November 14, 2013
Early morning in Acireale, at the foot of Etna. Just me and a tangerine truck on Piazza San Domenico.
Clickety clack I go over the lava stones, aiming at the orangeness.
Someone appears out of nowhere.
Ciao. Is this your truck? What’s your name?
&&%uccio.
Nuccio?
Lucio!
Oh, like light (luce)?
Si, si.
I crouch and shoot. He is all lightness and charm, like 99% of Sicilians I collar. He even says I can put him on the internet.
Where did you get the cauliflower?
Ragusa.
Really?
I don’t tell him I’ve just come from there on a long grey-dawn highway, stars still burning in the sky, cursing all the trucks like his I had to pass on scary curves. I buy a rosy head for €1.50 and wonder: how many more will he have to sell to recoup gasoline costs & eke out a living wage?
By the time I leave he’s already sweet-talking his second customer.
Buona fortuna, Lucio, e grazie.
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