Two
cities, both alike in dignity, in fair Europa where we lay our scene, where
ancient customs break through to modern interpretations, where German
stoplights make Sicilian streets unclean…. I introduce you to Palermo and Dűsseldorf.
I left
the village of Butera feeling incredibly positive, having said yet another
tearful but happy goodbye to several new friends. (There is a spectrum of goodbyes, ranging
from those that are unemotional to those that break your heart. The best I have found is a goodbye that makes
you sad but not sorrowful, that makes you cry because you care enough to cry, a
goodbye that proves you knew somebody wonderful and are saying goodbye in
peace.) I took a bus South to North
through mountainous and green Sicily up to the city of Palermo, where I promptly
entered a different world. By day it is
perhaps like any other Italian city—bustling, confusing, riddled with
cathedrals and strangely artificial public gardens. I visited the sea, enjoyed a gelato or two,
looked at architecture. But Palermo by night…. My couchsurfing host Matteo took
me to the outdoor market, scrunched like a serpent into the labyrinth of
winding and crowded streets, where all the youth of Palermo were gathered. Music bumping, vendors selling arancione and zibibo, people sitting on beer crates and everybody having a good
time. Arabic and Moroccan influence meet
Italian lightheartedness, and the market place became a party. Tuesday
night. Matteo and his friends were
perfect, all gathering together to cook dinner and sing (seriously, everybody
set to work chopping a different vegetable, all the while singing “No Woman No
Cry” in ten-part harmony and drumming on the table.) After the slow and quiet
life I have been leading in the country, it was a delightful yet drastic
change. After dinner, we took to the
streets, to the market. I made a new
friend—Giuseppe the journalist who reminded me of a Sicilian Woody Allen and
had me laughing all night. Everyone was
relaxed, loose, open, a little crazy. I
felt I could have stayed much longer, but the next day, far too early in the
morning, I boarded a flight to Dűsseldorf.
At the
station I met Birte—a friend I have not seen in nearly five years—and she
introduced me to Germany. It reminds me
strikingly of home, though this could be simply that in contrast to Palermo everything is tamer. But it is true; German city structure is decidedly
more Western, and the people are decidedly less Italian. For example, when the crosswalk light is red,
a native to Dűsseldorf will stop and wait, even if there are no cars. It would be laughable to imagine a street in
Palermo with people waiting patiently on either side for the light to
turn. But Dűsseldorf is alive in its own
way. When the sun shines on the Rheine
the banks are filled with people on beach towels drinking beer. I have seen every color of the rainbow
expressed either in hair color or jeans, and plazas and coffee shops are always
packed with friends and families taking a relaxed, yet punctual break to enjoy
each other’s company.
I love
the Rheine, and it has inspired several silly yet serious poems. Here is one…
There is
no time when I sit by the Rheine, for time, too, lost itself
I wait
by the wharf in Dűsseldorf, for how long? I could not tell.
For time
on the Rheine is a swallow in flight
It journey’s
with nary a care
Where the
river will flow, I surely don’t know
Though I’m
sure it will take me somewhere.
For
there is no time as I sit by the Rheine, and time is a flying thing
At the
wintery wharf in Dűsseldorf somewhere a bird starts to sing.
