Tony from Catania

Today in Catania, while we were wandering aimlessly, he heard me speaking Spanish and walked over—slowly but with intent.

Tony.

He asked me where I was from, like someone unlocking a door with the exact key. And without much else, he began to hum. But not just any tune: Don’t Cry for Me, Argentina. His voice trembling, eyes moist, as if he were remembering a country he’d never lived in, but somehow always felt was his.

He told us he was a drummer. And suddenly everything made sense: he tapped his chest rhythmically, as if he still had an invisible drum set inside him, keeping time with his memory. He spoke while seeming to hear something else entirely—like he wasn’t with us, but back on a tour that might have happened fifty years ago. Or in some hidden jazz club. Or in a childhood patio where music was everything.

He said he was 76. Then he wished us luck. Health. Like someone who hands out blessings joyfully, convinced that as long as there’s music—even just a faint hum—life keeps dancing.

I don’t know if Tony still plays, or if only his body remembers. But when you’re traveling—far from home, deliberately unanchored, surrounded yet somehow alone, as if you left your shadow in another country—a gesture like that soothes the soul. There’s something in the way a stranger recognizes you, hands you back the map without being asked. And in that moment you realize: not everything is so far away. That affection, when it appears suddenly—like a note in the air—is more valuable than Wi-Fi or late check-out at 4 pm.

And of course, you keep walking. But you leave with the feeling that not everything is random. That maybe some people appear along the road like loose chords—just to tune your day, without even meaning to.