I went
blonde for a while, a rash act spurred on by both desperation and the desire to
reinvent myself. I am at an age where a woman might be forgiven for wanting to
try on another personality, another life even, and at the same time, do
something about her hair. The gray at my sensibly just off-center part has
started to come in coarse and plentiful. Given my height, the top of my head is
highly visible real estate. Going blonde
I thought might make for easier upkeep.
Blonde was a
mistake. We’ll just be frank about it. It was, in a word, disturbing. Since
then, over the span of a year, I’ve experimented with various shades of light
brown: gold, natural, warm, ash,
honey. Always hoping to find a miracle
in a box, I’m as gullible as beauty product consumers come.
In a similar
attempt at reinvention, or perhaps reinterpretation, I attended a writers’
conference in Sicily last September. I
am, conveniently, an actual writer, with actual books and many articles to my
name. But ‘owning’ that designation as
some might say requires a self-confidence that doesn’t come naturally to me.
And conferences of any sort are most apt for participants who work well and
play nicely with others. Also not my
strong suits. I am nervous in crowds and
ill at ease with strangers – your garden-variety recluse.
But I’ve
wanted to change. I’ve wanted to become a better, more genial, outgoing human
being. I make the effort. An example: So it’s the middle of the week at
the conference, a leisurely morning amidst a fairly leisurely week, as
conferences go. I’m seated at a long
table with a few others, chatting as we sip coffee and rip into pastries (me)
or spoon out the contents of tiny plastic tubs of yogurt (others). And I’m making conversation. So far, so
good.
A member of
the faculty takes the empty seat to my right. I recognize the face and know it
belongs to someone of literary stature, and wish I had read more than the
titles of the writer’s works before finding myself at the person’s elbow.
Buoyed by the
minor conversational victories at the table, I think to myself, “Self, this
would be a fine time to practice your pathetic interpersonal skills.” I say, “Good morning!” Others do as well. I introduce myself. And I blunder straight ahead. I ask about the writer’s work.
The writer
contemplates the items on the breakfast tray. No eye contact is made. There is a grimace,
and a short pause. And then the writer says, “I haven’t had my coffee yet.”
A true statement.
The writer had not. I consider this. The saw about old dogs and new tricks
crosses my mind.
This exchange
wasn’t characteristic of the conference as a whole, though it summed up in
hindsight a series of my own missteps, missed opportunities, mistakes, much
like my hair color experiments. Why didn’t I participate in the group reading?
Why did I falter, refrain, hold back?
Regardless, I did that week meet some inspiring folks and make a few new
friends, and I received invaluable encouragement and instruction concerning my
work. It was meant to be.
For this
reason: if I hadn’t attended the
conference, I never would have gone the extra mile -- making arrangements to spend time with my
daughters in Palermo, the birthplace of my mother’s parents. And in the end, Palermo was the real
classroom.
I loved Palermo, though of course I was hard-wired to love it. I was
enthralled by the mix of ancient and modern, the music of languages from all
over the world, and by the fascinating parade of people in all sorts of
costumes: men in Muslim attire, women in bright saris, the beautiful Sicilian
girls and handsome young men in the late summer garb of youth, and older
couples walking together hand in hand, dressed as if for a first date.
Palermo is not entirely tourist friendly. Sicilian is not Italian, and French is more
widely spoken than English, as the guidebooks warn. However, if you travel with
your beautiful daughters, language barriers often disappear. Rick Steves
probably doesn't mention that.
I took the bus
tour twice just to drink in the sights, and we walked miles every day.
Palermo is a feast for but also something of an assault on the senses.
It's noisy and congested, and not a clean city; the sidewalks are littered and
graffiti adorns many buildings, occasionally even the most sacred structures. I marveled at it all.
We took a cooking class with the Duchess of Palma, and made an
excursion to Mondello Beach one afternoon that turned rainy. Another day, while
the girls trekked up Mt Pellegrino, I hopped on an open-air tour bus to
Monreale. Waiting for the cathedral to
unlock its doors for the afternoon, I ate a plate of ravioli and enjoyed a
glass of local white wine served in a goblet the size of a goldfish bowl. As I stepped into the towering nave, the
majesty of the space, the overwhelming splendor of the golden mosaics brought
tears to my eyes.
People watching enlivened every step of the itinerary. Sightseeing
on foot, we passed a group of laborers gathered around a table at midday for
some game of chance in front of the Norman Palace, and I wondered how many
years these friends had met for that entertainment. And there was the elegant
gentleman in his fine suit and bow tie, holding court at a table beside the
entrance to a posh eatery. “What’s his
story?” I asked the girls as younger men stopped to bid him hello and pay their
respects.
Street crime is a concern in Palermo; we were always, smartly, on
our guard, though one evening we were followed back to our bed and breakfast.
We sought shelter in a gelato shop until our unwelcome hanger-on grew impatient
and took off. And at many a corner, even
in the cafes, beggars confronted us, some selling flowers, some simply holding
open their palms. I confess that only now and then I capitulated. One
solicitor, hopping from table to table while pushing a baby in a stroller and
leading another child by the hand, did not win my sympathy. Or Euros.
Most days, the girls and I scheduled our expedition around food and
wine, consumed in outdoor cafes while breathing in the bustling, gorgeous atmosphere
of Palermo. We didn't get through even
the short list of "must sees" I'd drawn up before hand, but the time
away -- to see my grandparents’ homeland, to simply enjoy the city without a
“to do” list -- provided not only vivid memories I’ll carry the rest of my life,
but a glimpse of possibilities. It was,
as such journeys often are, transformative.
As I write this, I’m thinking of those foodstuffs and local wine we
sampled: the octopus and anchovies that
took center stage; the blood orange in salads; the almonds and jasmine that graced
several plates. And the astonishing beauty to be found in that blend of the
historic and the “au courant,” the strange nonchalance of drinking a cappuccino
in the shadow of a 16th Century church.
I’m also thinking that perhaps even a travelogue as brief as this
one ought to mention the dogs of Palermo. Stray dogs are part of the
scenery. They slept in alcoves and
sprawled out comatose on sidewalks; stood guard on street corners; or traipsed
about in motley pairs. Some were used as
props for panhandlers. One homeless man sat on a doorstep, surrounded by his
few belongings and his napping pack of four.
Pampered pets, too, swelled the scene: Puppies and old mutts with
their attentive best friends; dogs the size of kittens out for a stroll,
tugging at the ends of jeweled leashes. And one memorable pair of dogs, and
their memorable owner, a woman roughly my age, wearing a finely tailored jacket
and expensive boots, shoulders back and head held high as she strode down a
wide avenue, with two large, handsome dogs strutting ahead. Not a matched set,
not litter mates, but close enough to make a lasting, intimidating impression.
She was a honey blonde, that woman. It suited her. As did her confident,
“don’t even think about it” attitude, offset just the tiniest bit by her slight
smile.
Some mornings, when it’s below zero here in Vermont, I check the
temperature in Palermo, where, the Duchess proclaimed, it never snows, and I
think about how lucky I was to have visited with my daughters, how much I’d
like to go again. In that captivating city, I saw the faces of my cousins in
the crowded streets. I saw my mother carved in marble.
I returned home with a handful of authentic Sicilian recipes and a
deep respect for pesto, chickpea fritters, and gelato: an enlivened love for
the past; and a renewed sense of what life – wherever lived – can be. And one of the first things I did, even before
I got over the jet lag and resumed the daily routine, was dye my hair back to
its rich brown roots.
**************
This column appears in the February 2015 issue of the award wining publication, The North Star Monthly. Check out their site:
http://www.northstarmonthly.com
