1 The red balloons.
Nine o'clock. The streets of Palermo awake slowly. Silence fell like a cloak over the city, between Via Roma and Via Maqueda. It is far from the roar of the night of eighty Harley Davidson Club of machines and its chapters or other Hells Angels Bandidos Sicilian. A slight haze clouds the sky and cold clouds. Off the Norman Palace and Palatine Chapel, gems stone, struggling to extricate themselves from the background dark and silent mountains.
the morning calmed the neighborhood is quiet and studious. Window on the sky. Sicily country windows. The street right is the street bikes. They are repaired, they tinker, they are untwisted, they are sold. Under the balcony is the street balls. At that hour, there is no way and under the merchant's parked his car in the middle of the street. It is a great gray station wagon. Patiently he piles up colored plastic balls in bags. Round-trips with the store. He piled the bags into the car. Coffee at the window on the sky. Domes with colored ceramics patched to answer bell in a few notes deaf which vibrate the air.
The man scratches his head because he no longer knows how to bring more balloons. He tied a strap yellow, in a way that seems random, three bags on the roof. He opens the door again and tries to force a new bag. He pushes and forces because everything must be delivered today.
A motorcyclist clad and helmeted black just returned to the streets. He wants to spend and waits. Its engine Steel with metallic reflections idling. The seller continues to ride. It forces yet. The balloons will they explode? The biker honks. He wants to spend. Must be forced to get everything. And yaa still other bags. Horn and hand gestures. I must go. The seller gives up his balls for him to sign that there is plenty of room on the sidewalks. They are clear and can go through it. Without removing his helmet the rider was served a brief movement in the street is that he wants to spend. It will not pass through the sidewalks. A weary gesture he waved the seller he has to cope and resumed his labor. It grows with both arms to make room.
The biker walks a yard, with the help of the feet, and approached the shop without getting out of his machine. He pulls out a knife. Dagger. Flash of metal. The man falls to the ground. The bag of red balloons burst and spread on the asphalt. The motorcyclist dropped his bike to reposition themselves well behind the car and took great care not to crush balls. He expects the carabinieri who soon will finally clear the streets.
Symphony on port 2.
is the late afternoon under a sun that burns and bangs roughly on the concrete pier to break up in the joints. Large boats that cross the continent are moored at the dock and gently heated in a diesel rumble that rocks the waves. Their large freshly painted white hull shine in the sunshine. By the time a window opens that reflects a ray violent as the brush of a lighthouse that dazzles the pier.
Gulls gently float in the air taking advantage of updrafts invisible to the eye. Hoarse cries bring joy.
the other side of the boat harbor Customs undertakes in reverse. He walks fast. Its deck is covered with tourists with their cameras slung. An informal visit to the Bay that will bring in pocket money to customs officials. Captain would spend many an Alfa Romeo.
is almost time to depart. Suddenly the first giant rises the roar of a siren. As an impatience to be at sea The second replied with a deeper tone. New release of the first steam longer. The customs boat it is too. Concerto on the port. Sixteenth note. Trill. Two white, one black. Sixteenth note. The seagulls were killed intrigued. They have never seen it. The customs officer in charge, probably accounted to stay in the rhythm of the symphony aquatic, forgot it was in reverse. The white masses are perilously close. A cry. It slows sharply. Too. A woman fell to the siren mer.La is more dismal. It throws a buoy. The tourists are scrambling to take pictures from the deck.
In the silence finally returned without a word, white bows s'extirpent Wharf and split the sea to the mainland, leaving behind them a large trail of white foam. On deck all phones are brandished to the buoy to take even more photos. This will make a great story to tell tonight. Customs officers are busy with blunders. We'll have to return to port. Alfa Romeo will wait a little longer.
3 messages Gangi.
The long voyage on Highway dominates over tens of kilometers, driven by thousands of pillars and aqueducts, hills and plains below, is completed. The stubborn and Herculean labor required to build these structures is a measure of the extent of land of former latifundias time when there was the iron hand of the lords on the neck of daily and more actual power of occult forces which plunge hands into the coffers of public works. Finally, the road spins in tight curls, which roll on themselves. You have to stop to enjoy the view over the town of Gangi devouring the hill.
Upstairs, next to the ruins Castle overlooking the city, is the most attractive inns. A small courtyard on the street with chairs, some tables, a parasol. Flowers in small boxes at the windows. Water flowing from the mouth of a small fountain glazed pottery. A view that rushes toward the plain. Attached is a vacant lot, unfortunately, alter the quiet beauty of the place. There are, pell mell, the carcass of a burned car, a few broken chairs, a hole that looks like a trench and some garbage.
The owner approached with the required glasses clinking on his tray.
- Thanks friend. It's beautiful home you! What a view! Too bad that the land next to ...
- Next to ... ? Yes I know ... it's my car but I can not touch it.
- You can not touch it?
- Understand ... they burnt ... and the hole is also a message for me ... You see I refuse to pay the pizzo ...
It's getting late and it's time to leave. A last look at the city silent and frozen before returning the car. The right mirror is gone. Another message?
