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That house is not a hotel and ducks

It 's a hot afternoon in the wind country. Bathers season embracing the sun on the beach. Blue is as generous as the breast of a nurse, and a bustle of footprints in the sand in order to remove the last drawn north.

Col background tune from the sea, walking in the woods, over a green needle sticks and broken, and under the skin flushed and smelling of suntan swimsuit again. At one time there were more to color the hedges, wildlife refuges and keepers of the dream of knights ready to rescue unfortunate princesses from the snares of evil witches.

I make my way between severed trunks carrying babies in strollers and drowsiness. In the distance a baroque piano notes Brush on rough bark of pine trees. And 'Bach. I approach. One step and are still in front of the house. The windows are wide open, a veranda retro glimpse of an interior of objects and antique furniture. On the walls pictures of family and historical photos. Old dark wood furniture, lace beliefs, ceramic stoves and a red geraniums contrasting the white walls. E 'La Villa , haven for tourists and the secret garden of my rough days.

House by the sea to an ancient family from Ferrara, who in the fifties became a boarding house for travelers, The Villa is my place of magic and seaport dock where to catch his breath.

At Villa Giorgio lives, sixty or more, the son of a beautiful woman in her nineties, famous for crossing the Adriatic on water skis, and a charming actor in soap operas that distilled essence of wild flowers and drove a sports car with an ancient plate.

George writes, paints his girlfriend and goes to heaven and sea. He has a wife, beautiful children that no longer exists and is a repository of all memories of the place. As a young girl going beyond the gate for a peek at life full of adventure. At Villa's always something happening. At Villa there was always someone. In the evening, sitting in the living stone, you could hear fantastic stories of those years that we do not have belonged. There I met dragons and empresses, kings and courtesans.

Sometimes, parties of good music and heavy alcohol mixtures made us feel like old sea dogs back from a long journey. At the end of the evening I watched with envy the guests climbed the stairs to the bedrooms. Accommodations at the Villa I really would have liked. I dreamed to spend the night with a prince, but I was told early on that the last had gone with Snow White.

Within the porch. A fragrance of wisteria and clothes hanging replaces the smell of resin and undergrowth. I follow the trail of smoke from a burning cigarette. Is anybody. If you are lucky you have something to tell.