On Pantellaria
My sister had a wedding to attend to in Italy, friends from the UK to catch up with, and there I was taking an advanced after-life I wasn't sure I'd earned in Zena's Apparizione neighbourhood where rainbows curved for me, fire flies glowed for me, songbirds sang for me, honeybees buzzed for me and strangers said "ciao" and "bon giorno".
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not mine, credit in corner. |
I was running an experiment, and early results were promising - for me, the way to travel was to be somewhere, a tonic for something that had previously done my head in, which was travel in order to do something. El diablo has always found trabajo por mis manos inactivo and yes I know that's Spanish but the Devil certainly isn't from Zena, he's going to be Spanish (according to La Leyenda Negra) or Venetian like those terrible blinds for perverts.
My sister being younger wasn't there yet, and is perhaps just different, for I sense that to this day when she travels she wants to do stuff.
So with a nominal day or two to transit in and out of Zena, she suggested we Ryan-hop from Pisa, Tuscany to Trapani, Sicily to Pantellaria, end of the Earth. To which I countered "I wanna take a ferry ride on the Mediterranean" inspired by how easy Rick Stein made it look to just hope over to Corsica or Sardinia and I figured island hopping in the Mediterranean must be easy as breathing around these parts, "let's take a ferry to Pantellaria." So we bought return tickets to Trapani. For, if I was to sacrifice some of my 90 days tourist Visa to somewhere other than Zena, Mercantile Princess, I may as well cross off my ambition to take a ferry somewhere.
Anna and I had Focaccia down in Porto Anticho, and I showed her what had become my favourite lunch spot - a place where you could get a 4 euro meal that fed mostly stevedores and sailors, and if you dined in you would see a cockroach for sure and maybe a rat, but the food was just that delicious. I can't remember what else we saw or did, there certainly was not enough time to share all of Zena I had absorbed, and I must have been about mid-way so there was plenty for me left to absorb.
We trained down to Pisa, with enough time to get lunch from an Afghan kitchen that simply served us two portions of food, and time to take deliberately misaligned photos of us "holding the tower of Pisa up" before we were off to soak up the heady ambience of Pisa's Ryan Air terminal at the Gallileo airport.
We ate our Afghani food just outside the airport, then enjoyed an awful flight that thankfully landed in Tripani on time and was made less awful by having a seat next to Anna. Our Air-BnB host picked us up from the airport and drove us to the property we would stay one-night each way in. It was in that ride I got my first real experience of using google to translate conversations in real time, something that would clue me into the low usage cases of LLMs a decade later when Samsung would try and promote it during the Paris Olympics via a feature/benefit that had been around for so long.
Summer was in bloom, and Anna and I walked the streets of Trapani that night, and picked a restaurant where Anna ordered Pasta Alla Norma, and I ordered something unmemorable. The Pasta Alla Norma would haunt my sister in the best of ways, like Mark from Peepshow taking cocaine. Where my sister is a seasoned traveller it is in the knowledge that window's of opportunity are small for the vagabond, and if you have to eat a dish for breakfast lunch and dinner to compensate for a life of lacking, then that's what you do.
We retired to our nautically decorated Air BnB, one I would describe as "Tier-2" being that we had a place to ourselves, with "Tier-3" being the Air BnB that came to haunt Europe...of turning housing into hostel's with worse security, where you book a room, and then you share the place with a host of other transitional strangers including a bathroom, all trying to do their best impression of Victorian ghosts and pretending the other guests aren't there. I was lucky both in Zena and GDL to find Air BnB's that are "Tier-1" which was the original dream of Air BnB, where you rent out the guest room in a local's home, and have something akin to the adult-exchange-student experience.
Anyway, in the morning we had time to check out Trapani, my sister hoping to have time before our ferry departure to maybe get some more Pasta alla Norma in.
Trapani remains, really my only experience of Southern Italy, something that more recently I've been reflecting on as a lasting yearning especially after binge watching Gamorra La Serie (set in the Scampia neighbourhood of Napoli) and Cold Summer ("Il Metodo Fenoglio" set in the city of Bari, 1991) where though in my Italophilic heart I am Zenese, my eyes long to see and understand the Mezzogiorno.
We walked the boundaries of the port-come-peninsula, with some stone fortifications that kept southerly(?) winds out of Trapani's historic centre, out to the ports where my sister observed the first Italian man she regarded as 'a bit of alright' a stark contrast in our experiences of Italy, where I was overwhelmed almost to the point of being inured to the experience of turning a corner and meeting the most beautiful woman of my life. Or standing still and having the most beautiful woman of my life pass by. Or catching a bus and sitting opposite the most beautiful woman of my life. Or buying a pair of socks and having to interact with the most beautiful woman of my life. etc.
I have elsewhere to write about that. And have.
We walked out past various fish vendors until there was nothing but the Torre di Ligny between us and the sea, but didn't go in or investigate, then walked back, probably looked for Norma, grabbed our bags and went to board our ferry. There was another couple there waiting in confusion with us as we inquired of a ferry that arrived and departed until some port authority eventually informed us that our ferry wouldn't run today because there was "waves".
Unimpressed by the lack of robustness, this left us stranded, far from our next nights of accomodation, without an automatic refund of our ferry, no visible recourse and no wifi because we were standing beside the sea. We found some cafe where we could buy some drinks and get a wifi password, then did that hasty scrambling thing until we found a way to buy last minute tickets for some seats on the mail plane to Pantellaria that would get us to our accomodation on time.
We bit the bullet and bought the additional airfares, managed to get a taxi or uber or something to the airport and got away. The couple that were also waiting for the ferry had found the exact same recourse.
On the flight to the island, a local girl overheard Anna and I talking and we got talking and it turned out she was coming back to the island from University summer holidays in Canada to visit her family. My sister explained that she had found out about Pantellaria from the Tilda Swinton movie "A Bigger Splash" and liked the look of it, much like I had previously in my life visited Mumbai, India because of the book Shantaram. I asked for her number and she gave it, doing my thing where I establish vague expectations in women where they feel ambivalently creeped out and excited, I assume, one of those sour-grapes-if-you-do-sweet-lemons-if-you-don't type exchanges caused by asking for a woman's number in front of her mother and my sister. What was going on? I had an Italian sim card and credit, Anna did not.
You may have already deduced Pantellaria is not the easiest place in the world to get to. It is not exactly convenient, even for Italians or for that matter Sicillians or Tunisians. The next incident would be the "bitter" in any attempt to pigeonhole our trip as "bittersweet".
At the airport my sister went to arrange a rental-car. I forget how it would have worked if the sea had been smooth as glass as the ferry seemed to require, but Anna was able to obtain the keys to a nice little black hatchback of now long forgotten make and model. The couple who had made both the same travel arrangements as we had, and were Italian now departed from us by renting a Vespa like thing.
Because we'd had to forkover an extra hundo or something each to buy the plane tickets, we were both feeling snug with a buck when it came time to rent a car. As such, perhaps sensing my sisters hesitation, a guy on the desk opined that the insurance probably wasn't worth it, because for most damages to the car the premium would be more than cost. My sister took the advice and it seemed to make sense to me.
Only after keys had been exchanged for cash, did my sister realize her travel insurance covered any insurance premiums, but she had to buy insurance for rental cars. We followed someone, probably the same guy, to our Air BnB where we were met by a nice elderly couple that showed us around the lovely house and how to lock up and my sister and I observed Crucifixes and photos of the pope in every room, perhaps something that had lead to Pantellaria's decline in population that now left a whole house as affordable accomodation for us.
I forget how it was partitioned, but it must have been because we were introduced to a young attractive Italian couple by our hosts that were eating takeaway pizza on the patio and I think we asked for dinner suggestions before concluding that we were too tired, it was too dark and the roads around the island were too narrow for us to be bothered going anywhere.
I got a text response from the woman on the plane with a bunch of suggestions as to what to do and where to eat during our brief stay on the island. I thanked her, and we took, mostly the eating suggestions and also where to best view sunset from.
Driving around the island was a nightmare, and the brunt of that nightmare was born mostly by my sister. Being 9 years ago now, I feel like the first thing we did was circumnavigate the islands outer coastal road. It's not quite one of those Peruvian Andes roads, but it is like one lane and a half, and it isn't one way, furthermore a massive water tanker seems to drive around the island constantly turning driving around Pantellaria into something more akin to Frogger.
There was a one-way street my sister and I managed to drive the wrong way up, getting quite harsh jeers from the locals. This aside though, it was more a so-far-so-good kind of vibe where we hiked up to Pantellaria's highest point on "Monte Grande" 836m above sea level. The dirt was full of ash I remember that because a large chunk of the island's tree line had recently burned, but I can't remember if I already had gone through the ordeal of sourcing Eurotrash white Ontisuka Tiger Slip on shoes.
Fortunately my sister took photos that are preserved across time and space. I actually have returned to Eurotrash white since, and really love how the white turns to dirty grey and fades over time as shoes turn into socks. But this is probably why the ashy dust on my feet was so memorable.
Things then began to fall apart. I can't remember the order of events. Likely the worst thing, happened fairly on, which was being pushed into a panic by the aforementioned fucking water tanker, we had to back off the road at some point where a big chunk of volcanic rock crunched up a nice panel beater and repaint bill on the rental car that we tried to convince ourselves wasn't too bad. We had at least one night of chasing a sunset that was really special when your world has shrunk to the size of Pantellaria, before having a meal with some pasta and seafood that lead my sister to muse upon how it was not as good as Pasta alla Norma, and nothing ever would be, ever again.
The next day we checked out Pantellaria town briefly, had gelati in brioche that turns out to be good thing + overrated thing = bad thing. Some aronchini before heading to Elephant rock, which really does look like an elephant above the water, and a beautiful little cove for swimming in.
Anna and I entered the water, clear as crystal, it was like fucking Neptune's reception hall. We splashed around, and I can remember even now the hypnotic allure of being submerged in the medium, the sudden urge to try and dive to the bottom. This was where I discovered that duck-diving is another range of motion I am no longer capable of doing without dislocating my shoulder.
I had to exit the water, somehow, have some exchange with the locals and improvise some sound effects to convey that I'd dislocated la spada. I got sat on my arse, then covered with towels until I was taken in an ambulance back to Pantellaria town and the hospital to have my shoulder reduced. My sister was able to drive behind the ambulance and hence probably had the lowest stress drive of her time on the island.
My conceit is, that if you wrote the meaning of life on the haft of a spear, I would impale myself to read it. I want to be clear that very much the point of this post, is that I am glad for the experience, though it resulted in a dislocated shoulder and an afternoon lost to recovering from anesthesia, (I was only billed for one of those immobilising slings, that after almost inducing a panic attack attempting to sleep in it, I returned and got refunded the next day.)
We visited somewhere else where making room for another car to pass, branches of some scrub further scratched the rental car quite horrendously. That was occassion for my sister to have a melt-down over the stress of driving in these tiny goat tracks in a pristine uninsured rental car, the unforeseen and unwanted expense of the bill that was anticipated and its impact on the savings Anna had lived like a miser in Sydney for years to accrue. I did my best to comfort her, telling her to keep all the refund from the cancelled ferry tickets, but I like her was quite underfunded for my whole "my life is going nowhere" 3-month trip to Zena.
And yet we are rich. We are middle-class Australian's privately educated, both of us having the immense privilege of going to University twice and choosing careers in the pursuit of happiness, not to amass some estate in an impossibly ever-upward act of social mobility like our parents that nintendo switches might trickle down to future generations, but wealthy by Southern Italian standards, wealthy by global standards, but wired up, biologically to react emotionally to the same subtle variations in changes in wellbeing as all other human beings.
Here were all the bitter tears that maybe, were the price of admission to Pantellaria, an amazing, but inconvenient place. Calm would reassert itself, though perhaps, I can't remember, and I can't really speak for my sister, but there was a constant unease at visiting the end of the Earth. I imagine it might be similar to summitting Mount Everest, where one may wish to stay there forever, to die there, but also anxious to get back down the mountain, where people don't die from the act of breathing. Then just replace "die" with incur additional rental car repair costs.
The day after dislocating my shoulder, we went to a Lake called "Mirror of Venus" A lake, in an island, in a sea, in the middle of the world, that the goddess who emerged fully formed from a shell to join the Olympic pantheon used as mirror.
It's the thing, rich people can put a pool in their property. But the kind of wealth to obtain and create what nature provides has not been achieved yet. How much to make the mirror of Venus? Billions. How much to locate it on an island that isn't visible from space? Hundreds of millions?
It is there and there alone. There are many wonders of the natural world, and many one can bathe in, swim in, lay back and stare not just into the sky but through it, beyond it, into the vastness of the universe and wonder what wondering minds attempt to stare back millenia beyond millenia of photons limiting them from any real connection, but that we are all connected across space and time. That life is there, and it is there's, and that if the Universe is infinite, then that includes infinite myselves, who have infinite time to bask in the personal property of a goddess on holiday at the end of the world with their sister, in this moment that is just for them and nobody else.
You know, and I can't put it into words, but I remember it. We have it, you don't, and it was perfect for just relaxing about the whole being alive thing, to just be alive.
I think more so than anything else we did in Pantellaria, this was our place and our time that endures at least for me. Those money problems it induced were survived, and the cycle of windfalls, tax returns, bills, rip-offs etc. continue for us all. The experience endures though, and though I contemplate my love of the city of Zena herself far more, and the metaphysics of truly loving a city somewhat endlessly living rent free next to losses I can't process, terriers that are grafted onto my joy-receptors proving that neurons that fire-together, wire-together indeed. Pantellaria is like an island in my memory that is Anna and mine.
The return ferry was also cancelled due to waves, and one wonders when a ferry will be invented that can operate under conditions of waves, but we pretty much suspected that the ferry never does actually run and were well and truly ready to take the mail plane back to vaster island of Sicily. Plus Pasta alla Norma awaited Anna, though I cannot recall if she was able to get it again. I know she naively hoped it could be found in Zena, though I'm sure I tried to explain that I had had to quickly learn that actually there is no Italian cuisine, that only exists outside of Italy where you can get Bolognese and Carbonara in the same restaurant, let alone state.
Zena was safe, I was entrenched, by the time Anna returned to her for another over night before she packed off to Zurich to fly home. Fabrizio my Air BnB housemate for the 90 days, was happy for Anna to stay on the couch rather than Hostel it, Anna got to see me as I lived there, walking daily 12-16km return, though I couldn't and never could, convey to her the totality of my picture of Zena.
And at that point in time I'd had 6 weeks, or two months, tops, in Zena, it would end being 90 days give or take a day trip to Milan, another to Cinque Terra, 3 days in Barcelona and arriving and leaving via Zurich. My sister returned once, transiting through and sending me a photo some years later. I have not, and in some sense must, but in any real appreciation of the nature of life, need not because I have hanged drawn and quartered myself by putting roots down in Ballarat, Melbourne, Nagoya, Zena and of course, GDL over the course of my life.
It is my ambition to return to them all, somehow. To live in all my homelands, somehow. The how isn't known, apart from a vague understanding that it will take money, and will take money away from this, for that. Pantellaria though, we have. I doubt either of us will return unless we find ourselves chatting one day and concurring we'd like a second shot at it. Maybe in another lifetime, in the jail-term sense, 25 years from now we'll decide to fuck off and hire bicycles next time.
Do I recommend Pantellaria? I find the question, posed to myself, unintelligible. You know it feels like the kind of special place where one could die on vacation, and confused and distraught relatives fly out to ID the body and get it released for repatriation before or after cremation, and they have a still moment on the island and are like "No, I get it. This is a good place to die." and they wind up scattering your ashes into the Mediterranian. I mean this as high praise of a spectacular place.
It is not the same spectacular as Cinque Terra, go there. I care not. It (Pantellaria) may actually be akin more to Zena, La Superba's great and far more famous rival Venice, La Serenissima, in that some people actually avoid Venice because of all the tourists, and it is somewhat overrun with tourists, but all those sweaty, fat, obnoxious and disoriented tourists cannot conceal the fact that Venice is other-wordly in its beauty. It makes Amsterdam look like Horsham. It makes Chicago look like Los Angeles. It makes Kyoto look like Bendigo, Tokyo like Beijing, and Beijing look like Beijing.
Pantellaria with its intimidating one-lane two-way roads hemmed in by abrasive volcanic stone fences and dislocated shoulders, remains an amazing place that I'm glad my sister dragged me from the warm embrace of Zena through two airports to share with her, though it literally broke us, we are a fragile people made for breaking, it is what we do and keep doing.