Diary of an Accidental Coronavirus Tourist
Part I: Sicily
The plan was to go from New York City to Berlin for my boyfriend Micha’s birthday and then we’d go to Sicily together. It would be partly a vacation and partly a rescue mission. I wanted to look for a sad stray cat that I fell in love with when I was last there. I knew it was totally crazy, but for two years, I’d been trying to stabilize my life just so I could find that cat and take it home. Micha was usually skeptical of my wild ideas, but his rather Germanic reaction to the cat adventure was, “I love lost causes!” Little did we know that we were heading straight into the COVID-19 crisis.
We weren’t oblivious to the steady trickle of news about the coronavirus hitting northern Italy. During my three days in Berlin, we joked about being unable to leave, but in reality, we didn’t think we’d really have a problem. Palermo is a long way from Milan. Just in case, Micha checked to see just how bad the coronavirus crisis was in Palermo. After learning that there were less than 20 confirmed cases, we dismissed the issue from our minds. Instead, we debated what to call the cat. Corona? Boccaccio? Cannoli?
Monday March 9th
We arrived in Cefalú just before sunset. It was a typical evening and the entire village was out on the street. The only indication of the coronavirus crisis was a sign in lobby window of the old movie theater that said it was closed until April 3rd by order of the Department of Health.
Our host Giuseppe met us near the Duomo and showed us a small room with a balcony overlooking the street. After taking a picture of our passports and informing us that breakfast was from 8–10AM, he left us with a cheerful, “Ciao! I ‘ope you enjoy your stay-ay.”
We had dinner in a restaurant specializing in Sicilian cuisine. The portions were enormous and I had to have them bag up half my pasta con la sarde. Carrying a fishy doggy bag, we strolled around the darkened streets trying to digest the huge meal.
After returning to the hotel, I checked my phone and saw messages from two alarmed friends. The Italian president had just announced that all of Italy would be under lockdown the next day. Churches, theaters, and museums had already closed, but now so would all shops except groceries and pharmacies. Restaurants would only be open until 6pm. We spent the rest of the night looking up everything we could about the coronavirus.
Tuesday, March 10th
I awoke to the sounds of the breakfast buffet being set up. This was the only day we had to find the cat.
Two years ago when I had been in Cefalú with my friend Honey, we stumbled onto an area where someone was feeding stray cats. As we meowed at a tawny tabby cat and a striped orange cat, a tiny matted black-and-white ball of fur plodded dejectedly over with a chewed up tail between its legs. Honey shrank away from it, “Is it diseased?” The kitten sat down a little bit away from the other cats and turned to look at me with one sad yellow eye and one sad blue eye. My heart shattered into a million pieces.
I dressed quickly and left the room before Micha had finished taking his shower. The breakfast spread was being laid out by an older woman. She pointed at a tray of cookies and said with a shy smile, “Ho fatto i biscotti.” I took one of her homemade cookies and asked her if the restaurants were indeed going to close at 6pm. “Non lo so,” she shrugged.
After breakfast, we walked to the harbour so Micha could experience its aching beauty. So much of the Cefalú reminds me of Venice, another city where the decay only amplifies its allure, like the heady perfume of a full blown rose. We sat on a bench and gazed at the crumbling houses stacked hodgepodge around the periphery of a bottle green sea.
Looming over everything is La Rocca, a small mountain that sits like the top tier of a wedding cake above Cefalú. It’s a popular place for a hike. Not only are there amazing views, but also an ancient temple dating to the 4th or 5th century BC, a medieval battlement along the edges, and the ruins of a Norman castle at the very top.
The plan was that Micha would hike La Rocca while I explored the neighborhood underneath where I had last seen the cat. But when we arrived at the entrance to La Rocca, it was obstructed with barrier tape and signs saying that it was closed until April 3rd. Micha decided to join me in searching for the cat.
We walked up and down all the meandering steps of the Old Town, finding ourselves in back alleys with hanging laundry and in cul-de-sacs where we had to double back, and sudden astonishing views over terracotta rooftops. We saw an orange cat and a black-and-white cat that did not have different colored eyes. Nothing looked like the area where the cats had been fed two years earlier.
A woman walking a dog said hello to us. I showed her a photo of the cat on my phone but she hadn’t seen it. I asked her if she knew of anyone feeding cats in the area. “I too am a gattara,” she said, “but not here, up a little bit. My advice is don’t worry about the cat. You can sleep easy. We take care of our cats here.”
We took a coffee break at the Duomo. A pair of Italian women sat a few tables away from us talking with their hands. At another table, a British couple consulted a map. We asked the waiter if it was indeed true that restaurants would close at 6pm. “We close, all restaurants close,” he responded with his palms up in resignation, “Tutto chiuso!”
After coffee, we went back to the La Rocca area. This time, Micha pointed out that photos of the cat showed an area with grey steps. The only grey steps that we could find were right by the entrance to La Rocca. I thought that the place where Honey and I had seen the cat was further down. We walked around and around again looking for a different set of grey steps. After an hour, we were both getting hungry and I thought we should take a break until 4pm. That was approximately the time when Honey and I had seen the cat. Perhaps the same person would be feeding cats at that hour.
Accordingly, we set out to find a good restaurant for lunch. We settled on an enoteca with a view of the sea that Honey and I had been to previously. We walked through the little shop to the terrace where there were three tables. An Asian woman was at the table to the far right. The middle table was the sunniest, but when we tried to sit there, the waitress stopped us. “Sorry, but you must maintain a distance,” she said.
We ordered a fish platter and were impressed when it arrived. Shrimp, mussels, salmon, herring, anchovies, bluefish — most of it was raw, salted, or pickled — and unbelievably good. The Asian woman left and a South Asian couple from London took her place.
“We’ve just come from Palermo for the day,” the man said from across the terrace, “We’ve been here for a week.” They ordered the fish platter as well and we talked about the astonishing lack of tourists.
Then it was back to La Rocca. I made a beeline for the grey steps near the entrance to La Rocca, hoping to see someone putting out food for cats. But the steps were deserted and I began to wonder whether these really were the same steps. Micha had disappeared. We had probably lost each other while he was obsessively looking up coronavirus news on his phone. I doubled back, hoping to find some other grey steps with cats.
After wandering around a while, I bumped into Micha. “Hello, sad cat,” he greeted me. We walked around a bit more. A striped tabby with a gouged eye was sunning on a ledge. I stopped an old man hobbling slowly down a hilly road and showed him the photo of the cat. “I am not the person to ask,” he said. Two Italian guys were working out on their patio to techno music. I thought of asking them but didn’t want to interrupt.
We found ourselves once again at the steps near the entrance to La Rocca. A striped tabby cat that was sitting in the grass slinked away to a safer distance. I had a sudden flash of recognition. “Maybe it was here,” I mused. But the little black-and-white cat was nowhere to be found and the sun was starting to set. The small window that I had to find the cat had closed. “Goodbye kitty,” I said to the ghost of the cat that I wished were there, “I hope you’re happy wherever you are.”
As we went down from La Rocca, I began to worry about dinner. Neither Micha nor I were hungry after that huge fish platter, but we had no kitchen and no way to eat if we did get hungry. At the Duomo, I suggested that Micha buy a sandwich from the caffe. All the shops had closed except for a few small groceries that were only allowing one person in at a time because of the new distancing regulations. We bought some oranges from a stall with fruit and vegetables. The grocer directed us to a tiny shop next door to pay.
“Panne caldo?” asked the guy behind the counter, enticing us several loaves of fresh bread in a basket.
“Okay,” Micha said.
“Only one?” the grocer asked with disappointment.
Wednesday, March 11
I woke up to find that several friends had written to ask if I had found the cat so I spent the early morning making an IG story.
Micha rolled over, looked at his phone, and then sat up with a start, “Our flight has been cancelled.”
As part of the lockdown, there were no more domestic flights within Italy. The plan had been for both of us to fly from Palermo to Rome. From there, Micha would return to Berlin and I would go to New York. But now there was no way for us to get our connecting flights from Rome.
I called Alitalia and got nothing but a click. I called TAP Air and they too weren’t answering their phones. I called Orbitz and this time, a robot answered and gave me a bunch of options. After I punched in my reference code and 2 for change flight and a whole bunch of other numbers, a recorded voice finally said, “The wait for the next available operator is… Five. To. Eight. Hours.”
After discussing the limited possibilities, we decided to spring for the last direct flight back to Berlin on Friday. It was a lot of money and would mean an extra unanticipated day in Palermo, but a direct flight seemed a better option. It also seemed that it might be easier to get back to New York from Berlin.
I had booked a place in Palermo at the edge of the Kalsa, an ancient neighborhood with winding streets through crumbling palazzos, ramshackle markets, amazing aperitivo bars, and piazzas with live music. But all the shops were closed and the normally busy streets were nearly empty. We marvelled at the ornate baroque balconies of Corso Vittorio Emanuele as we buzzed at the massive doors of a cavernous 17th century villa. After what seemed to be ages, there was a metallic click, and our host, Freddy, opened the door.
“Benvenutti!” he said and extended his hand for a shake, then thought better of it. How does one say hello without shaking hands or kissing? I made an awkward half wave, half salute. Micha chose to ignore Freddy’s faux pas and grasped his hand warmly as if coronavirus hadn’t utterly changed social interaction. After this strange little dance, Freddy took my bag and led us up the winding wrought iron and marble stairs to the very top floor, where he opened the door to a stunning apartment with a large terrace.
We told Freddy about our flight cancellation and asked if it were possible to stay an extra day. He replied that a French family was arriving tomorrow and staying for ten days. “But you can stay in another apartment,” he suggested, leading us to through a door off the terrace to a smaller adjoining apartment. This one had a private rooftop with a sweeping view over terracotta rooftops and baroque churches. There seemed to be far worse fates than being stuck in Palermo.
After a quick scan through coronavirus news noting cancellations of every anticipated event in Berlin and New York City, we walked through the Kalsa hunting for food. There were very few people on the streets and only two restaurants were open. We picked the one with outdoor seating and enjoyed an amazing late lunch of grilled tuna. This was the last restaurant meal of our stay in Sicily.
Thursday, March 12
I woke up and saw that Freddy had written to say that he had cancelled the French family. All Italians were to remain indoors as much as possible. Everything was closed. He asked that we leave the keys in a safe outside the door and apologized for Sicilia not being herself during our stay.
It was a beautiful spring day but with all of the exhortations to stay home, we only went out of the house for two 20 minute walks. We saw a few joggers, some dog walkers, and people scurrying by with shopping bags. Restaurants were completely closed. The only shops that seemed to be open were tabbachi and South Asian groceries. Outside some of these small shops, there were little lines of people standing a meter apart in the sunshine, all on their phones, probably all obsessively scrolling through coronavirus news.
We went into one of the South Asian groceries and found that unlike photographs of shops in New York, these little groceries seemed to be well-stocked. Micha was excited to find Corona beer. Later, in one of the winding streets near the Kalsa, we found the Antica Caffeteria Corona. It was closed, of course.
“Is there an English term for Katastrophen Tourismus?” Micha wondered as we walked through the deserted streets. We weren’t exactly Katastrophentourist, but with nowhere to go, we stopped by the Chiesa di San Cataldo and took photos of the strange bulbous domes. Then we walked through the park in front of the Palazzo dei Normanni. A woman walking a big yellow Labrador smiled at me and said, “You are very welcome here!”
I’m Asian-American and with all the social media posts about racism against Asians, I worried that I might have problems in Sicily. But other than a few curious stares, no one had reacted much to an Asian-looking stranger in their midst. After the dog walker’s greeting, I relaxed but on our way back to the apartment, we had a strange encounter at the Quattro Canti.
A passing police car suddenly made a U-turn and doubled back to us. A mustachioed policeman leaned out the window and shouted, “You!”
“Che chosa?” I said, looking around the intersection. There happened to be six other people nearby. Why was this guy picking on me?
“Where you go?” he demanded. Without waiting for me to respond he continued, “You go hotel!”
“Andiamo comprare alimentari!” I protested, holding up an empty shopping bag. Micha shuffled his feet helplessly as my New York pugnacity surfaced. I felt some kind of posturing was needed. Something to show this guy that I wasn’t the chink he thought I was.
“No alimentari!” he commanded, “You go home! You go hotel!”
I met the eyes of a South Asian guy across the street. He held up his shopping bag in solidarity and shook his head. Cops.
“You go home! You go hotel!” the policeman kept repeating as we turned away from him and walked arm in arm down Vittorio Emmanuele back to our apartment.
Friday, March 13
Freddy had called us a taxi to take us to the airport early in case there were problems. We woke up an hour before the taxi was set to arrive and checked our emails. There were several messages from my theater. The final performance of the show had been cancelled and they were closing until March 27th. Until then, everyone was supposed to work remotely. I was relieved, but only for a moment.
My roommate in New York had also written. Her panicky email reprimanded me for going to Italy. “You coming back home to this house to quarantine puts everyone that lives here at risk,” she admonished, reminding me about our 70 year old landlady and her daughter, a school teacher, who also lived downstairs. She urged me to stay at my mother’s instead. My mother is 70 years old and lives in an assisted living facility with other seniors. Obviously, that would not work. With a sinking feeling, I began to think that I wouldn’t have a place to stay if I were to return to New York.
We arrived at the airport and Micha checked our bag as I wrote a long, detailed email to my roommate explaining our visit to Palermo and why we had felt that it wouldn’t be risky to visit the island.
I slept through most of the flight, suddenly feeling exhausted from all the upheavals of the week. When I awoke, we were passing over Großer Müggelsee. The plane landed and we exited through the rear to a windy grey Berlin day. A shuttle bus was waiting to take us to the terminal. Airport attendants shepherded all hundred of us onto the bus. We looked at each other, slightly perturbed. Unlike Italy, social distancing didn’t seem to be a thing in Berlin. At least not yet.
