried on quite a conversation in fact. The waiter was big on international cooperation, friendship between peoples everywhere, the 100 meter sprint and...i digestivi.
You drink a digestivo after your meal, to settle your stomach. The waiter had decided to foster international friendship by pouring not one, but about six different digestivi, each local, each having something to do with his family, who ran the restaurant. In the back of the bar, the Olympics played out on the fuzzy screen of a small television.
As guest athlete at this Olympic drinking game, I couldn't refuse. Refusal, as kind as it would have been to my liver, wouldn't reflect the spirit of cooperation that the games symbolized. And besides, the drinks were free. Bottoms up!
Like a marathon runner who'd been drafted from the rank of towel boy, I finished all six drinks--late and on very wobbly knees--before the last runner crossed the tape on the little TV.
And it worked. I was finally feeling happy. My faith in humanity had been restored. And by the time we stumbled out into the cool of the moonlit night, there were no Vespas.
(And, just so you know, the pink elephant standing beside me waiting for the traffic light remarked upon the immense quiet as well.)
