Over the course of a ninety-day trip, with only three stays extending past a single night, you end up assembling a wealth of accommodation experiences. Some are perfunctory and sufficient; others are warm and memorable. There are ruined buildings, historic structures, purpose-built complexes, and some places that exist on the continuum between those poles. It’s difficult, by day 79, to experience anything entirely novel, but Aragona delivered that today. This was my first genuinely kafkaesque accommodation encounter, resembling a scene in The Trial of all things.
But first, the walk. It was a short thing, intended to be a half-day of walking, followed by ample time for attending to all of the stuff that has piled up over the past week. It didn’t take long to notice a sea change in waymarking. Beyond the big sign outlining the last stage of the Magna Via Francigena outside the duomo, red and white blazes were prominently–and frequently–displayed along the trail as the route swung wide out the west side of Agrigento. Occasional wooden signposts complemented the stripes, as did cement posts (like the mojones on the Camino), though the latter feature red arrows pointing straight ahead, even though they were all installed sideways on the trail.
The even more dramatic change, though, was other pilgrims! I had seen a group of three arrive at the duomo the day before, and early on this walk I passed four other pilgrims–two singletons and a pair walking together. I was against the tide, of course, but that resulted in my first extended stop-in-the-middle-of-the-road conversation with another pilgrim since… the Via Francigena.
While the walk mostly proceeded along minor paved tracks (some of which are in the process of returning to nature), an early jaunt along a creekside trail resulted in me staring in disbelief at a necessary crossing of a muddy bog and a stream just wide and deep enough to make things dicey–especially on clay-covered shoes. Fortunately, though, the ascent up the opposing hillside was covered in such thick, wet grass that my shoes–and my toes, for that matter–were promptly washed clean again.
Only one small town interrupted the rolling countryside. There’s not too much to Joppolo Giancaxio, but it does feature a small castle with crenellated walls set at the base of a large, craggy rock, and a few bars sprinkled around the center. Even more notable, though, was the very chatty local population. This, too, I suspect is a byproduct of finally being back on a well-traveled route, as these townsfolk all seemed quite familiar with pilgrims passing through.
Ultimately, though, my mind was on the finish line, and Aragona wasn’t much farther–just one last dip into a valley, followed by one good climb up and over a large hill. Having been burned by some long waits for accommodation in Sicily, I wanted to get a jump on such hazards, so at 7am this morning I reached out to my booking and indicated that I would arrive by noon. With check-ins possible as early as 11:30am–amazing!–this was entirely within the bounds of the accommodation’s guidelines. My host sent me a confirmation “ok” at 7:48am. Just before I reached the center, the MVF brought me past a Coop supermarket, and with a kitchen included, I stopped to load up on supplies for the night.
Even with that last stop, I rolled up to the door of my accommodation in Aragona right on schedule, thrilled to have so many hours to lounge, write, dig my way out of an email ditch, wash everything in my pack, and cook a big dinner. I messaged my host that I had arrived.
And then I waited. 15 minutes later, I switched over from Booking’s messaging system to Whatsapp, as that sometimes generates swifter responses. And then I waited.
15 minutes more passed. A half-hour. I sent another message, as polite and understanding as possible, asking to be notified of their arrival time so that I could move somewhere more comfortable than the alley I was lurking in if it would be a while. No response.
An hour later, the grocer across the street took pity on me and came over with a prickly pear, or an Indian fig as they call them around here, showing me how to pop it open and eat the interior. It was a bit like watermelon, but with considerably more pips interfering with the process of consumption.
I tried calling through Whatsapp. Nothing. After an hour-and-a-half, I couldn’t hold back, so I sent a blunt, “This is so unprofessional” message. Crickets.
Finally, once it hit the two-hour mark, I did something I’ve never done in my life. I bailed on a reservation. I booked a place in the next town, an hour down the road, figuring that if the rest day was going to be messed up, I could at least take a small bite out of tomorrow, and also wanting to just get the hell out of Dodge. I contacted Booking to explain the problem and request reimbursement.
There’s not much to be said about the walk from Aragona to Comitini. One modest descent to a tunnel passing under train tracks, a highway crossing, and then a gentle climb into the next town. Before I knew it, I was back in a familiar position–waiting outside the accommodation for admission. This time, though, I had already received confirmation through the system that a 3pm check-in would be no problem. I messaged the host at 2:50pm to say that I had arrived and would see them soon. They confirmed this at 2:54am, writing “okay.”
That’s when things got weird.
A few minutes later, I finally got a response on Whatsapp from my Agrigento host, who wrote, “I am coming soon.” No apology, no explanation. Just that. I replied, indicating that I had left, that their treatment was unacceptable, and that I would expect a full reimbursement. Almost immediately, my phone started ringing, as they tried calling through Whatsapp. I rejected the call. There was no point. They’d had three hours to respond.
But then, at 3:11pm, my Comitini host messaged me the following through Booking: “I saw your booking message I sent you my message saying I’ll be right there and you weren’t there 15:22.” Note that somehow this message came from 11 minutes in the future. I responded immediately, noting that I had been standing at the entrance–directly in front of the door–the entire time.
And then, through Booking, through my Comitini reservation, I received this: “Why don’t you answer me telefon [sic].”
Why was the Comitini reservation asking about phone calls from my failed Aragona host… unless… oh no… they were the same person.
“Wait,” I replied, “are you the same person as in Aragona?” “Yes, via Tommasso Grossi 2.” “This is NOT that booking,” I replied. “This is Comitini!”
Finally, after all that, my host, an older man of Iraqi heritage, showed up at 3:35pm, flourishing a ring of keys with a big smile. He opened the front door, letting me into the interior courtyard, and proceeded to pull out a chair for me with a grand gesture. He had some preparations to complete inside before I entered. And so I waited for another ten minutes. With all of that finished, he returned to engage me in conversation, asking about my background, and what I was doing, and then sharing his own experience of moving from Babylon fifty years ago. He made coffee, first for me and then for himself. There was no urgency. On other occasions, this would be excellent hosting; today, after everything that had preceded it, such blitheness was aggravating.
Twenty minutes later, as he prepared to depart–for the third time–he mentioned with some reticence, “I hope the delay won’t affect the review.” “Well,” I replied, “I hope you will make sure that I am reimbursed fully for Aragona without any trouble.” And then his face broadened in shock. Through all of this, through all of the preceding messages and conversation, he had never connected the dots. He had no idea that I had been the one in Aragona, waiting in absolute futility, and that through pure chance I had ended up back with him in Comitini.
So it was his turn to collapse into that patio chair. He fumbled through the Booking.com proprietor’s app, looking for a way to cancel with reimbursement, but couldn’t figure it out. “Just send them a message and it will work out,” he offered feebly. Five minutes later, he set off once more, promising to return later with the absent breakfast supplies and my change. (He was true to his word on both fronts.) It was 4pm. Four hours after my afternoon of blissful lounging had been set to begin.
And that’s when I discovered that the wifi wasn’t working.
Sometimes, the most generous gift a trip can offer is the enthusiasm to return home.
