Almanac Travel: The Big Match

 

Palermo, the raw and grungy capital of Sicily, is a place of faded beauty and beautiful chaos. Once the crossroads of civilisation – where Europe meets North Africa, Christianity meets Islam – Palermo is a town of unrivalled passion. Food, family, religion, and of course football are of upmost importance to the people of Palermo; the Palermitano. 

 

In 2000, as part of a broader 18-month worldwide backpacking adventure, my wife and I travelled to Sicily to discover her mother’s family roots. We rode the overnight train from Rome with our great friend Brian, also in Italy at the time discovering his mother’s family roots. This in itself was an adventure, including sharing a cabin with a local called Elvis who could turn his eyelids inside out.

 

Upon arriving in Palermo we checked into the Albergo Orientale, a former 7th century palace turned budget hotel and a microcosmic mirror of the city that surrounds it. Its past glory dulled by time; peeling paint, crumbling stucco, an eerie stillness laying behind the giant, carved timber doors that lead to the central courtyard like a portal through time. A single, three storey high palm tree dominates the space. Humphrey Bogart in a linen suit would not be out of place here.

 

Our second-storey room was large enough to host a 7th century gala ball; empty other than 2 beds on opposing walls, a giant mirrored wardrobe, and a bashed up old kitchen table with four wooden chairs. Timber shutters in faded red paint opened to a magnificent marble decked balcony. A wrought iron balustrade separating us from Via Maqueda below. 

 

We settled in. Dragging the table and chairs onto the balcony, we opened the first of many bottles of local Nero D’Avolo, ready to soak up the assault on the senses that is the cultural heart of Sicily.  

 

Below us Via Maqueda is buzzing. Along with the Cassaro, it forms the main axis of the cultural heart of the city. Among the crowds, we noticed a vein of pink and black forming. There is a palpable excitement brewing, an electric anticipation. 

 

A short while later, the 101 bus for La Favorita stadium stops below to pick up hundreds of pink and black clad fans of Palermo FC.  They pack into the bus so tight the rear doors cannot close.

 

The street quietens. A lull ensues.

 

Three hours (and a few bottles) later we heard the approach of a rapidly increasing din. A cacophony of car and Vespa horns builds. We watched with fascination as a continuous procession of scooters, Fiats, and 3 wheel Piaggio Apes fills the street below. Pink and black flags waving, horns blaring. The ecstatic singing and chanting of the Palermo FC anthem fills the city.

 

The Rosanero have won! The Palermitano are ecstatic!

 

Public buses pick their way through traffic with arms and bodies protruding from open doors and windows. Flags and scarves wave and twirl in a frenzy of pink and black. 

 

As the traffic lights turn red, buses, cars, and scooters are abandoned for victory dances, hugs, kisses, and pats on the back. The street momentarily becomes a celebratory rave until the lights turn green again and the party shifts gear. The ecstatic faithful rejoin their transport and move on – until the lights change to red again, and the victory dance resumes. 

 

The black and the pink of Palermo FC are said to represent bitter and sweet. Nothing more perfectly represents the dichotomy of the grand old city of Palermo.

 

 

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