I can’t say what was so good about
this morning. We woke to blue sky
and calm Tyrrhenian Sea, had breakfast
then went to the beach, which is just
across potholed Via Trazzera Marina.
Council has no money, I’m told.
Capo d’Orlando is not Melbourne
and certainly no upmarket Taormina.
People who were born here can forget
the beach until there are horror storms
that threaten to remove it entirely.
My partner is back ‘home’ for a lengthy
visit, with me, her non-Italian consort
who finds himself on the island, again.
We walked, examined stones, murmured
or were altogether silent. It’s not easy
to find one who can walk with you,
without words, without even thoughts
of things that ought to be said.
After that the drive to a nearby cafe for
espresso and cornetti. We’d earned it
but just how was unclear.
The playwright once wrote:
There is nothing either good or bad
but thinking makes it so.
Exceptions come to mind but I think
whipped cream-filled cornetti are good.
Her cafe-owner second cousin was
puttering about, looking forward
to being crazy-busy in summer and
preparing to harvest the annual wave
of terrorists, known as tourists who
need pizza and granita while occupying
every square meter of sand, parking space.
By arriving in early May, we choose
to avoid all that and settled into vacant
plastic chairs to again speak only of
inconsequential things, content just to
be in moderate spring sun, without clocks
or phones to answer. And the machiato
was just as we like it. After the usual
physical farewells, we went to a bakery,
bought a loaf of bread before returning
to an apartment that has become –
at least for me – an unlikely home.
I thought it was, just possibly, one
of the best mornings of my life.