July 26, 2014
Around eight in the evening, in a town I don’t know, I pause to shoot this wide-eyed fella and his a wispy beard.
Come on in. Don’t I want to see the club?
I hesitate. Will someone spring on me? Twist my arms and slaughter me?
You have to stoop to get inside the old scratched door. Claw marks?
The place is dusky and cavernous.
He says the name is La Caverna.
I squint and pick my way through the pitch-darkness. Who is lurking at the back of the cave?
It’s only Mr. White Glasses, smoking. Turns out he’s the owner of the cavern.
Mr. White Glasses leads me toward an even blacker room in the back. Is this where they hold the hostages?
But no. There is only sweet Mr. Little and his tame friends playing a game.
Laughing, chatting, joking. Not even drinking.
The fella leads me back out and wishes me a buona serata.
I almost never feel any qualms about traveling sola in Sicily. But once in a while, if you could read the thought bubble over my head it would say, “Nitwit. Is this really a prudent thing to do?”
Do you travel alone? How cautious are you?