On Time—in Taormina

Someone told me there is a clock in Taormina that has been frozen at 9:20 for decades.

The clock hangs on the side of the building now occupied by Dior. According to the story, whoever leases the building agrees never to repair it.

I have no idea whether this is true.

What makes the story interesting is that after spending a few days in Taormina, it feels plausible.

Taormina sits high above the Ionian Sea on the eastern coast of Sicily. Ancient Greek ruins overlook luxury boutiques. Medieval churches stand beside cafés serving Aperol Spritzes to tourists from around the world. Bougainvillea spills over stone walls that have witnessed empires rise and fall.

Nothing about the town feels frozen in time. It is very much alive.

And yet time seems to move differently here.

Not slower, exactly, but less urgently.

Back home, time often feels transactional. Every hour belongs to something. Work. School pickups. Laundry. Deadlines. Emails. The endless invisible machinery of modern life.

In Taormina, I found myself wandering narrow alleyways without any particular destination. I lingered in bookstores. Sat longer over meals. Paused to watch light move across old stone buildings.

The clock story kept returning to me.

Not because I believed it, but because I wanted to.

A stopped clock is a strange symbol for a place like Taormina. Time clearly passes here. The town has survived wars, earthquakes, changing governments, and generations of visitors who arrived believing they had discovered something unique.

Yet the town seems largely unconcerned with proving its relevance.

It simply exists.

While we were there, Taobuk—the Taormina International Book Festival—was taking place. Stages were being assembled in the piazzas. Authors, readers, publishers, and journalists from around the world had gathered to talk about books.

We stumbled upon it entirely by accident.

As a writer, it felt oddly fitting.

Writing is one of the few modern pursuits that still requires a different relationship with time. Stories refuse to be rushed. They unfold in their own way and on their own schedule. Most of the work happens quietly, alone, often with little external evidence that anything is happening at all.

A literary festival is a rare moment when all those solitary efforts become visible.

For a few days, people gather simply because they believe stories matter.

Standing in Taormina, surrounded by ancient buildings, bookstores, and conversations about literature, I found myself thinking about how unusual that is.

The world changes constantly. Trends rise and disappear. Algorithms decide what deserves attention today and forget it tomorrow.

Stories persist.

Perhaps that’s why the rumor of the frozen clock appeals to me.

Whether the lease agreement exists or whether the hands truly always point to 9:20—I don’t know.

What I do know is that Taormina feels like the kind of place where such a story belongs.

Some places keep time.

Taormina keeps something else.