Italy: Emotions run high in paradise

Palermo, Sicily's capital, is more than 2,700 years old. Photo / Wikimedia Commons

When it was all over I thought to myself, maybe Terminal 3 at Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris is an induction centre for Kiwis, the place where you go to sit and prepare yourself for culture shock - Sicilian-style.

I was sitting there waiting for a final call on a cheapie Windjet flight to Palermo. A mixed crowd of Sicilians filled the lounge: some of the women in furs and looking like Carla Bruni, others more like Henderson hotties in white, skintight, leatherette creations with high-heeled boots, and a short bloke dressed alarmingly in hat and spats.

Suddenly a scream, pitched as high as one could imagine, came from a far corner. A few heads turned, but nobody moved.

I stood up to look, and as I did, a young woman strode forth yelling at the top of her voice into a mobile phone, an arm waving in rage, fingers extended like an axe-head. She marched back and forth, pausing occasionally to let off another scream, followed by shrieks that I took for abuse.

It was the sort of performance you see at La Scala. But at La Scala they applaud. Or at least take notice. Not here. Not amongst Sicilians. It was the everyday, a girl having problems with her boyfriend.

And this was just the start.

Our flight ended up delayed. As each hour passed, tempers became more frayed. An angry crowd pressed upon the two Windjet representatives sitting at their desk.

A woman shouted out, "Basta! Basta!" which I took to mean "Bastard! Bastard!", but which turned out to be, "Enough! Enough!"

A leader arose amongst us - her husband. He gesticulated, called upon us to march to the secured terminal entrance and smash our way out.

A phalanx organised around the husband and wife and waved their arms and called out something like, "Join us!" and "We are out of here!"

The enraged mob marched upon the terminal entrance. Alarmed airport personnel took up positions like Horatio at the bridge. Frantic gendarmes came running. Everyone was shouting, especially our leader's wife.

The head gendarme called for calm. This was met with a torrent of demands.

He beseeched the mob, "Scusi, scusi - non parla Italiano!" ("I'm sorry - I don't speak Italian"). Petrol on the fire!

The top cop, eyes wide with fear, immediately did that thing that cops do in circumstances like this. He beckoned our leader aside, called for an interpreter and disappeared out the back for secret negotiations.