Needless to say, when approaching the border control in Trapani I was crippled with a case of the uncontrollable sweats.
You know the ones, where you want to with sit toilet rolls under your arms and wait for the end of the world to arrive.
Though, part of that feeling may have resulted from Sicily, on a cool day, being at least 10 degrees F/ 5 degrees C warmer than London on the hottest day in August.
As I was the last person off the plane pretty much, everyone with an EU passport had just been through immigration as I reached the immigration window. Soon the first police officer was joined by the other one and they were muttering!
Sicilian border control was muttering over my passport!!
Please, I swear, I'm not doing anything wrong! I'm in Europe completely legally! Puh-leeeze don't take me 'round the back of the airport and shoot me!!
The fact that I was thinking this was painfully evident on my face. I know this because one of the police looked up and smiled, 'No, no, don't worry. We are just saying you are very pretty. You are pretty.'
'Oh. Err, thanks. Um, grazie.'
That's better than the chubby blondes in Britain.
As the thwack of stamp striking passport page rang out in the booth I felt the wave of relief that I was so desperately seeking and the compliment really sank in.
I smiled, took my passport and walked through.
I heard behind me as I walked through, 'Ciao, enjoy Sicily.'
He'd stepped out of the booth to watch me go! I smiled again, but felt painfully conscious of the eyes on me as I walked off.
Now, Londoners are fantastic at staring without appraising, it's a tube life skill - this is not considered an admirable skill to have in Southern Italy.
That's okay.
I chose to find this charming. I was on holiday.
In arrivals my lovely host is there, worried he's missed me or that I'm lost. He'll be referred to as Il Siciliano henceforth. After gathering my things, we headed out to the car (whereupon I hit my head on a signpost - don't ask), and then drove through Northern Sicily to Palermo.
Sicily defies description. The beauty is so robust and unashamed it makes you gasp a little.
Then again, I live in London - the sun is a novelty.
Because I was staying with a native son and in his familial home, I was immediately welcomed into the rhythm of Sicilian life. Once this happens, it is impossible to not feel loved and cherished. I am allowed this priveledge becayse I have known Il Siciliano for over 2 years now and this is my second visit. Situation has changed considerably since my first visit, but no matter, I'm still allowed to graft myself into life for a week.
Days in Sicily are sun-drenched and sweltering. Personally I may have struggled with the heat a little, and by 'maybe' and 'a little' I mean 'definitely' and 'so much I thought I might be living on the surface of the sun'. All day long we baked on the beach, me religiously applying sun cream over every inch of flesh.
I buy the hype about skin cancer and premature ageing.
Il Siciliano's charming friend made it a point to highlight my glaringly white body daily, or if we were lying next to each other on sun loungers, hourly.
Because he is genuinely charming and I'm not being sarcastic, I didn't mind in the slightest. It was actually quite funny, especially when as we were all swimming in the sea, I rested on some rocks just poking up through the surface, he shouted, 'You are like the Little Mermaid! (pause long enough for me to smile) But pale!'
Bless his comic timing and dedication.
Evenings in Palermo are social and designed for those who can truly handle their drink. A G&T in London is 2 parts gin, 5 parts tonic; reverse that ratio in Sicily and you're still being given a generous amount of mixer.
As such, legendary lightweight that I am, the list of embarrassing moments was sizeable and racked up mostly when everyone accustomed to drinking paint thinner was still completely (mostly) sober.
Luckily Sicilians like to laugh.
Am always happy to oblige.
My last full day was spent sight seeing around old Palermo with Il Siciliano. Nothing makes me smile brighter than seeing Palermo from the back of a Vespa.
Well, it's up there with being sat in the Raeburn room in the National Gallery of Scotland. Two different but equally powerful personal manifestations of pure happiness.
Leaving was hard for me not because it was unexpected or bitter. Bittersweet - definitely.
I will miss the beautiful weightlessness I had for the better part of a week. And honestly, how could I not feel sad to leave when Il Siciliano very kindly cleaned and bandaged cuts on my feet? I can't remember the last time someone cleaned me up out of the charity of their heart. (I didn't tell him about the cuts on my hands from the rocks. I have high hopes that if left untreated they'll turn into little scars I can look at and smile remembering the lightness of Sicily.)
At the airport there were tearless goodbyes and no grand promises for the future, save my burning desire to surprise Il Siciliano by being able to speak Italian when next we meet.
Whenever that may be.
Going to the gate was painless and eventually the same border agent walked up to me while sat reading Generation X. He leaned over and said, 'You remember me? I said "You are pretty". How was Sicily?'
'Oh, yes, si. Va bene.'
'And when will you be back?'
I shrugged my shoulders and smiled, 'Pronto?'
They called us to the gate to board and I looked at him, reached up and kissed his cheek and said, 'Ciao.'
Now, if that isn't adapting to the culture, I don't know what is.
Clearly it helped reverse my immigration karma. The chubby blonde at the UK Border wasn't even mean, she even smiled.
It's not exactly, 'You are pretty.' But it's a hell of a lot better than 'Could you just take a seat over here, Miss?'
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