We are all the same. Thoughts from Palermo.

I wrote this text in November, sitting over a coffee and a croissant at the Massimo Theater cafe in Palermo. It was my first trip after a long break and I remember that it struck me in this city that I felt at home in it. After talking to some of the residents I met, I realized that perhaps this impression was compounded by the fact that the city’s architecture in many respects referred to the Catalan style, and I used to call Barcelona my second home, wasn’t it? I felt, however, that this is not the point. In this autumn Palermo, which was saying goodbye with warm rain and empty streets, the next tourist season I realized that globalization – in my own experience – has just achieved its dream goal. I got on the plane, landed on the island, and yet I felt that nothing had changed. I bought my favorite chocolate and drank Italian coffee, great, but I drink such coffee every day. I arrived from the airport to the station at Via Roma by bus, in which the driver listened to the same song that I heard at the airport in Krakow. I stood before crossing a busy street, looked around and then I realized. I’m in Italy.

There were no designated lanes on the ground, and people sneaked between the horn concert after an invisible pedestrian crossing. In search of a hostel, I walked for the first time on a street that I did not know, which nevertheless enveloped me with a vague memory of other places where I felt at home. I was smiling to myself. It was good to know that the house could be extended to so many places. I passed Zara, Lidl and a few other shops I know (but also palm trees and plants in huge pots, which always filled me with a sense of unusualness). I finally found a hostel on a side street from Via Roma. It turned out that its owner is its main inhabitant. We introduced ourselves to broken English (and my almost non-existent Italian). When I booked the hostel, it proudly advertised itself as serving free breakfast. The owner showed me the kitchen, which contained a cabinet with a large number of croissants and pastries, above which was the raw inscription “Breakfast available between 10 and 12 wid. He waved his hand hurriedly in that direction, signaling that it was only then allowed to approach that place. Coffee on the stove began to bubble, a young girl passed us by the door to the next room. Escorted by the smell of fresh coffee, we went to the end of a long corridor, to a room that can be described as complete chaos. It was under renovation, but some of the walls were decorated with small works of art, painted by hostel regulars. Finally, in the dim light here, we came to a balcony lit by the warm autumn sun. Until now Salvo’s intention was unclear to me – because that was the name of the owner – this detailed guided tour of the part of the apartment that no one had occupied yet. I understood now. He leaned down and removed the linen from the strings, gently bouncing in the wind. He handed it to me, then patted my shoulder and said, “Your room is the second one at the end of the corridor. We cook dinner together at seven every day. Well, have a nice stay in Palermo. “

After a short nap I went for a walk around the city, which, although new to me seemed very familiar. Wanting to escape from the loud Via Roma, I entered the first street, which tempted me with a row of plants in huge pots. Following along, I came to the square at the end, where there were small workshops of artists selling various types of handicrafts. Between them were tables constructed of colorful palettes. There was actually no cafe there, it was probably a place to talk to the artists. There were no tourists here anymore, and the owner of every workshop I visited, greeted me with a kind but surprised smile. At one of the colorful tables sat a tearful girl, two friends comforted her loudly and effectively judging by the salvos of laughter that accompanied me.

I delved into this increasingly bathed city in the twilight of the November sunset, trying to soak up the atmosphere that was saturated. The air smelled of late summer, which, combined with the frost prevailing in Poland, filled me from head to toe with nostalgia. I didn’t have a map with me, and my phone barely worked, and the only company for a good dozen or so minutes was laundry dripping on my head. Finally, a middle-aged woman emerged from the dark street aroused by shopping and visibly tired.

One of the few reference points in the city I knew was Teatro Massimo, which served as the scenery for the famous Godfather scene. I asked you timidly how to get to him. It turned out that my walk in very similar streets led me to an absolute distance from the city center. After talking to the stranger, he learned how to get to him, and why he seemed so exhausted. I thought that every country is made up of hundreds of thousands, millions of tired women and men who deal with their everyday life in one way or another, in order to create their next generations, who at some point will start working for the next.

Regardless of the circumstances in which they were born, the everyday affairs of people are basically the same. They face problems, care for loved ones and have their little joys. I left myself to see the Massimo Theater the next day and now walking away completely in the dark streets towards the hostel (I had to make dinner) I wondered what makes us forget about it so often. We are similar in this too.