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A fresh ocean-front hush winds its way up these alleys of long-ago, brushing the white walls with a Mediterranean musk. The sparkle of a mandolin mixes with merlot and is warmed by the low basso of familiar conversation. Together they dance down the paths between alleys and apartments, parading through the rough stubble of ancient architecture, cut by well-earned laugh lines. Vines reach upwards over rich woods, where the high window boxes spill their grapefruit notes out to join the parade of mid-morning festivities. In the centre of this tangle of time, this opera of experience he rests in repose, wearing his confidence like a crown. This Sicilien. This dark man.
