Rosario Valente
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I spent my childhood holidays in a tiny village of Southern Italy: my mother's home town.


I can't forget those never ending midsummer afternoons, sitting on the stairs beside my grandparents' house, staring at the sea through an imaginary telescope made out of the aligned walls of neighbor’s houses.

The voices of street vendors that cut through the air in an unknown dialect, similar to a song rising from the past. 
Souped-up Vespas equipped like cars. The sea wind and the silence of the afternoon immediately after lunch time when life almost slows down to a stop.
The wicker chairs on the streets and the four o'clock flowers in the terracotta pots. 


The older women constantly dressed in mourning wear and the bright young girls with their black eyes and their tanned olive skin seeming to reflect the Sun.