a walk on the walls

If you get high enough, my town is really something to be proud of. It helps if you know where the stairs are: they are unmarked; they don’t look like much; they are a secret well and rightly kept. Of course, there’s more than one access point to the walls. Some are popular with tourists, others with athletes.

One afternoon last week, I encountered all walks of life up there: an old woman with a very excitable dog (in whose mouth I found my entire forearm), a group of pre-teen boys smoking cigarettes and engaging in a mediated dialog with some pre-teen girls on a nearby bench (“Wanker!” The girl in the white go-go boots called out, the language of flirtation differing from the language of contempt only in tone of voice), a young man walking alone, hands clasped in a prayer known only to him and God, couples fighting, couples kissing, one couple interrupted by a dad on a cell phone.



I walked from one heart-shaped bastion to the next (they have great names like the Bastion of Sabbionara and the Bastion of Martinego), til I arrived at the sea. There was nowhere to go from there, but back.