Sight Seeing

Sight Seeing

by Nicole Lambe

  I woke up on August 2nd, 2018 at 3:05am to bright lights being thrust on by my mother. Hastily, I dragged myself out of bed, conscious of moving my luggage off the floor and into the hall before it got in the way, and slipping on my new Birkenstocks. We had a flight to catch soon, and at 3:15am it was difficult to see, even for someone with full vision. 

Grasping my father’s hand, I lead him through the dimly lit hallway down into the lobby. We counted the steps as we went down like we had for the entire week we spent in Sorrento. There were fourteen steps. Not more, not less. Remembering this could mean very little to the common traveller, but to us, it meant that the day would go by smoothly—with no obstacles or injury. He had become familiar with the place and now we were about to move to uncharted territory. New steps to count, new voices to learn, new rooms to get accustomed too. 

“Ready to go, Frank?” Our driver asked my father.

“I’ll never be ready to leave this beautiful place, Vincenzo.” He told him as I helped him into the front seat and slept for the car ride to the airport. 

When people return from vacation, a lot of their stories entail beautiful sunsets, vibrant scenery, and an over all appeal to the visual aspects of their trip. But for my father, this is different. He was born with a degenerative eye disease called Retinitis Pigmentosa, which is a condition that directly affects his eyesight. Overtime there has been, and will continue to be, a loss and degeneration of the cells in his retina. Symptoms of this include gradual loss of the visual field and complete loss of night vision, meaning my father has many blind spots, and has trouble seeing in different lighting. Travelling is different for us, my father is different than your common traveller.

  As we stepped off the airplane in Sicily, my dad held my hand, relying on me to guide him through this unfamiliar place. Getting re-accustomed to new settings is difficult already, however a busy airport in a foreign country heightens that. We walked through the crowds, and graciously, people moved out of the way when they saw my fathers cane. However, it was with just an inch of space to spare. Getting anywhere in Italy seemed to take forever, and in Sicily— even longer, my father was getting antsy. Finally, after waiting an eternity to get our luggage, we were able to get another driver to take us to the quaint area of Trapani. 

Both my maternal grandparents are from a small town in this region, so my mother grew up speaking Sicilian dialect. My father however is from Newfoundland, only speaking English. So when we were approached by my cousin that evening, he was even more disoriented as a short Sicilian woman of about sixty came bustling out of the apartment building.

“CIAO BEDDHA MIA, COMÉ VA?” she shouted, which roughly translates to: Hi, my beautiful. How are you? in dialect. 

  “Antoinetta, this is my husband Franco,” my mother explained to her. “He has some trouble seeing.”

Without hesitation, Antoinetta embraced my father and kissed him on both cheeks. He greeted her happily, and directly attempted to bring our bags up. Because I’d been there before, I followed behind him and counted the steps out-loud, telling him when to turn on the staircase. Three stories up and twenty steps in between each dimly lit floor. 

Soon, the entire family arrived and we got to the good part— the food. I loaded my plate, as my mother loaded my fathers, with pasta agghiu, pancetta, fried eggplant and risotto. A small cellphone flashlight, carefully balanced atop a styrofoam cup illuminated my father’s plate. This made the colours richer, and he could carefully navigate the penne into his mouth without accidentally scooping up a giant garlic clove.

“This is the best meal I’ve ever had,” my father exclaimed. “The tomatoes are so much sweeter here, and the musk of garlic is ten times stronger.”

My mom translated and Antoinetta laughed, reaching across the table and piling more onto his plate. This is a habit she persisted on while we stayed with her, and even when we ate elsewhere in town. As my fathers Italian vocabulary grew, he attempted to tell her “basta,” which means enough, but it was no use. He was able to taste, and taste again, with Antoinetta’s persistence in giving him more. 

On our third night, after going to the beach, we went to Antonietta’s son’s. Giovanni, having three boys, two German Shepards, seven kittens, and about fifteen turtles, is an interesting character with a rare, amazing outlook on life. He spends as much time as he can with family, while indulging in dance and comedy regularly. Upon meeting, my father and him took an immediate liking to each other, continuing to try and communicate, and urging me and my mother to translate for them. As he barbecued, my father filmed him so that he could enhance the video at a later date and see the details of what Giovanni’s estate looked like. One thing was clear however: it sure smelt amazing.

Although they couldn’t understand what one another was saying, one word remained constantly untranslated: Birra.

Giovanni exasperated with joy, screaming from anywhere in the yard, to get our attention.

“FRANCO,” he drew out the “O” at the end, “BIRRA?!”

After hearing this for the twenty-third time that night, he leaned over breathlessly and whispered in my ear, “Not only am I blind, but I’m drunk too!” 

Almost instantly I thought of the moment in the Great Gatsby, where Nick gets drunk alone at a party as a means of coping with his loneliness. I compared the two situations and thought how wildly different they were. These people were bonding, and instead of being lonely because they couldn’t understand each other, they were finding joy and humour in the interactions.

On our final day in Sicily, we said goodbye to Antoinetta and decided to take a final walk on the beach. My father folded up his cane as my toes filled with sand. The sun was setting now, which meant we should probably get back to the car soon, but he insisted on letting the water crash against his calves one last time. 

“Ready to go, Dad?” I asked him as a big, blue wave soaked the edge of my capris.

  “I’ll never be ready to stop looking at this beautiful sunset, Nicole.”