Reborn Greek

The rolling curls of the Aegean Sea rocked Jebadiah out of an unrestfull sleep. He opened his eyes to the harsh florescent lights of the ferryboat’s lounge to find an ache crawling within his stomach. He stared out the window searching for some distraction from the discomfort, but the horizon swaying up and down through the narrow portal made vomiting sound appealing. It was cold and windy out on the deck of the vessel but Jebadiah knew a good upward release over the rail into the sea was the best thing for his bowels.  From stern to the bow, port to starboard, and head to crow's nest he passed waiting for the perfect moment to heave off the side. The moment never came. He thought back to childhood summers pleasantly riding the rough seas, just to find the ache bringing him out of his memory. He looked off the back of the boat to Turkey with the comforting idea of the cozy wood cabin that had cuddled him the night before. Then he gazed forward to the coastline ahead with hopes that the Greek island Lesvos would provide some relief to his squall. 


The boat reached port and as Jeb's feet hit land his stomach was soothed. In customs he handed over his, United States of America, navy blue passport. A moment later the boarder control fired a question at Jeb, "Where are you from?" (They were holding the document which proved his identity.) A bit caught off guard Jebadiah answered, "The United States." They followed this up by asking him if he was living in Turkey, he told them he was not. “ I’m a traveler,” he said with confidence, for his identity as a nomad is at times the only thing Jeb is sure of on his journey.  He met Ashlei where a man in street clothes was searching bags and told her about the funny question at passport control.  She knew he was pleased by their confusion, because Jeb likes to think that his dark features allow him to pass as a local where ever he goes. Together they walked out of the port customs building into the streets of Greece and the pain crept back into Jebadiah’s belly. It was clear that land’s sturdy plain only tricked his mind into temporarily relieving the problem. 


The travel duo now moved along the seafront passing the luxurious sea hotels to meet a student of the city Mytilini who would provide them a couch to rest on. Jeb looked longingly at the hotels with the thought of an elegant room to help curve his pain, but a bug is not enough to cramp his travel style. He would stick with the free-of-charge accommodation.  They found the cafe where they would meet their host. Jeb had previously agreed to share a conversation and a beer upon meeting, Lisa, the generous student, but he could barely put down a club soda. When Lisa arrived she brought along a posse, all beaming with smiles and warmth. Jeb was desperate to let their friendly vibes reach his gut so he could return the high spirits. He decided that if he went about as if he was feeling healthy his mind might again be fooled into making the body feel good. He ordered a beer. He took a few unwelcomed gulps and passed it along to Ash. It was clear at this point that he was not suffering from the rough seas and that he was going to be ill. He regretfully told Lisa that he could not be strong and they returned to her hillside home. 


Jebadiah could do nothing more than get into bed. Shivering, he could not even take off his clothes. Moments later his stomach began to rumble and he cautiously got up and went to the bathroom. He stuck his face in the toilet waiting, then nothing. He got up and sat on the toilet waiting, again nothing. He waddled back to the bed and decided to make a cocoon of his sleeping-bag and blankets and hibernate until he felt well. He was thoroughly enclosed and warm and sleep took over, but not for long.

Jeb woke up feeling as if he was again on the stormy water, but this time there were no waves rocking him. He was spinning and a familiar liquid taste began to fill his mouth. He had little time, however he was locked into his sleeping spot trapped by his covering. Struggling, he peeled himself free and ran towards the bathroom. Unfortunately the contents of his stomach were not considerate and they erupted towards his mouth in the middle of the living-room. Desperately Jeb threw his hands over his chops and contained the vomit. Seconds later another explosion rocketed from his pit just as he crossed the threshold of the bathroom. Like popping open a champagne bottle Jebadiah released the cork and the bile spewed into the bowl. After four of fiver powerful surges it was over. He turned around to find himself looking into his own eyes in the mirror. Orange foam coated his beard and mustache. He looked miserable, but felt a peace he hadn't felt since before getting on the boat. He slept soundly the rest of the night.  


The next day was full of Greek opportunities: a tour around the island, hot baths, feta cheese, wine, and a party of young people exchanging ideas. Jeb did none of it. He knew it was best to stay horizontal and regain health. He wanted to be alone. While he lay doing nothing he realized that his isolation was not only for rejuvenation after his stomach’s storm. He was resisting being social and blocking himself off from having experiences with new interesting people. He saw himself having critical views and felt some negativity that was out of character for him.  Jeb took the time to do some introspection, some internal searching. He found some taxing moments of his travels that he had not yet released. It was clear he needed a fresh start.

When he felt well he started to explore the city and port. An almost familiar college town holding cafes with dim light, playing chilled-out music. What was dissimilar to other tranquil cafes he had been to was that a short distance away was another cafe filled with weathered Greek men hollering to each other and ordering the waitress to go out to buy them cigarettes. The duality of this place gave Jeb the joyful feeling that he was in a foreign land. It was the bipolar characteristics of the city that made it like no other place Jeb had been. 


Jeb stayed aware of the realization he had while ill. He walked about focused on a positive energy. He stalked his thoughts and feelings when a negative vibration stirred or a critical thought shook he disrupted it with a breath of life. 


In this style Jebadiah walked again the traveler's path. He met a group of guys who were going for a mid-Januray swim. With the wind at his back Jeb joined them down towards the sea, seeking a cleansing bath. Although he had second, third and fourth thoughts the water was pulling him towards it. The clear teal Aegean Sea was appealing even on a day with snow flurries. To hesitate would have been the end of this spontaneous swim, so Jeb did not. Clothes off, courage on he stepped into the icy water. With each moment the water reached higher on his legs. The slow crawl was discouraging, he needed to be fully submerged or not at all. In the shallow water he sprawled his body forward torpedoing under the sea. After a smooth glide back to the surface Jeb instinctively let out a yelp, but no noise followed. The cold water stole his breath and voice. He gasped for air but nothing but the cold was entering his body. A moment of suffocation gave way to a full-hearted swim. Stroking strongly, the cold water seemed to turn into insulation for the bodies heat. He was not warm but there was a clear difference between the temperature of the water and his body. He was filled with vigor and dove down five meters to the rocky sea floor. Jebadiah pushed himself to a limit underwater where he no longer needed a breath of air. The joy of being one with the sea relaxed his desperate lungs and he soared back to the shore as would a sea turtle. He left in the water some pieces of darkness that had been lingering in his baggage.  Now shivering out in the open air a  breeze filled his open pours replenishing his spirit and re-birthing his adventure. 

No Meat-Meet

After a super-naturalist stay, living in caves, Jebadiah had a few ideas swelling like a tide through his head. "Slow-travel" was one train of thought that moved him to make a change in the way that he journeyed. Starting now, he proceeded with his transit without a rail, bus or plane ticket; he proceeded with his transit by means of auto-stop. With his feet on the road, he shinned like the glorious day that it was. He made one stop and then another. In his third success, an eighteen wheeler, he found himself laying horizontal in the cabin's sleeping accommodation, while his current and temporary companion sat upright in the passenger seat of this gas -guzzling-transport-machine. In this surprisingly restful hitch,  Jebadiah and Ash rolled through any doubts of  a failed hitchhiking experience. With this ride they avoided hours of thumb-aching on the side of the road and completed 320 kilometers into their desired destination- Ankara, the capital city. 


As Jebadiah was assuming the position of laziest, kicked-back, trucking through the heart of Turkey he contemplated another thought that he had while roasting a fresh pepper over an open fire outside his former cave abode. A meatless life? Although he had a few qualms surrounding the issue, in his mind he had made the decision of trying the style of vegetarian. 


In Ankara, Jebadiah and Ashlei were greeted by a one-two punch of a hospitality. The combination was a mother-daughter duet. The expectation of warmth from Alya and Ayse was fulfilled physically, emotionally and in Jebadiah and Ash's stomachs. 
Jebadiah's interest in both eating and preparing food drew him to watch Alya, the mother, work her way around the Turkish kitchen. Through a secret recipe for orange cake and a well known one for a savory pastry, Jebadiah wondered when his newly decided consumption habit would be put on trial. He had a full day without a meat dilemma until a bed of rice supporting an arrangement of fish in a flower pattern came out of the oven, smelling delicious for dinner. At this moment Jebadiah instantly replayed all the events leading up to his denial of eating animals. 
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While having a late morning walk through a valley of cave art and artifacts just a week before, another companion who abstained from all animal products ironically said, "Oh, if only I ate meat," as a wild goose walked by. "Shoot, I couldn't kill that bird and I love eating carcass!"  Jebadiah said as he relived a scene from his past when he had participated in the killing of a chicken. Jebadiah's mind replayed a highlight reel of this memory.  Images of one piece of poultry hanging upside-down by bound feet, a dangling-broken neck, flapping wings, desperate squawks, and a slow stream of blood pumping the last bit of life from its veins flooded his conscious. A mental light paused him from continuing his walk.  Out-loud Jebadiah proclaimed, "If I am disturbed by the killing of a chicken, I definitely can't fulfill the task of slaughtering anything breathing for food."  
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Now with Jebadiah's attention back on the fish at hand, he scanned his memory for any traumatic first hand fish murders. Coming up empty, he soothed his doubts and enjoyed the perfectly seasoned and spiced fish right down to the last tail-fin. "Maybe just a pescatarian,"  Jebadiah said to Ash as she gave a smirk towards his weakness.  


Jebadiah has a habit of meeting people on the road and using their references as momentum towards finding intriguing opportunities that need seizing. It is through this channel of receiving knowledge that he had directions to a small hillside village that was  "worth-visiting." This tip came from a pair of French nomads who lived out of a tractor-trailer. Their mobile-home was fueled by recycled cooking-oil, was well-furnished and burned wood for warmth inside. The couple gained experience by personally exporting vehicles into Africa; therefore, their recommendation was coming along with a feeling of well traveled knowledge. 


After one last homely breakfast with Alya and Ayse, Jebadiah and Ashlei kissed the pseudo-relatives good-bye and were on the road again. On route to the village, Seyhamami, Ash and  Jebadiah found humor in a taxi drivers discouraging remarks towards their refusal to pay for his service. "You are heading towards a cold remote place and you will be in danger of execution if you walk there," they guessed as the meaning of his Turkish warning.  


Safely and easily the pair of comrades caught a ride to their destination.  The village was three buildings, six homes, and nine times the amount of live-stock compared to humans. This pin-point sized town was deeply submerged in a valley sorrounded by three-hundred and sixty degrees of emerald mountains sparkling with winter's frost. Just as directed to expect, Jebadiah and Ash found Durson Dundar at the center of it all. This grey man seemed to be colored-in when he saw the faces of the travelers. Jebadiah understood Durson's enthusiasm better when Ash introduced herself. Ash, Jebadiah had learned, was similar to the Turkish word ashk, meaning romantic love. Upon mistakingly hearing the young angelic woman call herself "romantic love," Durson formed a cheeky expression and his face reached a bright shade of rose. It was clear that Durson was a lonely man and just the presents of Jebadiah , and mostly Ashlei, was bringing him pleasure.

Durson is the owner of the only business around- the hamam, the Turkish style bath. He was proud of this establishment and took Jebadiah and Ash to enjoy a gender divded bath. In the hamam a low framed wooden door opened to reveal a dark passageway streaming with a flow of fog.  Jebadiah stripped from his cocoon of dirty clothes on his way down the corridor and unfolded himself into a soothing, hot, browned-water pool. He glided through the liquid that was visibly lifting directly from the earth, up between the stony floor, to fill the container. The mountainous area's thermal springs created a most authentic humidity and sustainable heat for this natural sauna. Jebadiah viewed the scene from the back corner of the bath and gave his attention to it as the pulse of the traditional Turkish Bath thumped its beat.  


The water rippled to it's limits finding form in the Islamic architecture. The steam reluctantly became independent as it lifted in a cloud from the water. The domed ceiling's windowed center let the past noon's light weave through the vapor; the floating moisture expanded its molecules and played with the reflection on the bath's surface. The quartet of water, walls, air and light mingled together, slightly swaying.  Jebadiah gracefully hummed a gospel song to test the acoustics before a voice joined the performance singing a different tune.  Jebadiah yielded to the Turkish lyrics of his host, Durson, who sung a wooing melody.  The song echoed into Jebadiah's perception and his creative intention began to tingle.  Jebadiah withheld from developing the tickle of inspiration to let the poetic moment sink deeply into his excited senses. Now, like the steam, he felt his own molecules separating; his body was loosening beyond its solid state. 


Like waking up from a dream, Jebadiah suddenly found himself out of the bath, dried, clothed and sitting with Durson and Ashlie in the living space of Durson. The high from the bath must have let him suppress the torment of leaving the soak. In a haze from the transition Jebadiah passively watch Durson roll, light, and pass a large cigarette. With this, Jebadiah subtly melted into his seat and Durson began to fill the table with food. None of the fruit, cheese, bread, nuts, or chocolate really caught Jebadiah's eye. However when one platter was uncovered his attention was held. It was smoked, spiced, savory-red-meat.  

Discover Cappadocia

As a lone traveler I venture down many roads and think, the places I see and the things I pass by are too magnificent to describe. As a person with many valued relationships left behind, I work to convert the intangible into a picture book to tell the story of my voyage.  This duality in my identity has left me in contemplation before. Up until now it has been a question I ask myself, but while I have been experiencing life lived in a cave the question has surfaced as more a personal dilemma. 


Why do I write? Is it for you; is it for me? It seems as with all things, I find words to string together into sentences for a spread of reasons.  I have family and friends who I adore and who I hope enjoy following my adventure line. At a more superficial level, I hope people will view what I am doing and see it as something worth giving recognition to.  However, these reasons for writing are only additional motivation behind the source of my inspiration. I would not create prose and I would not publish photos if it wasn't for the feeling  that my products are something evolving inside of me with the intention to become a part of the world. Although I have this organic desire to write and create I wonder now if it is truly pure. I am worried that the pressure of sending updates may soil any true passion for this art.  I always am pleased with my finished work when I put The Energy into it, but that energy is sometimes exhausting to access. As an amateur writer I can not help but wonder if this form of self expression will fade from my life.   


As I bring you, now, into my present I am even more hesitant to reveal in detail what I have been doing. It is not because I am ashamed or feel guilt; in fact I am proud and revived by it. There is a place in central Turkey that was inhabited one thousand years ago by a civilization of people living in caves and off the land. Now this place, called Cappadocia, is spotted with tourists and lush with abandoned caves. Here I have been living for ten days, cooking over an open fire, exploring ancient artifacts, collecting wild fruit, and sleeping on straw in a low dark cut-out of rock.  I am shy to share this experience in full because it has filled me so deeply with life and I think that telling anyone about it would be a cheat to feeling it for yourself.  My loose sense of morals are telling me to be vague in hope that you will discover this experience on your own. 


For a small push in the direction I will leave you pondering this... 


What, beyond body warmth, is created when you share an ancient way of life with new found companions?  

How must it feel to wake up after your first night sleeping  within stone, wondering if your shelter is going to keep you secure, to find that you slept in the warmth of a cradle and the valley you reside in is covered in snow? 

How far away does modern society feel when you gaze at the same celestial pearls from the same earthly abode just as one did a millennium ago? 

The answers, I wish for all to find themselves, but I will tell you what they may provoke in you. For me the time here has led me to decide on the continued growth of my hair and beard and discontinued use of soap above my neck and discontinued consumption of meat.  

Cappadocia is a way of life...

On the Road Again (part 2)

During the change of seasons weather moves quickly, and so do I. Hopping, skipping, jumping, driving, flying, and training, here is where I have been...

Cinque Terre is a place that capes off of the NW Italian coast. Five Villages, perched on the edge of diving cliffs, resist the temptations of the sea and stay nested where they are. These pastel clusters of homes and touristic restaurants  are cuddled by slopping fields of typical Italian agriculture. Evergreen trees and everlasting seas create a harmony of emerald and blue that resonates with a most beautiful tone. 

As I came out of the Milano underground, I immediately lay eyes on the Duomo and my first impression of the city. 

Bergamo Alta, the old stone city a top a hill is where Stefania and her generous Mother and Sister (my temporary host family) took me out for some outstanding pizza and unreal tiramisu. 

First impressions come and go, but lasting impressions are what you carry with you. I walk away from the region of Lombardia with the warmth of a group of friends who are a joy to share a glass of wine with next to a flowing river. 

From new friends to good-old-family, next I went to the airport. Not to catch a flight, but to meet some familial faces at the arrivals gate. From New York I found Uncle Mike, Aunt Sherry, Lovely Cindy, and of course Papa Stevie. We embarked on a Piemonte pilgrimage to visit some not so distant Italian family...

On the Road Again (part 1)

My last few days in Sicily were accompanied by the arrival of autumn. The sun became shy and the rain took its place. The wind shifted and  I had no choice but to succumb to the direction that it blew. I was carried North to where summer was still shinning and to where new friends were waiting my arrival.  


In a small village near Cinque Terre, I met Stefania (maybe you remember her from the dive shop?) and her two friends Marta and Bram. Marta and Bram are a pair of earthly lovers who operate and maintain a Bed and Breakfast/Organic Farm and Garden. The GIARDINO DEGLI ANGELI  has been hosting guests for the better part of a decade, and it receives many regular visitors who go to enjoy a weekend close to nature. The farm, on the other hand, has not been greeted with the same generous accommodations. Twelve hundred square meters of olive trees had been abandoned before Marta and Bram arrived. Countless plots of what would be oil producing plants are overgrown with all kinds of unwanted vegetation.  However, in the four months that our sustainability seeking couple has been working the land, they have transformed a section of the olive jungle into a beautifuly manicured field. Rock walls and gardens give a hint to what the entire property will look like when time has allowed their effort to show. 

The BnB from one of the unfinished gardens 

This town rests above the sea. It is a village that has its own dialect and a square spongy pasta that you can not find in other regions. It is a hidden gem with a simple tradition that is alive and evident as you walk down the paths and through the streets.  

Marta's passion for green life is apparent as she leads a nature walk

This region of Italy is far different from the dusty hills of Sicily 

When I used to think of Italy I did not think of the wilderness, that has changed

 I hope my interest did not bother her, but her scarf was so colorful

 Bram imagines him and his friends inhabiting the homes in this small piazza, I can see it now Belgium beer and chickens everywhere!

Almost, a familiar pair of green eyes

...Over a year ago Jennifer painted for me a beautiful blue dragonfly. Soon after the dragonfly entered my life I flew to Nicaragua to visit my cousin, MJ. It was there I found, in every stream, pond, and river, many metallic blue dragonflies that were the same kind as the one in Jennifer's painting. Sitting on the bank of a rainy season raging river the air moved swiftly over the water and I felt that I was exactly where the universe wanted me to be. 

It turns out, dragonflies are most flexible with their travel plans. With thin delicate wings, dragonflies are in constant danger of damaging their means of transportation. When even the smallest breeze passes by, they must not resist the direction of the wind. If they do not let the moving air take them where it is going their wings will tear from opposition and they will die. 

This metaphor has been inspiration for my travels. My itinerary is with the wind, and it is taking me to places I had no initial intention to go. 

To Be Continued...

The Sea by Day, Castle by Night, A day in the life...

"The sun's warm glow mingles with the salty breeze that carries the smell of the sea, and the life it fosters, to my nose. Boisterous voices exchange passionate conversations in the street and a familiar voice sings, "Nicky" off the sea-foam-green balcony. It is Dani, my sister. I must be in Sicily!"   

It has been six weeks since my arrival in Sicily, and yes I have been indulging. "Real" pizza has been a meal many times. Bathing in the Mediterranean happens in intervals of 24-hours or less. Oh, and creamy gelato has melted on my tongue and slide down my throat regularly. I have taken it from a cone, from a spoon, through a straw and smeared in the middle of sweet bread, a brioche. Although I can taste the roast in the hazelnut gelato and the pistachio flavor is sweet and salty, the dive season is coming to a close and I feel as though this island and I have shared enough, for now.    


It is rare that travel is routine, but at the dive shop I have had a daily schedule. A day in the life.... 

Each morning begins inside the "Dive Flag Tower." It is 3 levels. Stefania sleeps on the top floor and acts as my alarm as she passes the second floor to start the day.

Task 1 of the day: Prepare Tanks

When all is ready we leave land behind...

We do the work, our guests enjoy the ride

Whenever this life seems like I dream all I need to do is look to Antonio's (the Diveleader in training) arm to remind me where I am

Giovanni, my host and Divemaster, briefs the group on the dive site

"me"

After the dive and after a pasta lunch, it is time to find some shade around the shop

  

The sun falls from its peak and late afternoon arrives.  A soft sensation wakes me from a nap. I give my attention to hear the call of the plants on the hillside garden. They are asking for water.  This place is not an official WWOOF, but it surely is a Barnstorming. 

This terrace style garden is home to a grove of young trees

The fruit love the view

Maybe it's the environment, but some of the plants look like they could be found swimming in the Sea

Night creeps over the tower as blue skies fade to purple. A typical night out is a walk for gelato... 

On the way we see...

Fishing boats eager for morning's catch

Stefania as a shadow model in front of the Castle

The Castle that gives the town its name, Castellammare

On this night a music festival! 

 A lone guitarist wails overhead, in an archway 

 He belongs with this five piece group (if you include the pooch) playing, a funk like trance set, on the steps

 A fire show too...

His name is Bunda and he is from The Czech Republic

Almost forgot the point of the walk...At last

Moon light illuminates the old port town, but when the sun fills the streets I will start it all again

That is until Wednesday when I say goodbye to Sicily...

Azzurro

Update: I have been volunteering at the SCUBA-dive shop Centro Sub Atlantis in Castellamare, Sicily. Position: tank caddy. Duties: moving equipment, filling tanks, overseeing dives, and maintaining up-keep around the shop. Pay: boat-rides, lunch, diving, and starting tomorrow a place to sleep. Please come with me into this journey...


I never remember my last breath of natural air once I am submerge under a body of water. My focus is always on the current breath, which comes from a cast-iron tank attached to my back. As long as my lungs are not deprived, my sight stays heavily absorbed with shades of blue. 


I enter the shimmering sea knowing a WWII shipwreck is soon to be explored, but now in the shallows there is only empty blue underneath. However, distance begins to separate me from the surface. With each meter that adds to the gap I discover light at a depth undetectable from above, but the bottoms is still not visible. Cautious of the possibility that I will drop endlessly into nothing like an anxious dream, I look up to gain comfort from the boat floating overhead. Now a shady figure creates a disturbance in the endless spectrum of blue. Getting closer reveals a body with tremendous size. It is not until I hover over her bow that the ship's whole form is unveiled. 


Viewing the ship from this position I only sense the death of the 1943 sailors, the feeling is morbid, yet calm. She lies to rest 115ft below the waves she used to sit atop of. Death always feels silent, but there is no silence equivelent to the one within the mass of the sea. 


Although it is quiet, the world I am intruding into does not stay hidden for long. Fish swarm and circle with no fear, sea plants and sea fans wave gracefully as I glide by. An Amore Eel snakes out from under a piece of shipwreck. From above I can observe this creature without being detected and without being intimidated. Its dark purple skin ripples gently and the yellow specks along its sides flutter like dandy-lions in the breeze. I feel drawn to this eel, but under water I cannot spend all day. Moving on, in and out of cabins of the ship, through the engine room to the top deck, I stop and look down into a portal showing only blackness. Captured by the mystery of what may be below I stare, and as if it could feel my attention something stirrers. Moment by moment a long thin fish slowly creeps its way out of the hole. The fish is grey, absent of color, like a gost. Its head flat, its eyes white like something without a soul, but I know it sees me. We are looking at each other straight in the eyes. The fish's stair overpowers me. I lose my calm. Slowly, I back away, watching the fish do the same. Respect for the fish also feels like fear. I am an intruder. 

Carlos, a Brazilian man, took these photos on our latest dive (no ship, sorry)

Back on land having been inspired, I write this poem... 


Blue means more than just the sea. Rich and empty, calm and cruel, if you look you can see worlds within worlds. Which do you resist, to which do you flee? 


Enter this blue its layers, its currents. Free yourself of the mystery and drought of the surface, the waves torment all but those who enter. So, enter and sink to where the light from the sun reaches you barely, but its warmth is lost in the molecules above. 
View yourself as the ocean, having a bottom to be discovered. Spend life straining to reach your own deepest parts, and all you will find is blue. This blue, the blues. 


Under the sea I see life. Life among life among death among life. Above I see blue too, with no point of completion far to wide to ponder an end. Whispering possibility with silence, never pulling you apart. View yourself as you view this blue, view yourself as the sky. 

Me (left) going to help another diver who is having trouble near the rocks 

Follow the fish into the abyss

Rosanero

Deep into summer, the Sicilian city, Palermo, is almost vacant during a holiday weekend. The scene takes place in a parking lot filled with street vendors selling hot food and "Barbi-Pink" sports paraphernalia. I am at the tailgate festivities for a friendly match at the Palermo futbol stadium. The environment is  casual as people refresh themselves with cold beer. The largest bits of commotion rise from voices selling jerseys and a band of teens excited for the pre-season event.  

These guys thought I was some kind of promoter 

When I gave them my blog address they went to it immediately from their mobile device 

I guess salmon-pink was close enough; I was accepted. 
 My Brazilian friend Edu (on the left) was too.


The dedicated boys wearing bright pink make it obvious that their passion for the team is stronger than their identity with gender norms. Young masculinity melts away with the Mediterranean heat to reveal a love for the Palermo Rosaneros and fellow supporters. 

A large couch bus drove by carrying the challengers. Hissing and hollering signified the end of the pre-game festivities. The pink crowd followed the bus, filled with the Turkish team, into the stadium. 

The Stadium, although mostly empty, held something inexplicable. Perhaps it was the glow coming from the reflection of sinking sun off the surrounding cliffs. Possibly it was the magnificent green grass grown with a little something special. Maybe, my perception was altered by the Sicilian street food and the stadium was mediocre. In the end, it was probably the fact that soccer in Italy is more than just a sport. The feeling I felt, most likely, came from the lingering presence of generations past. 

The Castle overlooking the stadium, where the Pope recently stayed

The first sight of a glorified grass field ignites vibrations that are familiar 

Edu fell quickly for the Rosaneros

Yankee Stadium does not give you this kind of view

Not a ballpark frank, It is fired potatoes and chick-peas in a bun- soaked with lemon juice. 

Although entertained by the game, the 3-2 loss left me concerned for Palermo. Before the game I learned that Palermo was close to entering into the champions play last season. After the team learned they would not receive financial rewards for advancing closer to glory, they lost five consecutive games. Personally, I was confused. I wondered, how could a European futbol player be so consumed with money when this sport is supposed to be about passion. I felt like it showed poor competitive character. The Palermo fan who told this to me understood the teams lack of motivation.  He said this is their job...What about the job of bringing honor to the city. I am sure during Rome's rule this apathy would have not been tolerated. 

After the loss, the fans booed their players in disgust and in fear for a poor season ahead. As we walked home the vendors announced all products were on sale because the team was now worthless. I wondered about the future for the Rosaneros. In a nontraditional love-triangle, neither players, managers, nor fans were satisfied.  When did fanaticism become conditional, and when did athletes stop performing for pride? 

*Coming Soon*...While volunteering at an Italian SCUBA shop I am thankful language is universal under the sea...