Our last day in Sicily, we four tourists were lounging on Cefalu’s crowded beach. The Mediterranean beckoned. I fell for it big time. Its turquoise clarity colliding with other shades of blue, matching the sky. The Mediterranean’s gently rolling waves were supposed to relax us before boarding the long flight across the big pond, back to Boston and our daily lives filled with errands, writing, walking, coffee, and adorable grandchildren.

  The young entrepreneur with curly dark hair walked by. Patterned Indian beach blankets, or tablecloths, piled high in his backpack propelled him forward. Bogging him down with financial responsibility. His dark eyes sparkled. 

  “Look,” he pointed to one of his blankets, shaking the sand off. He proved his case. Always smiling.

    I wondered about his background. Was he Sicilian, or had he relocated as an immigrant from some war-ravaged country? And, how did he procure his wares? As a former journalist, I’m permanently curious. 

   “Bellissimo!” we four travelers announced. Somehow the entrepreneur heard us. Or he intuited how undecided we were about buying one of his blankets. Four times he returned to egg us on, until my partner, Marc, encouraged us to support him. Marc bought two blankets, at $10 each.

 Our friend Claire chose the second blanket, covered with blue sea creatures. She imagined it bringing a smile to her grandchildren’s faces, back in Maine.

  “Where are you from?” I asked him.

   “Morocco,” he replied. I figured he was happy to be gone from his country, following its recent devastating earthquake. 

   Could he make more money than at home? Had he left his family there? What was his story?

    I would never know. But I wanted to. I enjoy making up stories about people, and I’m not shy about talking to strangers. On this trip to Sicily one of my fondest memories was splashing around in the Mediterranean with fifty or so strangers after jumping off a boat anchored near the lovely Egadi Islands. 

  I felt like a happy-go-lucky kid in an international camp – where I heard Australian, German, French, and other accents I couldn’t identify. Bobbing in the salty sea, I spoke with a young Argentinian woman who had moved to Sicily two years before. Looking for a better life. Without having to sell coconuts or beach blankets. Yeah, I wondered, what was her story? I didn’t have enough time to get it all.

  Back at the Cefalu beach, I was happy when we initiated more sales for the young entrepreneur, perhaps in his twenties. Others waved him down to purchase his blankets. We got into the act, trying to convince a blond British woman lying on the beach next to us. She didn’t buy a blanket but we had a enlightening conversation about our parallel visits to Sicily.

   We agreed that Sicily was gorgeous and so diverse for travelers who could afford to make the trip.  Driving from busy, wild Palermo; to a golden thousand-year-old Greek temple on a Segesta hilltop; to Trapani, where a last-minute booking to the Egadi Islands turned out to be a trip highlight; to the Italian TV show’s Montalbano beach house in Punta Secca; to Ragusa, where a political conversation with a local young council member infuriated me; to Modica, where we spent an hour choosing “the world’s best chocolate”; to walking the island of Ortigia’s perimeter umpteen times; to the enticing Santa Venerina resort with the Mediterranean below us and Mount Etna above us.

All this prior to reaching Cefalu, Sicily’s small beach town, where we connected with the young entrepreneur. 

     He blew kisses our way as he strode away, down the beach, bent over with his wares. Still smiling.

    “Optum, optum!” I sent kisses back to him in Turkish, the only words I knew in a language possibly close to his. I may forget parts of our Sicily vacation. I’m not sure why, but I won’t forget him.