May 9 Journal Entry. Taormina.
I need an attitude adjustment. I just don’t do “the tourist thing” and am feeling finished, ready to go home. Without someone to taste wine with at the enoteca, to share a filet of grilled swordfish or a plate of caponata, without someone to marvel with over the historic sites and curious details, this all stays inside my own head, and for what?
Yes, of course I can gawk at the old palazzi, the stone walls, the ruins. Of course I can enjoy and photograph yet another cluster of drying laundry, photogenic in the sun against an old door.
But I want to share! Increasingly, I want to say “ooo, ahh” with someone. It’s pouring rain in Taormina, which seems appropriate to my mood.
I’m ready to return to Milano where I am less a tourist, and can have a daily life, tra-la-la. High-end designer shops along the main via here just gross me out. How can I explore real Sicily without a car and with my travel companions away on their own?
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May 9 Journal Entry. Taormina.
I bristle at this tourist crush. “Oh, but I am not like the rest of them! I am different!” Oh really?! But I am a tourist. I just happen to speak some of the langage… but I am still a tourist…
But, truth is, I don’t “belong” here. I am simply going from place to place, shooting a few shots of the local scenery, paying for a noisy room and dinner.
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I arrived in Taormina Giardini Naxos, by train, down by the water. The city of Taormina is high up on the hill and one must either walk up, take a bus or taxi. It wasn’t until a few minutes into the steep drive that I realized the “taxi” wasn’t a legit cab. He had the taxi sign on top of the car, but no computerized trip counter. No signs. No licenses. No radio. I had found my way onto a non-cab cab. He was simply an enterprising citizen with a taxi sign on top of his car (though not lit). I calculated what the trip was worth to me, what I’d be willing to pay, and when we safely arrived at my hotel, high up the winding hill, he asked for 15 Euro, which I gladly paid. Everyone’s gotta make a buck. He just doesn’t (have to) pay taxes on his.
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May 10 Journal Entry. Taormina.
Increasingly, what I seek in travel, are the connections with people, even when momentary. I walked into a little embroidered linens shop selling handkerchiefs, blouses, tablecloths and doilies. I was seeking a simple but special gift. I walked out with the gift, and a conversation with the elderly shop-owner, amidst time-stained, creased fabrics, embroidered by hand. We talked about fabric and sewing, about commercial and industrial cities in the U.S., about language and life. What a glory to be able to do so! They must tire of the repetitive tourist inquiries reducing them to cashiers in the kitsch shops. (It’s a living for them, all because they have beauty and old buildings nearby, but is it satisfying?)