Even the sweet taste of the nectar of Zeus pure mortals call Marsala wine that I was sipping on a terrace in the middle of the Piazza del Duomo in Syracuse, Sicily, and even the sensational view of that grandiose rococo church in front of me could not erase the horrible image from my mind. Caressing my arm, Mrs. What Makes Me Tick was doing her best to shake me out of my shock by trying to persuade me that it wasn’t all that bad and that things could have been worse. Worse?