Italian impressions - Emma Harding

First thing: the drone of a motorcycle, the rattle of shutters being raised, someone pushing a trolley along the street, full to the brim with bottles of water. A man calls out a greeting to his neighbour, who crosses the street towards him. They stand together, strenuously discussing the news, the weather, food, family - who knows? It’s not a language I understand beyond the stock phrases - hello, goodbye, please, thank you, the bill etc. The street is shiny - did it rain last night or has it been cleaned? The sky is bright blue, the sort of blue that proves you’re on holiday, the sort of blue that promises a dry, warm day.

Street-watching: a plethora of smells - cigarette smoke, diesel, drains, plus coffee, jasmine, ozone, garlic, oregano. Bread oven at full pelt, the queue pushing out the door and into the street. A stray dog lollops past, he’s carrying a plastic bag as if it contains all his worldly possessions. He disappears down a side street. There’s a guy sat on the church steps playing an accordion, a bowl by his foot. A gaggle of schoolchildren, all wearing red caps bearing their names, gather at the entrance. Some take pictures, a trio of girls sit down, while a couple of lads lark about, playing tag. A teacher gathers them together and they make their way, haphazardly, groups forming, pulling apart, then reforming, along the street, to the gelateria. Then there is a scramble of caps, arms, as icecreams are selected, produced and devoured. The dog returns, following the same route as before, still carrying his bag.

Siesta: the cool dark bedroom is like respite. The bed neatly made, fresh towels in the bathroom and fresh water in the fridge. The simplicity of the room - just functional furniture, no ornaments or pictures, no patterned furnishings, the shutters keeping out the heat - is somehow calming, cleansing. Like the day has been washed away.