Sean B. Fitzgerald It doesn’t go something like this, it goes exactly like this.

Pozzallo: A Retrospective

I knew what I was doing when I bought my tickets. I wanted to go to Italy. I mean, who doesn't?

But when most people travel to Italy, they see the sites. Rome. The Vatican. St. Peter's Basilica. The Sistine Chapel. The Coliseum. And so on and so forth.

I, on the other hand, had booked tickets to Sicily. Pozzallo, Sicily to be more specific. A small beach town on the southern coast of the island. And I did it for no reason other than the fact that I wanted to experience something entirely different. Sure I've been to other countries before. Canada, Bermuda, Dominican Republic, Ireland. But the experience wasn't entirely foreign. It was either too similar a culture, or I was on some resort with other fat, white Americans. I felt too at home. I wanted to be uncomfortable.

Pozzallo, Sicily made me uncomfortable, in a good way. In case you're wondering, I decided on Pozzallo because my friend has some of his extended family living in the town. So when I arrived, I wasn't completely lost. I had a good friend, but more importantly, a translator.

And I really needed one. Prior to booking my trip, I was told by Luigi (my friend) that many of the locals spoke English, or at least broken English. But after only ten minutes in town, I knew that wasn't the case. Sure, maybe one or two could hold a limited conversation in English, but for a majority of the time, all I got for my greetings were blank stares. I mean, even "Hello, how are you?" was returned with a look that said "What planet are you from?" I guess that's my typical American arrogance showing. We are the greatest country in the world, so everyone should speak like us, right? Exactly. It's settled.

Of course I'm kidding. But I honestly expected SOME English from these people. Aren't you required to take English classes in school in Europe? Shouldn't that be mandatory, because you kind of need it to function on Earth?

Sorry for the arrogance once again.

What I learned was that my expectations would have been met if I had went to a Rome, or a Venice. One of the larger cities in Italy. Over there, since it's more modernized and urban, a greater number of locals spoke English quite well. I decided to take a trip to a tiny town that's closer to Africa than Rome. I shouldn't have held such high expectations.

What I learned was that many of the men who were born in Pozzallo were destined for a life of a restaurateur or one for the boats off-shore. That's how you made your living. That was it. Or you could trek on over to the main land quite often and become George Clooney in Up in The Air. Constantly flying between Catania and Roma or Milan.

Digression: I should have written this post as soon as I got off the plane. When things were still fresh in my mind. The food, the music, the women, the culture, everything. It's been about a week now and all I have are the pictures I took from my trip. Sure they're helpful, but it's not the same as having the smell of the sea still in your nose.

Speaking of the sea, it was great. Obviously nothing like the Jersey Shore (the beach, not the show). The water was perfectly warm and perfectly calm. It was like an awesome bath. An awesomely salty bath.

It's difficult to segue into my description of the food I ate for the ten days I was in Pozzallo. Because truthfully, I could write about 1200 words just on the dishes I was served at my friend's family's restaurant. And I could write another 1200 words on the food I ate around Pozzallo. Everything was fantastic. Everything except the first thing I ate. It was some sort of fried rice ball filled with beef and marinara sauce. I'm blanking on the exact name and I'm too lazy to actually look it up, so I'll just stick with that vague description. Anyway, I had just landed in Catania and hadn't eaten anything that wasn't air-sealed in about 15 hours. So while waiting for my bus to Catania (an entirely different story), I pulled out 5 euro and headed over to a pizza stand. In retrospect, I should have just ordered the American-looking pizza, but I wanted to try new things. So I got the cashier's attention, pointed to the rice ball and raised one finger (I assume this gesture is universal for "Gimme, I want.") The cashier asked some follow-up question and I just nodded. He could have easily spotted me as a fumbling mono-linguistic American and said "I'm going to charge you double for this, okay?" and knew I would nod away. Even if it was double, it was only 2 euro and for it's size, that was a reasonable price. I was looking forward to eating this. I thought "Okay, this is my first experience eating REAL Italian food. Sure it's in an airport food court, but at least it's not the Olive Garden." Wrong. It was worse than the Olive Garden. The rice ball was mushy, unsavory, and lacked flavor totally. I was disheartened. Great start to my trip. Instead of having an empty stomach, I had a stomach full of Sicilian baby food. And a 2-hour bus ride to Pozzallo awaiting me.

I won't get into the bus ride. Truth be told, it wasn't that bad. Seeing that I was visiting a town my friend had been to a few times prior, I trusted his opinions and therefore I planned this trip on hearsay and hearsay only. There were no Fodor's or TripAdvisor. The answers to all my Italian questions came from the questions phrased like this "Hey Luigi, what about...?" So when he told me the ride to Pozzallo from the Catania airport was an hour, naturally I assumed, it must be an hour.

Two and half hours later.

Not joking, two and a half hours! At one point (actually, many points), I thought I had got on the wrong bus. After the first hour I began looking for signs to Pozzallo. I knew it was on the beach, so I started looking for water. Nowhere. There were just old, long since used vineyards and unfinished buildings for as far as the eye could see.

After the second hour, I started my mental panic. "Okay, I'm half way around the world, in Sicily. I'm on a bus that's seemingly meandering through the Sicilian countryside. I have no phone. I speak no Italian and I'm fairly certain none of these vineyards have WiFi. Holy shit."

Then, off in the distance I see a sign. It's for Pozzallo. Enormous sigh of relief. Okay Luigi, that was the longest hour of my life. (He would later tell me that I probably got on a different bus that took a longer route. Sure, because that makes sense)

I can't be certain whether or not I experienced "culture shock" for my time in Sicily. Culture shock is defined as the anxiety and feelings felt when people have to operate within a different and unknown culture such as one may encounter in a foreign country. Sure I felt those things. But sometimes I feel those things operating here in America. Surprise, disorientation, uncertainty, confusion. Those things are universal. In terms of actual "shock", I felt nothing of the sort. The greatest barrier I encountered (as mentioned earlier) was the language. Other than that, the Sicilian customs and culture were nothing so different that it made me sit down and assess what the hell was going on.

Except maybe the kiss one cheek, kiss the other greeting. That took me aback, even though I knew it was coming. Initially, when I first met my friend's relatives, I would shake hands. Obviously. I've been shaking hands with people I just met for my entire life. I'm kind of an expert at it. But throughout the trip, when I ran into those of whom I had met previously, suddenly I was being pulled in for the kiss/kiss salutation. Now, with the ladies, I don't mind so much. In fact, I wouldn't mind adopting it here in the states. It's a nice way to break the ice and the ever apparent sexual tension. But with the guys, not so much. And it's obvious why. No need to get into it. But anyway, by the end of my stay, when I was saying my goodbyes, I embraced the farewell gesture. I took it as a compliment and a sign that I earned their respect.

I wish I had a camera crew following me for my nine nights in Pozzallo. That way I'd be able to edit and produce my experiences into an hour long special similar to an episode of No Reservations. Like No Reservations, the episode would center around the food. I would make mention of the Brioche con Gelato, the espresso after every meal, and the horse panini I ate at 3 o'clock in the morning. The footage would show a very tall (relatively), white 22-year old man walking the streets of Pozzallo as the locals stared and shielded their eyes from the glare. I'd narrate over the footage discussing my interactions with the locals, my friend's family, and a few Pozzalloites (?) who were my age and spoke English quite well. I would make my closing remarks and try desperately to summarize the entire trip as succinctly as possible. They would go like this:

I've never been adventurous. This was new for me. Prior to leaving, I kept telling myself "If I don't do this now, I'll never do it". So I tried my best to get the most out of my time in Sicily. I ate everything, I asked as many questions as possible, and basically said "yes" to everything I was offered. I had fun for a majority of the time. And during the times I didn't, it was an experience nonetheless. I regret nothing.