Perhaps

A wave of dizziness came over me while walking home on the lava stone streets. I stopped, thought I might faint, and then smiled imagining the confusion on the faces of the Sicilians who would find me if I did. Who is this helpless ragazzo laying on the sidewalk? Perhaps it was the sugar. I had eaten three portions of Granita, the lactose free alternative to gelato, and was tweaking out. One frozen ball was floating in supersweet almond milk, and the other two, pistachio and coffee flavored, were in a glass served with a teaspoon shaped like a shovel. The coffee granita was rich in caffeine and tasted like fresh grounds. Perhaps it was the long conversation I had almost entirely in Italian with my language partner Rosaria, who has soft white freckled cheeks which I adore kissing ciao hello and ciao goodbye. She said I was no longer at the beginner level of Italian, the first compliment of my speaking in a month of feeling like I’ve learned nothing. Perhaps it was my late afternoon nap wearing earplugs to dull the sound of traffic which relentlessly permeates my room. Vespas and motorcycles scream at full throttle velocities, cars honk at the slightest sign of alarm, and diesel buses, garbage trucks and Mafioso hatchbacks with sound systems all compete to make my balcony windows shatter. Perhaps it was the e-mail I received today that indicated I could still register for the on-line economics course that I need to start my graduate degree in the fall. Perhaps it was buying groceries at the open-air market without getting ripped off. I refused the €2.50 head of iceberg lettuce which one vendor tried to sell me after removing the price tag. When I said it was too expensive, he offered it for €2. I left and found one for €1. The vendor who previously sold me four heads of garlic for €1 when I only wanted one head tried to sell me two kilos of tomatoes, but I persisted: “Un kilo di pomodori.” “Due kilo?” “Un kilo.” “Due?” “No, uno.” Perhaps it was my last day of Italian guessing lessons, where my comprehension is stellar and my speaking subpar. Perhaps it was the hot shower with liquid citrus scented soap that I switched to after realizing I was washing with a bar of laundry soap for three weeks. And I wondered why my skin was so dry. Perhaps it was the early morning run I had by the sea, admiring the sunrise and crashing of waves through arches of lava rock. Perhaps it was the balanced breakfast I finally managed to compose in my month’s stay: granola with soy milk, one hardboiled egg, a blood orange and small box of pear nectar.

I walked with hands in pockets and for the first time in a month I felt pride aside from the darkness of my deeply tanned skin. How long will my money last? What will I do when it runs out? How expensive will South Africa be next month? What am I doing in Sicily? How will I find enough internet to take my on-line course? Why am I studying economics? Why am I getting a graduate degree in international relations? In that moment, my doubts no longer had clout. I can speak elementary Italian. I am living an exciting life. The lava made sense, the scooters and motorcycles made sense, Italian materialism and Bangladeshi internet cafes made sense. Perhaps it is writing this post knowing that my inspiration comes in the extraordinary.