Getting to Taormina
Taking a bus in Sicily is a bit different than it is in the states or the uk. There are no labeled bus stops, just curbs, where everyone seems to know the bus will arrive. Our ferry lands in Milazzo and Neha spots a bus in a parking lot 200 meters away, We dash towards it, calling 'Messina? Messina?" The driver nods and replies "tre Euro" holding up three fingers. We pay, playing with change. Both of us have 5 Euro notes but the driver refuses to part with 4 precious Euro coins. Finally, I hand the driver the 5er and one of my own Euro coins, Neha promising to repay me later. We climb onboard.
Sicilians seem to like to sit in the front of the bus, chatting with eachother and the driver. We arrive in Messina. The bus leaves us on the side of a wide avenue lined with apartment buildings and shops. We look around. No other buses in sight. Neha asks the driver "Taormina?" where we are going, "Interbus?" the bus company. He replies, a string of incomprehensible Italian. Between Neha and I, we can speak English, Hindi, German, and some Japanese, but we can't muster up a single romance language. Finally, the driver points straight ahead and then to the left. Ok. Twenty minutes later, after meandering through a sea of pastel-colored tenement blocks and shady piazzas, we find a cluster of blue Interbus busses in a hidden parking lot. We wander through them, peering up at the empty drivers' seats. Finally, we find one with a driver.
"Taormina?" we ask. He leans his large bald smiling head out the window and cries "Taormina!" We smile back and clamour onto the bus. Sicily gives the impression of being constantly disorganized -- yet, everything always seems to work out as if the island basks in perpetual good karma.
Neha and I join the other passengers, a few middle aged men and woman, an older man with a glowing white halo of hair, a nun who sits in the front row. The bus pulls out into the street and then stops suddenly. The driver leans out the window, yelling angrily. A woman's voice replies. They argue back and forth for another minute until the driver opens the door and a young woman with spiky short hair gets on. She carries 3 huge clear plastic bags full of food boxes and bottles. It takes her two trips to get them down the narrow bus aisle. On a third trip she carries a 4 or 5 year old child. The entire time she chats cheerfully, almost flirtingly, with the again-smiling bus driver. She plops down across the aisle, somehow managing to squeeze everything into two seats.
The bus begins again, winding its way out of Messina and long the coast. The main route along the coast is barely 2 lanes wide, including a row of parked cars. Crumbling row houses and apartment blocks, all with flowers growing in the balconies, line the road on either side. The ocean fronts one side of these buildings, and the cliffs, the other. If not for the narrow road and disrepair, we could be driving down PCH. The bus lumbers down the tiny road, forcing approaching cars to duck into the parking lane or onto the sidewalk. We rumble along until we stop. A red truck sits in front of us blocking the road. Our driver begins to yell and the truck driver replies. Their voices continue to rise and the other passengers in the bus join in and the spiky haired woman moves up next to the nun to get a better view of the show. People emerge on the street, standing on sidewalks or leaning out of balconies. They also start yelling. It seems like the whole world is comprised of yelling Sicilians.
After about 15 minutes of this, the voices ebb. A woman appears from one of the apartments, gets into a green sedan parked on the side of the road, and pulls away. The red truck pulls into her spot, clearing some room for our bus. We begin to move. The road is still too narrow, our right tires drive up onto the sidewalk. Everyone on te bus begins to laugh, even as our right mirror scrapes one of the crumbly buildings alongside. And the bus continues to lumber towards Taormina...
Sicilians seem to like to sit in the front of the bus, chatting with eachother and the driver. We arrive in Messina. The bus leaves us on the side of a wide avenue lined with apartment buildings and shops. We look around. No other buses in sight. Neha asks the driver "Taormina?" where we are going, "Interbus?" the bus company. He replies, a string of incomprehensible Italian. Between Neha and I, we can speak English, Hindi, German, and some Japanese, but we can't muster up a single romance language. Finally, the driver points straight ahead and then to the left. Ok. Twenty minutes later, after meandering through a sea of pastel-colored tenement blocks and shady piazzas, we find a cluster of blue Interbus busses in a hidden parking lot. We wander through them, peering up at the empty drivers' seats. Finally, we find one with a driver.
"Taormina?" we ask. He leans his large bald smiling head out the window and cries "Taormina!" We smile back and clamour onto the bus. Sicily gives the impression of being constantly disorganized -- yet, everything always seems to work out as if the island basks in perpetual good karma.
Neha and I join the other passengers, a few middle aged men and woman, an older man with a glowing white halo of hair, a nun who sits in the front row. The bus pulls out into the street and then stops suddenly. The driver leans out the window, yelling angrily. A woman's voice replies. They argue back and forth for another minute until the driver opens the door and a young woman with spiky short hair gets on. She carries 3 huge clear plastic bags full of food boxes and bottles. It takes her two trips to get them down the narrow bus aisle. On a third trip she carries a 4 or 5 year old child. The entire time she chats cheerfully, almost flirtingly, with the again-smiling bus driver. She plops down across the aisle, somehow managing to squeeze everything into two seats.
The bus begins again, winding its way out of Messina and long the coast. The main route along the coast is barely 2 lanes wide, including a row of parked cars. Crumbling row houses and apartment blocks, all with flowers growing in the balconies, line the road on either side. The ocean fronts one side of these buildings, and the cliffs, the other. If not for the narrow road and disrepair, we could be driving down PCH. The bus lumbers down the tiny road, forcing approaching cars to duck into the parking lane or onto the sidewalk. We rumble along until we stop. A red truck sits in front of us blocking the road. Our driver begins to yell and the truck driver replies. Their voices continue to rise and the other passengers in the bus join in and the spiky haired woman moves up next to the nun to get a better view of the show. People emerge on the street, standing on sidewalks or leaning out of balconies. They also start yelling. It seems like the whole world is comprised of yelling Sicilians.
After about 15 minutes of this, the voices ebb. A woman appears from one of the apartments, gets into a green sedan parked on the side of the road, and pulls away. The red truck pulls into her spot, clearing some room for our bus. We begin to move. The road is still too narrow, our right tires drive up onto the sidewalk. Everyone on te bus begins to laugh, even as our right mirror scrapes one of the crumbly buildings alongside. And the bus continues to lumber towards Taormina...
posted by Em at 8:48 AM
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