In Palermo the streets have no signs and barely any traffic lights people communicate with their eyes and their hands because they know where they are how to get to places people have a coffee at the tobacco shop and the balconies have long, striped awnings draped over them On the terrace of Bar Lucchese the handsome waiter is making sure all the napkin holders on the tables, are full and all the menus, are clean he looks about my age life has happened under his eyes The men working inside the bar greet each other with two kisses on the cheek they come in and out carrying brioches on trays freshly baked and cornetti crescent moons little, little horns with crushed pistacchio sprinkled on top I feel safe here on this island far away from everywhere amongst the walls of this old city where I didn’t grow up amongst these men who walk around, swiftly who work and greet each other on an early summer morning in Piazza San Domenico by the narrow and welcoming and ancient streets of Vucciria built by these people none of them native to this land all of them immigrants hundreds of travelers and settlers coming and going and working and building these walls for hundreds of years stranded by the shore on a quest for a new life
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Lovely