My Palifornia

I used to curse my hometown. I wanted to get out of there, really bad. Now, every time I visit, I wish I could stay just a little bit longer.

Summers in Palermo are hot. Super hot.

I remember waking up, 5:55 am on a friends rooftop, morning sun roasting my eye lids as I'm trying to get my thoughts in order after a wild night of partying and drinking. It was too hot even for the Hawaiian lady nurse lying next to me. "Let's get the car to mine" I say.

As I'm driving through the streets of the old town, AC blasting, classical music in the background, the city is still waking up. The roads are almost empty, which is a sight on it's own since traffic has always been Palermo's main problem: everyone and their dogs drive a car there, even to cover a 10 minutes walk. Nonsense.

The roads are dirty, so are the centuries old buildings and statues, blackened by the constant pollution. A street car called 'Ape', (pronounced AH-PEH, meaning 'bee', possibly because of it's loud, bumblebee-like, spluttering engine) parked on the side of the street sells big, bright red watermelons, sugary and juicy on the inside. I take a bite. I'm instantly refreshed.

After a good six hours sleep and a hearty brunch, we're ready to once again tackle the heat and head down to the beach. It's a short drive from my flat, only fifteen minutes if one's lucky enough to hit a green light at every intersection. It's rare, but it has happened.

Big mount "Pellegrino" towers over the city on the south side, facing the amazing blue coast on the north side. It gets it's name from the peregrines who would climb on foot to visit the famous Saint. Rosalia's sanctuary, resting on top of the mountain, inside a natural grotto, carved by centuries of running natural mineral water. There's also an old castle on top of the mountain, visible at all times, looking over the city.

Leaving the urban landscape of the city behind, we go towards the beach town of Mondello. The air becomes purer, somewhat softer in it's texture. My left arm rests on the open window of my car as I drive through what connects the city to the beach: a national park. King Ferdinand III named it "La Favorita" (meaning his "favourite" road to the sea). It's as spectacular during the day as it is dangerous during night time.

The summer sun shines through the natural arches made by the trees, creating a green, leafy, shiny tunnel. As we go further downhill, I feel excited to show my lovely partner why I call this place my "Palifornia", as we're finally down at sea level.

Coming out of the leafy tunnel feels like waking up from a pleasant dream: as soon as the light hits me full flood, the color palette changes dramatically, the sky, wide above, is bright blue, not a cloud in sight. A tinge of yellow and green mix in a flurry as I drive through the main road to the sea, coasted by a series of tall, swinging palm trees. We arrive at the beach. We dip our toes in the crystal clear waters.

This is it. My moment of Zen. No matter how many times I've done it, it always feels like magic. I check my partners reaction, I can tell she feels the same.

It's easy to overlook and take these moments for granted, but that's something I've never done, even when I used to live there. I felt blessed every time I touched those waters, and I still feel that, every summer, each year, when I get to come back home.

For a moment, I feel like I'm centered again, at peace, as I see the horizon blending perfectly with the calm blue sea ahead. I still can see mount Pellegrino in the background: from where I stand, it resembles a big beautiful Labrador, sleeping peacefully.

I turn, ready to smile and pose for my first summer picture to be taken. I sigh and sit down instead, staring through the camera lenses, begging for that moment to last a lifetime.

But I know it won't. And that's ok, because every time I feel life's challenges and emotions pushing me off balance, I close my eyes, and I travel back to that moment in time, where every thing felt still and in its place.

Including me.