February 9, 2012
He was sitting in the piazza in quaint little Monterosso Almo, Southeast Sicily, out in front of a bar.
I like your beret. Did you get that in France?
He pulled it off his head to study it, revealing a thick mop of hair the color of sheep’s wool.
No, no. It is from Siena.
Si. Siena, Siena, he muttered. Tanti anni fa. So long ago.
Ah! (I could think of nothing better to say.)
The man got very quiet and a faraway look came into his eye.
I slipped into the bar for a coffee. When I came out, his eyes were still on the horizon and his cigarette unlit.