Wednesday, August 13th, 2014
When you stay at a hotel, one does not have the reflex to get up early in the morning to clean the space you have been living in . When you rent something through an internet service like Air B and B you develop a conscienciousness. This is what we occupied ourselves with that morning before giving back the keys to the other artist in residence. When she arrived, a little earlier than planned, we were still in the midst of tidying up. We had to confess that someone had stolen an ashtray that we had carelessly left outside one of the nights. She did not seemed forlorn over the ashtray but we gave her the money to replace it anyway. We left Ortegia with a sad feeling. But the plesant and relatively uneventful drive to Agrigento made the pain of separation easier. The drive along the SS 115 takes you through a lot of coastal towns. You get a taste of them whether you want to or not. This was the case for us when we passed through the beastly town of Gela. Gela is one of those towns where I think you have to be born there to appreciate its inner beauty. Perhaps there is some to be appreciated but I did not see any. It was more like how I imagine the advanced levels of "Grand Theft Auto". There is a lot of concrete in Gela. People love concrete in Gela. It is everywhere. It is curious to me how half of Sicily is a baroque fairy tale and the other half looks like Beirut after a bombing. I know poverty limits one's ability to access great materials for construction but there are alternatives to concrete slabs. There must be. We heard the news that Robin Williams killed himself on the radio. My first thought when I heard that this comedian died was one of profound loss and confusion. I felt that if Robin Williams, the most joyish man on the planet could get that low, then any of us could. The world was a lot less joyous with him gone. There was always something ephemeral about Robin Williams. He was on loan to us.
We finally pulled into a hotel situated along the coastal highway outside of Agrigento. It had a pickled atmosphere, as if everything had been preserved since the 1970's. The exterior seemed to shout: "we were once doing well but it's been a while". It was almost motel style with its pool and parking lot vibe. We checked in were happy to discover a fairly clean room which was all we were asking for. The pool area was the real eldorado of self discovery. Here a makeshift party was already going on as the sun went down. A lifeguard considered it his divine obligation to keep the deck area filled with cheap Italian pop songs. I suspected he placed more care into what CD he was going to put on next as to whose life he could potentially save if one of the overweight men doing laps in front of their sweethearts were to suddenly drown. Flirting was in the air. The kind of flirting that did not threaten marriages but had the potential to make a family holiday a little more exciting. Ladies were in bikinis and had their faces toward the setting sun. In the sky, swallows circled. As the last of the swimmers got out of the pool for the day and the lifeguard said goodbye to every last guest, the birds began to dive bomb the pool. It was as if they were waiting to do this. As if this hotel did not already remind one of a Hitchcock movie. I found someone's tennis shoe on the way back to our room.
Everyone seemed like they were primping for dinner. But it soon became obvious that most guests were not eating in. The huge empty ball room had been converted for dinner service. We walked in and endured the reign of a dinner tyrant intent on making everyone appreciate the old tradition. We came to the ground floor restaurant and found a staff waiting for us in high gear. There was an air of expectation in the staff. As if they expected us to dance. They were lead by an elderly figure in a pristine white jacket. This was the tyrant I was talking about. He was short with thinning grey hair and metal blue eyes. He used these electric eyes to shoot the staff Mussolini level threats. They were running around tripping over themselves but I could not notice any more efficiency as a result of their trevails. The food was not all that exceptional. If this Maitre D were to have stepped in and helped things along, it might have been more like the restaurant in his head, but instead he preferred to stand in the corner and look pissed. I liked to imagine that in this gentleman's mind , this was the finest hotel in Montecarlo. In reality; we were the only ones taking the hotel up on its dinner offerings. Us and a large Greek family that seemed perfectgly content. Amandine and I decided to split a tiramisu. The head waiter looked like he wanted to cry. Real diners did not split desserts.
When you stay at a hotel, one does not have the reflex to get up early in the morning to clean the space you have been living in . When you rent something through an internet service like Air B and B you develop a conscienciousness. This is what we occupied ourselves with that morning before giving back the keys to the other artist in residence. When she arrived, a little earlier than planned, we were still in the midst of tidying up. We had to confess that someone had stolen an ashtray that we had carelessly left outside one of the nights. She did not seemed forlorn over the ashtray but we gave her the money to replace it anyway. We left Ortegia with a sad feeling. But the plesant and relatively uneventful drive to Agrigento made the pain of separation easier. The drive along the SS 115 takes you through a lot of coastal towns. You get a taste of them whether you want to or not. This was the case for us when we passed through the beastly town of Gela. Gela is one of those towns where I think you have to be born there to appreciate its inner beauty. Perhaps there is some to be appreciated but I did not see any. It was more like how I imagine the advanced levels of "Grand Theft Auto". There is a lot of concrete in Gela. People love concrete in Gela. It is everywhere. It is curious to me how half of Sicily is a baroque fairy tale and the other half looks like Beirut after a bombing. I know poverty limits one's ability to access great materials for construction but there are alternatives to concrete slabs. There must be. We heard the news that Robin Williams killed himself on the radio. My first thought when I heard that this comedian died was one of profound loss and confusion. I felt that if Robin Williams, the most joyish man on the planet could get that low, then any of us could. The world was a lot less joyous with him gone. There was always something ephemeral about Robin Williams. He was on loan to us.
We finally pulled into a hotel situated along the coastal highway outside of Agrigento. It had a pickled atmosphere, as if everything had been preserved since the 1970's. The exterior seemed to shout: "we were once doing well but it's been a while". It was almost motel style with its pool and parking lot vibe. We checked in were happy to discover a fairly clean room which was all we were asking for. The pool area was the real eldorado of self discovery. Here a makeshift party was already going on as the sun went down. A lifeguard considered it his divine obligation to keep the deck area filled with cheap Italian pop songs. I suspected he placed more care into what CD he was going to put on next as to whose life he could potentially save if one of the overweight men doing laps in front of their sweethearts were to suddenly drown. Flirting was in the air. The kind of flirting that did not threaten marriages but had the potential to make a family holiday a little more exciting. Ladies were in bikinis and had their faces toward the setting sun. In the sky, swallows circled. As the last of the swimmers got out of the pool for the day and the lifeguard said goodbye to every last guest, the birds began to dive bomb the pool. It was as if they were waiting to do this. As if this hotel did not already remind one of a Hitchcock movie. I found someone's tennis shoe on the way back to our room.
Everyone seemed like they were primping for dinner. But it soon became obvious that most guests were not eating in. The huge empty ball room had been converted for dinner service. We walked in and endured the reign of a dinner tyrant intent on making everyone appreciate the old tradition. We came to the ground floor restaurant and found a staff waiting for us in high gear. There was an air of expectation in the staff. As if they expected us to dance. They were lead by an elderly figure in a pristine white jacket. This was the tyrant I was talking about. He was short with thinning grey hair and metal blue eyes. He used these electric eyes to shoot the staff Mussolini level threats. They were running around tripping over themselves but I could not notice any more efficiency as a result of their trevails. The food was not all that exceptional. If this Maitre D were to have stepped in and helped things along, it might have been more like the restaurant in his head, but instead he preferred to stand in the corner and look pissed. I liked to imagine that in this gentleman's mind , this was the finest hotel in Montecarlo. In reality; we were the only ones taking the hotel up on its dinner offerings. Us and a large Greek family that seemed perfectgly content. Amandine and I decided to split a tiramisu. The head waiter looked like he wanted to cry. Real diners did not split desserts.
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