Palermo is a hard city to forget – I’ve still got the bedbug bites as reminders – but an even harder city to figure out. It is a tumultuous, urban, energetic mess sprawling like a hardy weed at the foot of jutting rocky cliffs and choppy ocean waters. In the middle of September it was hot and the afternoon rains came in like a deluge. Unlike the other quiet coastal towns we visited in Sicily, Palermo is not Slow.  This is not some Under the Tuscan Sun bullshit. These people eat fried goat anus, for chrissake, and they will easily grind you up into some unholy rich and tasty concoction if you show any signs of meekness or Rick Steves unworldliness.

We were crossing a busy street, which, especially in Sicily, almost begs one to make the sign of the cross before proceeding. Traffic obliged our passage to the extent that we weren’t actually hit.  One scooter pulled short of P by a foot; another jutted in front of us and as the driver steered by my toes, his passenger, sitting behind him, eyed me and exhaled like Marcello Mastroianni blowing a puff of smoke, “Palerrrrmo.”

I didn’t recognize the expression for what it was at the time, but it’s a perfect encapsulation of this city’s ethos, and a mantra for all who enter its confines:

• You just stepped in another pile of a mangy dog’s feces – Palermo!
• We took the french brioche and shat down the middle of it with an incredible heap of sweet, creamy gelato – Palermo!
• The streets here go every which way but back the way you came. Hope you enjoy the long winding walks – Palermo!
• Diesel, scooters, honking, cigarettes, broken glass, dusty dilapidated buildings, fish guts, whatthefuckareyoulookingat – Palermo!

In other words: take it or leave it, sucker.

We visited several of the neighborhood mercatos during our stay and nowhere better defined, for us anyway, this ethos; the good, the bad and the ugly.

At the Mercato del Capo, scooters crawl up everyone’s ass, vendors and shoppers alike smoke directly on the produce, flies are everywhere. I was struck by the classic southern italian faces – dark, serious, weary. Men shout at other men, grab their nuts, quickly flick their fingers under their chin (“Get a load of this asshole.”) or gesticulate in any other number of wildly primeval forms. The butcher sings as he skins a goat tethered to the old stone wall.

Another chops goat heads with a cleaver like they’re fucking coconuts, blood and brains decorating the street, your shoes, anything within range. The fishmongers hack enormous pieces of flesh and shout.  The locals shout back.  Everybody is shouting, gesturing.  Occasionally, to keep things looking fresh, vendors bring a bucket of water over to their produce or fish, dip their hand into it and fling water over the table, Pa-lermo!

This was not the proud, colorful bounty of a Florentine mercato, but a working class exchange that felt like it hadn’t changed much in centuries.  Except for those goddam scooters.

Whether it’s a 2-hour lunch or a 2-week vacation, I recognized in Italy a need to build more space into my life.  I need a break from the anxieties I’ve developed, the ambition I struggle with. Maybe it’s a middle-class myopia but I think many of us in this country are far too occupied with following a virtuous path of career and family, pinch and save, that we shortchange our own value. To indulge and celebrate oneself (I sense a Walt Whitman stanza in here somewhere…) is vital, and I think the Italian culture showed a stronger appreciation of that.

We had just spent two-plus hours eating, drinking and communing at SoloCiccia and we were sitting on a bench off a quiet road, staring off lazily at the rows of vineyards and verdant hills of Panzano. The clouds in the sky were luminous, architectural. It was so clear, so obvious, that this place was paradise. When we were back in crazy, bustling Florence, or crowded back on the plane coming home, even back in SF, I kept daydreaming of Panzano…If we lived there we would have a simple, happy life. And that may be true, but I’m slowly beginning to accept that I don’t need to live in Chianti to experience beauty and calm and fulfillment in a place.  The Bay Area – this land, these people, the community values – has all those elements. I just need to reorient my life to better incorporate them; to center myself, physically and spiritually, into this place.

I’ve felt it before and I’m grateful for it now, the best part of traveling is coming home.

We stayed at the Ace Hotel, which was unquestionably the most fun I’ve had staying in a hotel. Records spin on a turntable in the lobby; Stumptown coffee shoots rich espresso from futuristic looking Marzoccos and a thin but nonetheless enticing brew from the Clovers; the rooms are minimalist in decor, but with a nod to the Northwest setting with rough-hewn wood, army green wool blankets and grey accents. Also, Powells is a block away.

The public transit is pretty stellar. Snow-capped mountains are within sight. Greenery abounds and you can practically follow your nose to excellent coffee. I think I saw more people on bikes than I did on the bus. Fam-dam-tastic. One of the best things we did was attend a cupping at the Stumptown annex on SE Belmont. There were a few curious people who happened by but I think we were the only ones who showed up specifically to sniff, slurp and spit. Moving from a couple Brazilians to Guatemala to a sexy Kenyan to Sumatran, this was a chance to really indulge the senses in the flavor profiles of very diverse beans. It was, for me, a religious experience, the coffee-lover’s eucharist, and the Stumptown folk were knowledgeable guides and super friendly.

For all the arts, craft and music that seems to flood out of Portland I was surprised by the relative calm of the place. Granted, it was a holiday weekend. But on public transit, in restaurants and shops, and on the streets there was never anything approaching a bustle. The lone exception was the Saturday farmers market which was insane. There seemed to be a special event coinciding that was bluntly though aptly named Graze Fest or something. It gave me the idea that the Ferry Plaza Farmers Market could utilize corrals to separate the grazers and Flickr whores from the locals actually trying to buy produce. That same dilemma was very much at play here, although the locals were not shy about swinging their baskets around to make progress. Don’t make the same mistake we did and step off MAX at the obvious neon sign proclaiming Portland Saturday Market. Had we checked our notes we would have avoided this location, which is what we did after two minutes stepping astride street urchins and craft tents selling dreamcatchers.

What else? We caught Spoon at the Doug Fir Lounge, which is an eye candy extravaganza but none too shy in its more modest surroundings. We also saw Arcade Fire in a beautiful theater. I apologize to Portlanders for taking your tickets, but these two shows just kind of fit with our trip. Give me a shout when you come down here and I’ll point you to some of our better venues.

Some highlights:
Coffee
Fresh Pot (french press just for you)
Stumptown (the annex does cuppings at 11:00 and 3:00)

Food
Pearl Bakery
Simpatica (great breakfast served on communal tables just outside the clamor of the caterer’s kitchen)

Place
North Portland – Mississippi Ave (fun neighborhood with views of bridges, river and downtown)
Washington Park (MAX takes you right there and we walked back to town via the Wildwood trail)

Other
Zinester’s Guide to Portland ($5 perfect size to whip out at a cafe and not look like a travel dork)