The boat ride to Sicily and the infamous Agora Hostel

I remember the boat ride to Sicily. As much as I can say I have learned to dislike the people of southern Italy, there is nothing I can say against it’s scenery. It is absolutely and undoubtedly beautiful. The indigo sea revels in stark contrast to the red and yellow houses that dot the coastline, creating a line of civilization between the mighty sea and the overbearing mountains. On the Bluvia, the vessel that took me to the island, I managed to take a few pictures, and upon revisiting them I realize that the wildly expressive colors I saw where not an illusions created by an ailing mind, but a bold reality cast full of striking features. When we reached land I quickly became aware of my surroundings. This was not the clean and friendly Europe that had been Oostende or Bern, this was a poor and rough part of the continent. I tried asking a woman behind some desk at the train station where the Agora Hostel was. She looked at me as if I was a babbling fool and didn’t respect me with a simple reply of “no English”. I had a very rudimentary map of where the Hostel was. It was a small map of the city printed in monotone red and with a large box, one so big as to make any direct coordinates impossible, in the southwest portion reading “Agora Hostel”. I stepped out of the shade of the station into the hot Sicilian sun and began my venture west. I walked for about twenty minutes and then walked into a shop to ask someone where my hostel was. “Agora Hostel” I said, and again, they gave me nothing. I continued to walk. I walked and walked, cutting back and forth between the alleyways as to make sure that no inch of the city was left unturned, all the while asking people if they had heard of the hostel and always getting the same response. Hours passed. Dirt from the filthy streets fused with my sweat from my physical exhaustion began to cover me. I took out my visa card and dragged it down my neck, scraping away a layer of grime that coated my skin. This was all my debit card was good for, a device used to peel away the filth I had become one with, as no one in the entire island would honor it leaving me at dizzy and at the brink of dehydration. In desperation I started to waver from my path, now taking a route further into the center of the city, hoping that by some miracle I would come across the my elusive goal. Off in the distance I saw something, that while not the Agora, did exude hope. It was a McDonalds, and, even in my state, I realized the irony of the situation. The one place that I now wanted, the place that I had travelled miles for, was arguably the most accessible and criticized place in my homeland. I stepped into the doors at around 10 30, the main dining room filled with the Italians who sounded like the sang when the spoke, but as I made my way towards the register their chorus seemed to stop. I don’t blame them though. I saw myself, ruddy and drenched in sweat, in the reflection of the McFlurry machine.
I held up the card outlined in skin and dirt. “Visa” I said in a lackluster tone to the girl behind the counter. I had already prepared myself for denial.
She looked at me and smiled, “Ci”. It was the best thing I had heard in all my time on the island. I wasn’t hungry anymore, illness had ridden me of any appetite, but I did order three waters. As soon as she could hand them to me I ripped of the top and squeezed their soft plastic body, emptying every last drop of hydration they offered into my starved body.
“Do you know where the Agora Hostel is?” I asked, this time with a shred of hope- something that felt unusual to say, something I had become unfamiliar with.
She looked at me, and then began to speak.
“It is….” She searched for the words, “No more”
My mouth fell. It was reminiscent of the satryonic wolf in old cartoons whose lower lipped fell to the floor when a woman walked by, all that was missing was the melodramatic thud.
“It is no more?” I said, mirroring her English, “What do you mean- it is closed? “ I said, “Kaput” trying to think of any more languages I knew that could express what I meant to say.
“Yes” she said, eagerly nodding, the kind of way someone nods when they want to agree with you for two reasons. Either, A, they want so badly what you want that they feel agreeing with make it come true, or ,B, they want to agree with you so you will no longer feel the need to question them and ultimately leave. I think it was the latter choice.
It made sense. I had asked 30 people and not one of them had heard of it, even give that some of them genuinely hadn’t heard of it, out of 30 people it was extremely unlikely that not one of them knew the directions or had even heard of the Agora Hostel.
Although I had become aware of my predicament- planning to stay in a hostel that no longer existed that is, and was in a better position because of it, as I stepped out of the McDonalds and was miles away from the train station (and hotel district), my morale sunk to a new low.
I trudged onward, staggering in zombie fashion. I was completely alone, and sole truth that was what kept me moving onward. There was no one to pick me up; there was no one to help me- only my left foot, then my right. Stopping was on option, Sleeping in the street like a dog was an option. Those where options for the broken. As I slowly made my way to the train station, planning what my next move would be if there were no hotels available, I realized that I had been defeated. I had not done enough research on the place I was going to stay, and because of that I was defeated. People are defeated everyday- for every great invention, for every genius discovery there have been one thousand defeats. I do not fear defeat, no one should. To be defeated in inevitable. The United States has failed, Thomas Edison Failed, the 1972 Dolphins failed, what made them different, is that they were never broken. No one, not anything, is totally perfect- to strive for perfection is foolish and will only end in humiliation, self-degridation, and less willingness to try again- to persevere, to not be broken, is what one should strive for. Take the failures, accept them, learn from them, and move onward as someone who better understands. This was the first of many defeats I would face in the next few days, losses only made worse by my ever worsening condition, but I was never broken.
Around midnight I found myself at the foot of the Bella Villa. It was nice- too nice I thought, a far cry from the hostels and sleezy hotels I had stayed at so far, but while my wallet ruled that there would be a more economic alternative, my weary feet, my swollen eyes and throat, and my congested nose overturned it’s objective verdict.
It ended up “only” being 50 euros, a good deal I thought given the amenities. I booked two nights and prayed that it would be enough time for me to heal.