On my trip around the world …
A great deal of time has been spent talking to Severin, who is thoroughly enjoying his new life in Sicily. He has started work as a waiter in Taormina, where the heat is intensifying by the day.

When he is not working, he is busy fending off the advances of Alfio, the hotel receptionist who took an immediate liking to him. Severin has his reservations about Alfio and wishes he would stop asking him to spend the night. The only person with whom he truly feels comfortable, he tells me, is myself, and that is because we share a history — at least, in a non-sexual sense.

Severin insists that Alfio carries a flick knife in his back pocket and fears that he might use it against him if he does not get his way. I tell him that the chances of this happening are remote. Alfio, from what I have seen, is one of the sweetest and most charming hosts imaginable and the least likely person to become a murderer.

“It is Sicilian blood,” Severin claims. “Alfio is related to an influential family who are not afraid to inflict death upon their enemies.”

I ask where he acquired this alarming information, and he tells me it came from a young prostitute who — as it transpires — also had designs on Severin and had seen the two of them together in Piazza IX Aprile. German boys, it seems, can sometimes fail to recognise the simple mechanics of jealousy.

Alfio had, however, managed to secure tickets for them both to watch the new season of House of the Dragon on a large screen during the Taormina Film Festival. It is here that Severin and I differ greatly; I can think of few things more unbearable than sitting through several hours of fantastical nonsense.

Severin’s greatest excitement, however, was that Russell Crowe and his entourage had visited the restaurant where he works. He immediately called Alfio and instructed him to come over, only for him to be mistaken for a member of the paparazzi upon arrival and denied entry. In the end, Severin smuggled Alfio into his room above the restaurant, from where he was able to watch Russell Crowe dining through the window.

Severin’s colleagues dared him to ask for an autograph, no doubt hoping that he might provoke the actor’s notoriously volatile temperament. Alas, Severin was far too busy.

“After work,” Severin complained, “I had such a difficult time getting Alfio to leave because he was expecting to stay the night. And when I finally managed it, I discovered that my best boxer shorts were missing — although he denied knowing anything about them.”

Severin has also asked when I intend to return to Taormina, though that is unlikely to be for some time. Instead, he has already begun making plans for the autumn.

“I am going to go on a world tour, and I would like you to come with me,” he announced.

It soon became clear that his definition of a ‘world tour’ was somewhat more modest — Rome, Madrid, Lisbon, and Paris; a Gen Z interpretation of the Grand Tour.

The flaw in his plan is that he is unlikely to save enough money to accomplish it — and neither, for that matter, am I. Instead, I have suggested that, once the season has ended, he might join me in Verona at the home of Signora Bruschi, an idea which currently holds little appeal for him.

“But we would have such fun together,” he pleads.

The truth is that, when the time comes, Severin may find it far more difficult to leave Taormina than he presently imagines.

On not knowing where to go …
Dark clouds. I’m in a wide open space. I’m standing. I’m all alone and staring into space. They blow across the landscape not knowing where to go. I tell myself, that is exactly how I’m feeling. Days and weeks have become one; time wasted on someone who doesn’t understand you. 

On meeting someone from Archer City …
Levi, the Polish boy with the broad Yorkshire accent, refers to those who attend the documentary festival as “lanyard wankers”. The bar where he works plays host to large numbers of them and he has very little time for their sort.

“They come in wearing lanyards around their necks and treat us like shit. Like they’re big shots with the most important jobs in the world and we should be grateful for their presence. Fucking wankers.”

Well, we met a lanyard wanker. He was American, and the badge around his neck informed us that he was called Michael and had worked on a documentary exploring border security between Mexico and Texas.

“You must try and see it,” he drawled, “and tell me what you think.”

When somebody says this, it usually means that you are contractually obliged to tell them that it is wonderful, even if it turns out to be a complete pile of shit.

But much to Levi’s disappointment, Michael was actually rather sweet, and unusually interesting.

“I come from Archer City,” Michael proudly told us. “About twenty-five miles south of Wichita Falls.”

Levi immediately broke into a rendition of Wichita Lineman to demonstrate that he had at least heard of the place.

“Wrong Wichita,” Michael corrected him. “That song is about Wichita, Kansas, although Jimmy Webb actually got the inspiration for it while driving through the Texas and Oklahoma panhandles. Archer City and Wichita Falls are most definitely in Texas.”

Michael asked what we did. I explained that I was a writer, which was somehow misconstrued as meaning that I was an author, and I saw no reason to correct him. Levi grinned and explained that he was merely a handsome barman.

“You ever heard of Larry McMurtry?”

The question was aimed squarely at me, because handsome barmen are apparently incapable of knowing anything about Larry McMurtry.

“McMurtry came from Archer City. It’s where they filmed his novel The Last Picture Show back in ’71, and its sequel, Texasville, in 1990.”

I had never seen the film, but it turned out that the handsome barman had.

“The Last Picture Show. Black and white. Classic film,” Levi declared. “Jeff Bridges, Cybill Shepherd and Timothy Bottoms.”

Michael looked impressed.

“Well, I have to admit, it’s a bleak film.”

“What’s it about?” I asked.

“Pitfalls, escapades, sex — but really, it’s about a teenage boy growing up in the 1950s. Back in the 70s, my grandpa was a Baptist deacon and a school board member who was fiercely opposed to them filming in Archer City. ‘Sickness in the stomach and further degradation and decay of the morals and attitudes we foist upon the youth of this county,’ he declared.

“Grandpa Joe was the stereotypical Texan — a bolo tie on Sundays, polished cowboy boots, a white shirt and khaki trousers. But he lost the battle, and do you know what he did, boys? He only went and appeared in the film as an extra.

“My folks never let him forget that. I don’t think they ever stopped reminding him.”

On finding out that I am a Zillennial …
Nobody has ever described me in such a way before. I was somewhat startled to discover that I am apparently a Zillennial — a member of a curious micro-generation born between 1993 and 1998, the very year in which I entered the world. I only just made it.

It places me on a peculiar threshold: old enough to remember the final days of an analogue childhood, yet young enough to have grown into adulthood alongside the digital revolution. I belong to that brief moment in time when children still played outside until the streetlights came on, but later found themselves navigating a world of smartphones, social media, and an existence increasingly lived through screens.

There is something rather comical about discovering, at the age of twenty-eight, that one belongs to a category that nobody had previously thought to tell them existed. I mentioned it to my friend Joshua, who described my birth year as 1998 B.W. Intrigued, I asked him to explain.

“Before Wikipedia,” he replied.

On the cute and willing…