Victim of Style

By Scott Dodgson

The evening sun illuminated the mountains surrounding Palermo with dazzling pinks and warm hues of ochre. Most of Palermo’s citizens were waking after an afternoon nap to begin the second part of their day. When the cool vespers of sea air rolled over the ancient bone dry stones under the starry night the streets filled with locals taking a stroll or visiting friends. It was a time when the hustle of modern life gave way to relaxed living. The restaurants and cafes filled with patrons, drinking from small glasses of local wines, eating from an endless stream of pasta plate, breaking loafs of bread and sharing in the pitched excitement of Italian conversation. I navigated my way through the streets to the central train station train to meet my mate and her friends. The central train station looks more like a palatial palace than a train station, with its well kept gardens, polished statues and bubbling fountains. I’ve always harbored the idea of writing a book about train stations and the stories of the people coming and going from these beautiful hubs of transportation, but that is for another time and place. The train from Rome was late. I’m sure anyone having traveled in Italy would not be surprised. I was left with plenty of time to watch the crowd. I should point out I’m not much of a clothes hog, but leaning against a marble column dressed in Khaki pants, a white Polo shirt and a pair of well broken in Sperry deck shoes I felt envious. A dear Italian friend once explained there are two constants in an Italian male’s life, his mother and his style both designed to make him a willing victim. I, on the other hand seemed to stand out in this crowd as an American. The men wore a variety of cotton finely finished cotton shirts and double pleated muslin pants and fine leather shoes seemingly accented by a light but colorful sweater draped casually over their shoulders. My ruminations were interrupted when the loud speakers announced the arrival of the train from Rome. Laura pushed through the sea of travelers with her three girlfriends following behind. I waved to her and called out her name. In a strange moment of self awareness I looked over and caught the eye of a finely dressed Italian couple. The woman seemed to flash a small smile. In that moment I came to understand Mona Lisa's smile. They possessed a sublime understanding of femininity and the power to make men willing victims of adoration. We hugged and kissed, but I knew deep down my needs would never be met without a change in style.
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