The Stranger at the Palazzo D'Oro by Paul Theroux

Kennedy!” but were otherwise circumspect. They had guessed that I was a German, and while they were friendly I realized they were being polite, for they disliked Germans. But they made an exception for visitors who stayed in Taormina and spent money and handed out tips and, in the Italian way, said they disliked “the other ones—not these.”
    All my clothes were from the men’s boutique on the Viale Nolfi, a small street off the Corso. The Gräfin and Haroun had bought me clothes in the Teutonic style—the pointed shoes, the short sports jacket, the narrow trousers, the turtleneck, the mesh shirt, the silk suit—the sort of stylish clothes an idle, self-conscious German wore on vacation. They were so stylish as to be almost formal: the light suit was easily soiled, the shoes had thin soles and were wrong for the cobblestones of Taormina, the turtleneck was too tight, the trousers too close-fitting. I was a dandy—out of character for me, I felt, but it was her desire, German pride mostly, that I should look rich and respectable, in her fashion. And clothing me was another way of making me hers. I had barely realized how I looked until I tried to talk with Italians, most of whom benignly forgave me for being foppish and prosperous.
    Waiters in Taormina, however, loved such people as I seemed, for we lingered, we smoked, we had nothing to do, we spent money and humored them and tipped them. One day at the Mocambo, where I had begun to take refuge from the Gräfin—but I went there mainly because the waiters knew me by name—I was addressed by a young woman in Italian. I took her to be a student, maybe French—she had an accent—definitely a traveler: she was dressed like a hiker and carried a sun-faded bag and a map. She wore a headscarf which in its simplicity gave her a wholesome peasant look that was also chic. As she spoke, a waiter wandered over to listen.
    â€œScusi, signore, cerchiamo una pernione qui non più caro,”
she said. She was looking for a place to stay that was not too expensive.
    â€œBenvenuto, signorina. Vieni a casa mia. C’è libero,”
the waiter, Mario, said, urging her to come to his house because it was free.
    â€œNothing is free,” she said in English, and was so assertive and indignant Mario walked away laughing.
    I said, “But everything is expensive in Taormina. How long are you planning to stay?”
    She said, “I want to see the Teatro Greco. The Duomo. Lawrence's house.”
    I said, “Lawrence lived in the Via Fontana Vecchia. 'A snake came to my water-trough / On a hot, hot day, and I in pyjamas for the heat, / To drink there...'”
    â€œI like how he seemed ‘a king in exile, uncrowned in the underworld,’” she said. “By the way, your English is excellent.”
    â€œIt sure oughtta be.”
    She laughed and said, “Where in the States are you from?”
    â€œLong story.”
    â€œI’m at Wellesley, but I am from New York.”
    â€œCity?”
    â€œUpstate.”
    â€œI just graduated from Amherst.”
    â€œI know lots of Amherst guys,” she said, and sat down and named a few, names I recognized but none I knew well. “How long have you been in Taormina?”
    â€œA few weeks.” I did not want to admit that it was almost four, because I felt I had been so idle. “I came to see the Lawrence house too.”
    â€œI love that poem.”
    â€œEnglish major?”
    â€œArt history. I've been living in Florence—junior year abroad program. I’m just traveling. I thought I would look around here and then go to Siracusa.”
    â€œI’ve been meaning to go there.”
    â€œTwo weeks here and you haven’t got there yet! What’s the attraction in Taormina?”
    â€œLong story,” I said.
“La dolce vita. ”
    She said, “Men are so lucky. If I just hang around an Italian town looking at