First on my agenda, upon entering Palermo, was a quick stop at the post office. What it turned out to be was like a scene from a bizzare play. It was a good hint at what lay in store for me on that 220-mile-long island.

At the door of the post office a short and balding middle-aged man, screaming rapidly at me in Italian and laughing hysterically at the same time, lunged at me. If that and his clutching at my neck weren't enough to give me a heart attack, you can be sure that his bloody mouth and wide eyes did the trick. Try as I might to squeeze myself and my backpack and the raving lunatic clinging to me through the narrow Posta doorway, it just couldn't be done. I had no choice but, after casting a look of helplessness at the startled passersby, to take a deep breath, grab him by the neck, and heave him several feet down the sidewalk.

Even at that I barely tumbled into the lobby before the crazy man, still screaming at his invisible demons, was back at the door. Several persons in the lobby expressed a sign language unmistakable in any culture--a finger pointed at their head. I nodded and set my backpack against the wall. I naively assumed that life was back to normal.

Wrong.

I guess that for a place like Italy that had just been the "opening act." For just then two young national policemen--Carabinieri--burst through the same vexed doorway, their long hair ruffled and hatless, their boyish red faces flushed with excitement. Swinging from their hands, their fingers pressed against the triggers, were short military-style submachine guns. They waved the guns through the air like half-drunken cowboys.

I crouched as I handed the clerk my letters: If either of the guns had a hair trigger, that would certainly have been my last trip to any post office.

Incredibly, the others in the post office barely took notice of the policemen. My heart was beating wildly, my common sense was telling me to lie on the floor, and yet everyone else was calmly haggling over postage. Could they have been that accustomed to such utter recklessness from their unifomed civil servants? I felt sure that had any police in the USA acted in such a way, the outcries would have been immediate.

However, as I nervously awaited my change from the clerk, something happened that made me realize there were still some Sicilians who knew when things were a bit too abnormal. One of the older women clerks, a tiny lady with gray-streaked red hair, listened patiently to the policemen for about a minute and then decided she'd had about all she could of their rudeness. Rising calmly from her stool behind the counter, she marched out into the lobby and stared tight-lipped at the still-shouting men.

When the men continued to shout at the other clerks, still waving their weapons about as if toys, the old lady clerk put her left hand on her hip and then, with her right hand, shoved one of the husky men into the other. The policemen stared at her in disbelief, and the lobby became deathly silent...but not for long. For then it was the woman's turn to do the shouting. Like a mother would to an unruly child, she scolded the policemen in a sharp, stern voice that rose higher and higher in pitch. And all the while she pushed her finger into the wide-eyed men's chests. Slowly and red-faced the men backed clumsily towards the entrance door.

I couldn't understand a word, but it was quite obvious the lady clerk was letting the men know she'd had about all of she could take of guns, rudeness, and them treating her as less than an intelligent being. Embarrassed, the men finally apologized, as she continued waving her finger in their faces. But she was not to be satisfied until they turned and retreated back out onto the congested, noisy street. As the men left, I almost expected her to reach up and tweak their ears for good measure. Applause erupted from the others in the lobby. I clapped, too.

Since entering Spain last fall, it seems that machine guns and uniforms have become a part of daily life. How wonderful it was to see someone--even if it was an old lady!--show the establishment that armed intrusion and uniformed thuggary do not have to be forced onto anyone and everyone.

The rest of the walk along Sicily's north coastline of rich beachfront villas and traffic-congested towns of concrete buildings and innumerable small businesses was not to reach such a state of craziness again. But, still, I was to meet more than enough braggarts, drunkards, and strange-acting persons to keep me on my toes. And, of course, where tourism is as heavy as it is Sicily, there were the usual petty thieves and bungling con artists.

It appears Italy is going to be anything but ordinary. Indeed, it may resemble a circus at times, if Sicily is any indication. I guess you might say it's all enough to kind of make one wish they had a certain old red-haired lady along for protection.

Steven