We live at Piazza Porto.

Here often tastes like bitter, lonely, dark espresso. So I have learned to sweeten mornings with brioche dipped in warm latte. A slowly cooked ragú, tomato sauce with a hint of cinnamon, is a warming comfort lasting until the plate’s wiped clean. Sometimes there is a quick dissolving sweetness of the naughty Fiesta chocolate-filled cake parcels melting in my mouth.

Here looks like pearl white stone and alley mazes where you can lose yourself for hours. A glimpse of blue above, a whiff of earth beneath the old stones, a view of salty blue ahead. A sun reflection that might burn you if you don’t watch to hold your distance from sunbathing youth with foil reflectors.

It feels like stepping out of your existence. A human dot on new home map. You watch yourself meander through the town to neighbouring villages, places, mountains and waves.

Here often sounds like passing life hustling in the distance, away from the secluded piazza. Some mornings sound like early family commotion or fishermen taking their trawl boats out at dawn. And Sundays sound like elegant Italian dames and their old boys’ chatter replacing the elated whistling and singing of Saturday’s drunken youth. Monday Signora Franca hangs her washing almost in middle of the street again, chasing antibacterial sun. Peeking from her ‘garage-come-home’ ground floor flat, steps out a broom, and here then sounds like Franca’s dictatorial sweeping of autumn leaves- she seems offended that nature breached her townscape. And now and then, surprisingly, here sounds like a small town grown unendurably- it runs to reach its neighbour city in heights of ‘urbanismo’.

We sound like silence, looking for words that we don’t know. What can you share without those? Trapped thoughts and feelings. Intrepid smiles. They look at us with eyes wide open, sometimes with cautiousness, sometimes with care and almost love. We’re well observed as rarities at Piazza Porto. And many things are left untold.

piazza portoita

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