I’m told Taormina is beautiful. Especially in the summer. And probably also in the light. I wouldn’t know because due to a little directional snafu, it was dark when I arrived, and pouring rain. Fortunately for me, the town has a wonderful little restaurant frequented by locals despite its very un-Italian name—Cafe O’Neil. The owner, Salvatore, will see to it that you try the amazing, locally produced almond wine, and perhaps, if you chat him up for a bit, even a free dessert.
Taormina also is home to an ancient Greek Amphitheatre that is also purportedly spectacular—when it’s visible. But considering that my few hours in town in the morning were spent sprinting through sheets of torrential rain, and trying to take pictures through a drop speckled lens, I wouldn’t really know. But the other thing Taormina has is Rosario Macaroni, an abundantly friendly little old man, who wouldn’t leave my side. I met him on the way to the bus and he insisted on driving me to the site of the ruins. When he turned on 
the car, Welcome to the Jungle sprang forth from the radio at top volume.
At the end of our time together, Rosario Macaroni dropped me off at the train station after sadly explaining that he was going home to cook for himself, after which he would watch tv by himself, and then go to sleep by himself. I realized that perhaps he thought his meeting me might have the potential to change all the “by himself” parts of that story. I smiled, promised to call him, and walked away wondering, yet again, if a plague wiped out every male born in Italy between 1970 and 1980.
Taormina also is home to an ancient Greek Amphitheatre that is also purportedly spectacular—when it’s visible. But considering that my few hours in town in the morning were spent sprinting through sheets of torrential rain, and trying to take pictures through a drop speckled lens, I wouldn’t really know. But the other thing Taormina has is Rosario Macaroni, an abundantly friendly little old man, who wouldn’t leave my side. I met him on the way to the bus and he insisted on driving me to the site of the ruins. When he turned on 
the car, Welcome to the Jungle sprang forth from the radio at top volume.On route, we had to stop for a cappuccino. But we had to make it quick, because Rosario Macaroni doesn’t like to pay for permits to park legally.
Rosario spent our time together trying to get me to cancel the next leg of my trip, and offering to let me stay in his home for as long as I liked. He walked me to the ruins, so that he could hold the umbrella, which meant that I had to walk hunched over while the umbrella pressed firmly against the top of my head, or risk being decapitated by it. I finally gave up the awkward hunchbacked ambling and put on the ridiculously over-sized poncho that my mother insisted I bring. Rosario took one look at me and cracked up.
At the end of our time together, Rosario Macaroni dropped me off at the train station after sadly explaining that he was going home to cook for himself, after which he would watch tv by himself, and then go to sleep by himself. I realized that perhaps he thought his meeting me might have the potential to change all the “by himself” parts of that story. I smiled, promised to call him, and walked away wondering, yet again, if a plague wiped out every male born in Italy between 1970 and 1980.But despite the fact that they all seem to be 20, 55 or 70, the size of their hearts is the same.
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