At the airport in Catania I am randomly stopped during the security scan. My hands are swabbed for explosives. I showered after digging into the ground at Mt Etna so there should be no residue on my hands where I held the small lava stones still hot from the last eruption. “Your telephone.” Huh, I just came through the scanner. “What?” I ask. She thinks I ask why? “Your telephone,” she stearnly repeats. My telephone number?” I ask. ( That is the only thing relatable to my telephone that I have on me.). “Your telephone,” the voice grows louder. My daughter intervenes and pulls my old card. Saves me from the young Sicilian security woman as I remember my telephone is on the conveyor belt waiting for me and I forget every telephone number I ever knew.. Lost in translation— who calls the cell phone a telephone anymore?  


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