's full season in the land of the wind. On the terraces of the waterfront hotel towels colored files show the flags of foreign countries and the roadside crowd parked cars. I walk on the shoreline as dawn stretches his hands on a pink beach yet quiet and orderly. The air is the breeze and sparkling blend time by returning an image with mixed fruit smoothie and papaya.
Avanzo lazy and like the protagonist of my novel, I think of my first wish. Emerge from the water just tanned my feet making their way between spray and gnawed shells and in this portion of the time you only hear the swish of waves sleepy morning.
In the distance I see the port.
I continue walking and already the first swimmers begin to prey on the beach portions of the pirates as a part-time while away the modest high-rise towers of Milano Marittima, witnessed blatant VIP parties and reserved for the auctioneer to auction lovers walkways. Somebody runs
muscles and melting winter sluggishness. Sellers abusive stretch their eyes noticed with counterfeit goods. And old ladies walk cotonate breathing air for a fee.
keep walking through the stretch of beach. A colony of the freedom of the children barks first holiday without parents. Their screams give way to the tam tam holiday that takes the stage with no pretense of applause.
At every step the beach hues in two pieces and shorts.
The smell of suntan covering the salinity of the west wind and the stillness becomes chaos. Within minutes the noise of chatter under the umbrella above the timid voice of the calm sea. Cell phone ringtones, games and gossip rackets and coconut oil are no longer out of tune a choir director.
I make my way among the people. The sun settles down its forces and a light grip pressure on my calf untrained.
The end is near.
few more steps and hit the rocks that draw the area.
is the port! Board of moorings for luxury cars and flooded yard of shady dealings and illegal trade. On the pier
recognize the smell of the sails and fuel.
I do not know because I walked this morning just to be here.
As a child I was there with my grandfather. Sitting on the dock waiting for the arrival of vessels to see the effort of tanned men returning from a night at sea. I watched them place boxes of fish jumping and listened to their dialect elevated tell companies impossible. Folded the nets, put his arm on the front and in their undershirts stained always smiled at me.
My grandfather I never confessed, but the fisherman had become my second wish.
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