In an attempt to exhaust a place Lecce
The gyrations in Lecce is the place that I do not know the extension, I can not possess the streets. I
convinced that it was that, quell'accrocchio of ways in which I missed the first time in Lecce, I left the streets safe consumed penetrating the center where there are no bars or signs to reassure you, but only pavement, balconies, stone walls.
The time that I discovered a Roman theater, one in which I saw a very old Ford parked in an alley bordeaux to release him, perhaps his son, with black shirt and chain around his neck, and her mother, perhaps, with the bun in the gray hair, dark clothes and a cigarette in his mouth.
Or the time I found myself under a sky of storm in almost a square with benches and palm trees, enclosed on all sides, I read the Conservatory of Saint Anne and a garden behind the intuition grates a locked gate. Deserted square-yard, only vendors who came out umbrellas and entered looking business in the smell of rain coming up from the street.
Or when a sunny morning in september I sat in the door of a door drawn to the name: Piazzetta art of printing. Howls of masons from the alley and in front of the joint of low houses, small stony terraces that cradle, hanging gardens, cared for in the interlayer of the colors of the plants. One of the houses on the corner decked with vases of fake flowers, a melancholy but strangely disturbing fiction.
Or even the following morning when the cries of a dead have arrived in Piazzetta Queen Mary and it was immediately clear to my eyes She was the queen.
His throne is a sumptuous red leather chair, with arms injured and treated by black tape. As a true Queen Mary in
warm days like this move outside his throne in the courtyard in front of his house on the ground floor.
Maria hates cats blacks and expelled them from authoritarian to do with a mop in the wall of the building, then return and sly sweet, chubby face and bright eyes, flourished in the world of his blue robe, her hair curly, long thoughtful and a true queen.
Since its moral property of the square apostrophizes Lorenzo and his ape fruit with his dialect pasty, fat. When Lorenzo
goes with his jalopy orange packed with fruit and on to the roof two shopping carts, greets Mary, as if thanking her hospitality.
The Queen Mary has its own personal waiter, a burly young man with his cap on his head that takes away the rubbish, the rest is a queen modern and clean kitchen and only occasionally allows himself idleness door. Queen of the house and square.
I am convinced to get into the twists and turns every time I walk away Beccherie of old, smelly street, with a light that is kindled at night when you walk, almost always speaks street language "other," making the perfect backdrop to the Arab palace , windows and ornaments, which can be glimpsed over the wall. What made me meet once a girl with beautiful African features that ran in bare feet and behind her a glimpse of living with various power strips hanging from the couch. Foreign women from the same sessions that the door led me to speak, via a butterfly flying with only one wing, the melody is incomprehensible, but aesthetically Filipinos tune of two boys sitting on the steps of yet another house on the ground floor with a guitar in hand.
But then someone told me I was wrong, that this was not the true "heart" of gyrations.
I have indicated a new access, the one after boarding palmieri going to the station.
I embarked on that road one evening, already dark, and I was surprised that I had never walked into any of those ways.
E 'as if it were impossible to take every alley where you would like to enter, is the feeling that the ramifications are endless.
You run the risk of entering there, where a balcony, a lamppost or a batik spread capture the attention, knowing that probably will not come from nowhere, we must stop and turn back. Trans
, prostitutes, Albanian, Arab immigrants, police raids, La Mara, more than one person tells his version of the twists and turns, with astonishment, admiration, or uncomfortable, as if in that labyrinth of stone anyone to find himself, find his ghosts , their fears, or the desire to enjoy the rubble, della crepa più vistosa, delle vite non perfette.
Le giravolte non hanno confine.
Ognuno ne vede il cuore lì dove il suo batte, non importa se di paura o meraviglia.
Libri letti da quando sono a sud…
“La malapianta” di Rina Durante
“La Foto di classe. U uagnon se n'asciot” di Mario Desiati.
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