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"That was always the Mediterranean, it was enough to give a little 'of attention to the faint memory recall: oil and red wine, Islam and the Talmud, crosses, cypress pine, tombs, churches, crimson sunsets as blood, white sails in the distance, stones worked by men and time, that particular hour of noon when the quiet and the silence was broken only by the chirping of cicadas, night in the light of a bonfire piled with wood adrift, while the moon slowly rose above a sea islands without water. It also skewers of sardines, bay leaves and olives, watermelon peels floating on the gentle sway vespertino quiet of the beach, the sound of pebbles in the surf in the morning, boats are painted with blue, white and red, launched on beaches with mills in ruins and olive gray , gilded grapes on trellises. And the shelter of their own shadow, her eyes lost in the intense stretching to the east, the sea looked real estate men, sunburned and bearded heroes knew of shipwrecks in bays designated by cruel gods, fake statues mutilated asleep, with open eyes, a silence of centuries. "


Arturo Perez-Reverte Pontina on at sunset, Latin night on a vintage black beetle in the direction of the Sea. The games in the evening, laughter, hundreds of photographs, tobacco & beer. The early morning breakfast at the bar with you. Sweatshirts and shorts. Themselves to be absolutely free and brilliant, who knows how many miles from home in the midst of "unknown" you always seem to know.
So the sailor's bag is filled with other memories, other experiences and good wind to breathe out when the air is still.
Arremba life as a pirate . With proper light, ironically, with a smile. Balancing the melancholy, without ever flunk a challenge or a proposal. Close leggermente gli occhi e affidarsi all'istinto, al proprio equilibrio. Trovare più di quanto si cercava, mai per caso ma

sempre per scelta . Schiena dritta, al timone sul ponte.