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where the sea shines

'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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Saints pay my lunch there's no romantic city

A blog is like a square. Anyone is allowed to transit, at all hours. There are stories. Pieces of life as prone to fast food. Laws and swallow. We are behind you drink a sip of beer poor, and you go elsewhere. When you're hungry you go back. Eat other words. If you are satisfied to leave comments. A piece of cake for those who come after you. A coca cola cans. A lit cigarette.

I look at the pages of my blog.

How many are featured here?

Poets and writers, discrete pens and desecration, pundits and onlookers, journalists and pimps. Travellers who have lightened the web browsing working days at the time of a click.

How many will return?

who come after them?

A blog is like a square. Sometimes it is crowded with happy faces, the tourists take pictures. At other times it is dark with the street sweepers that sweep away the exuberance of the last public charity concert. We catch up with old friends riding a bicycle, seductive glances of passers-by. And if you have time you can stop to chat with a madman who screams in the trash or the lady who walked the dog combed the fashion.

On a blog to get there by accident. Follow your instincts. Start Pages as matryoshkas. Color, appearance, mentioned profiles of individuals who hide behind fictitious identity. Today

back night in Bologna. The light fades on the red roof, "the people back home in front of the television," and while I wonder how people have ended up on my blog someone tries to chat.

"Hello" attacks.

answer to the greeting.

It 's a boy. He says he writes stories. He says it happened on my blog in the most odd that I can imagine.

I challenge him to tell.

not want to do, says ashamed.

I hope that does not begin to tell Filthy because I close the chat and not reopen again.

He asks me not to laugh. I promise not to do so. He begins to tell.

It seems that someone has read the papers. But I got to do that? I think. That "someone" has suggested a name for something that had to do with his journey. That name was Lucia and he has tried anywhere.

I can not keep his promise and I laugh.

He does not get angry, laugh with me.

It 's a strange night. The wind slams doors and windows and upstairs to discuss some old issues become known to the whole building.

A blog is like a square, I think. Not a place that mixes magic and imagination.

I do not know how you all you've come here. Of course I have had the patience to follow my stories. I wanted to best serve the dishes, pour in your vintage wine glasses and toast to the season that surrounded him. But it's just a fast food restaurant. Cheap words to eat between flights of pigeons and a chewing gum spat out that if you're not careful you stick under your feet.

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not coming back to Rome from the days when lively and mischievous carry around the age of the driver's license with a ponytail and an earring black.

memories, a night in Piazza Navona , escape through the eaves of a hotel for students and a beauty that breathed evenly spread on our bold imagination.

It 's a sunny afternoon in the capital. The girl Trastevere is leaving the computer, I came to meet with the keys to the city. "Where are you going?" He asks.

"Wherever there is a piece of this city," I reply.

walk on the ground beaten a dense pine forest that recalls the country's wind. And 'the entrance to Villa Pamphili. Some say it was dear to D'Annunzio, someone else runs on his 184 acres to dispose of pounds of food too rich and think about the costume that seems to have lost a size. The lawn covers the eyes, a honey-colored dog savors her freedom and sculpted bodies without heads in white, seem an invitation not to think.

If I had a garden so filled him with yellow roses. Planting Dutch tulips and violets.

If I had a garden so I would call friends. Trace the path with flickering torches and fill the glasses of red wine iron.

A tree with long arms and generous foliage protects our words from the heat that melts a soy ice cream.

Rome is a set. Everywhere you look, wherever you are, the goal of any filmmaker has already arrived before you. There the Rome of Fellini, De Sica to. Roma Greenaway, Pasolini. E ' a celluloid dream of this city. Yet it is a beating heart. There are voices crying in the streets.

If I had a thousand bodies leave them roaming the streets of downtown. One along the Tiber, the other at the Orange Garden. One in Piazza di Spagna and the other in the Circus Maximus. An al fresco museum, the other in Villa Borghese.

If I had a thousand bodies under a tree I would not be breathing this air forever. Capturing images as flowers and carrying a sheaf in Rome who has not yet seen.

"Where are you going?" Insists the girl of Trastevere.

"Where can I see everything," I reply.

As caring and attentive guide took my hand. We follow an uphill road. Elegant buildings, oleanders and wisteria in bloom. To the right of the dome, left the houses of the rich. The car stops. A terrace in front of us greet the entire city. And 'the sunset.

At every step I feel the emotion as a desperate knock on the door. The thousand bodies one by one back with a film of photographs taken and a ticket for the subway. They Fellini, Pasolini are. They are De Sica, are Greenaway. I leaned over, and the eye of my lens I see the paradise.