An Unexpected Night to Remember: Sicily Part Two
An Unexpected Night to Remember: Sicily Part Two
Italian men flirt. Shamelessly. It doesn’t matter how old they are. They have turned flirting into an art form—a sideways glance, a wink, a playful tease, and an almost but not quite too close lean-in. From Rome to Taormina, men flirted with our mother. It didn’t hurt that she was magic, and the magnetic pull of her essence naturally drew people toward her. Before authenticity became a cultural phenomenon, she was an “it” girl oblivious to the power of her presence. But sometimes, a person who accepts everyone readily falls prey to gullibility. They overlook or fail to identify ulterior motives.
One sunny afternoon, while exploring the charming cobblestone streets of Taormina, our little group of five decided to split up to roam and discover different parts of the town. My brother and I wandered in one direction, and our parents and the retired teacher ventured off in another. The plan was to meet at the hotel for a 5:00 pm happy hour and the hotel’s famous Bellini aperitif. A special significance we enjoyed—it was my mother’s maiden name—before my grandfather passed through at Ellis Island, where his name was inadvertently changed to Bellino.
Strolling through the town, we spied our dad with his brand new Stereo 3-D camera clicking away, capturing flower boxes overflowing with bright red geraniums and old stucco buildings—a palette of soft pink, buttery yellow, and sunset orange aged to perfection. The town’s Catholic church stood in the square, where a wedding party emerged through ancient Moorish doors. Sugar-coated almonds were tossed at the bride and groom, symbolizing the sweet and bitter aspects of life and marriage.
Turning a corner, my brother and I ran into our little family waiting outside a barbershop. My mother waved her hands excitedly for us to come over, her words and Italian phrases flowing out effortlessly, filled with warmth and enthusiasm. With a smile and laughter, she chatted with the two barbers, one leaning against the red and white barber pole. We later discovered that the two were brothers. Each man had his shirt unbuttoned to the middle of his chest, revealing thick Italian gold chains around their necks, looking as if they had just emerged from a Fellini film.
Federico Fellini was a master screenwriter and filmmaker. Following World War II, he played a key role in the Neorealism movement, which focused on the grim realities of Fascism. However, his unique style developed, merging ethereal and vibrant dramatic imagery. One of his most renowned quotes perfectly captures Italy's essence: “There is no end. There is no beginning. There is only the infinite passion of life.”
As we headed to the barbershop, taking in the scene being played out before us, my brother and I exchanged the "Now what?" glance.
An hour later, while sipping the luscious, peachy, sparkling Bellini at our hotel, our mom informed us that the barbers had invited us to an authentic Sicilian celebration at a local restaurant the following evening, which turned out to be almost two hours away to their mountain village.
Protesting our concerns and displeasure, for god’s sake, who were these guys that back home in the States we called “Macho Marios,” and why the heck should we trust them got us absolutely nowhere? Our mother was on a mission.
At precisely seven p.m., two Peugeots sat idling outside our hotel. Two men and two women welcomed us warmly as if we were family. They animatedly spoke in Italian, laced with a bit of English, embraced us with kisses on both cheeks, and with the scent of expensive cologne lingering, ushered us toward the compact cars.
They skillfully guided my parents to the back seat of the lead car while directing my brother, the teacher, and me to the second car. Without air conditioning, the inside soon felt hot and thick from the day’s heat, our driver’s silence, and my gnawing anxiety.
As the car pulled away from the hotel entrance, my heart raced like a caged bird, longing to be free. With yoga, meditation, and mantra recitation, not even a foreshadowing—I silently repeated, “This is a terrible idea.”
The flickering lights of Taormina grew smaller as the Peugeot chugged along the narrow, winding mountain road, climbing higher and higher.
Leaning into my youngest brother and best friend, I grabbed his hand, white-knuckling, whispering into his ear, “Do you think they’re kidnapping us?”
Crushing my brother’s slender fingers, what an odd moment to realize how much his hands resembled our mother’s while mine took after our father’s. We drove into the darkness, silent, our deaf driver occasionally glancing back at us in the mirror. Searching each other’s eyes, my brother and I wondered what in the hell happened to the lead car carrying our mom and dad.
After one hundred and five relentless minutes, our driver slowed down as he made a right turn onto another winding road, finally stopping in front of an old stone building, white fairy lights illuminating an outdoor patio. Smiling broadly, our driver opened the back door, holding his hand out to help the teacher and me from the car. I looked back at my brother, still no parents, but breathing a bit easier.
The restaurant was old. Chipped with flaking paint, its walls were hung with generations of photos, plastic grape vines, and dusty wine bottles tucked into niches. The mustachioed owner and my mom posed for a picture. Linen-clothed wooden tables were pushed together to seat our large party. Tucked away in the corner was an accordion player and the haunting sound of bagpipes being played. Familiar with the accordion, our grandfather played, but bagpipes, in Sicily? We learned that bagpipes most likely originated from the ancient Greeks and Romans.
We also learned that evening that the celebration was a baby’s christening. Every single person in the restaurant was there to welcome the eight-week-old baby into the family by blood and the Catholic Church.
Gathered around the long table, we enjoyed a family-style feast featuring steaming hot focaccia, fried eggplant, fresh green salads, and both tangy green and bitter black olives. We also had homemade pasta with red sauce and sweet sausage mixed with peppers and potatoes, and our glasses of Chianti were always full. We concluded the meal with fresh fruit, cannoli, chocolates, pistachio gelato, and a selection of Limoncello, Sambuca, or Grappa.
Sitting beside one of the lovely Italian beauties, my brother Jim was just 18 and completely smitten. With her almond-shaped dark eyes, bright red lips, and alluring smile, he couldn’t tear his gaze away. Struggling to pronounce Jim or James, she affectionately started calling him Giacomo.
After a whirlwind drive back to our hotel, the late-night breeze nipped at the air. Exiting the cars, we found ourselves in the same spot where, just hours earlier, I had anxiously sat in the back seat of the Peugeot. Intoxicated by good food, wine, dancing, laughter, and the company of new friends, we reluctantly said our goodbyes before staggering to our rooms.
Two days later, with our passports in hand, my family and I waited to be cleared through customs. Exhausted and shocked to find ourselves once again on US soil, my little brother declared to no one and everyone, “From now on, I want to be called Giacomo.”
Have you ever taken a chance that felt like a risk—but led to an unforgettable experience? I’d love to hear all about it.
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Coming Up: A Return to Tantra
Paulette, You're such an amazing storyteller! This was so fun to read and you brought every moment of the experience alive.
I love all these pictures!!!