dolce vita
There are just some people who do not get enough . . . . „I will arrive on Friday from Prague” . . . gee man you will . . . .

The twilight outside in the street and there we are sitting in the bar, reddish, boudoirish lights falling over us, Casablanca is the name, I guess in every city there is one Casablanca. 1st century Roman market place where used to trade boomed, now young people dressed up in stylish closes sit on the old stone benches and tables, swinging their legs, shouting and laughing loudly, drinking wine and eating piedina with rucolla.
My vodka martini with three olives arrives, Francesco smiling, his beautiful white teeth lining up in perfect straight line: “Your three green olives inside as always? When are you back again?” “In April. Thanks it looks perfect.” He looks at Bob, winks, taps on his shoulder and goes back to the bar where handsome dark guys are lined up looking up for Italian girls entering the place. He chats with perfect ease to whoever says a word to him. I sit and admire him, I admire the culture, I admire the ability to be happy, to party.
Cell phones are ringing around loud, cheerful voices shouting in the receivers, people hugging friends and acquaintances entering the bar, smokers lining out at the door, puffing out in the warm spring air. Its 1 am streets and bars are full and it’s ain’t tourist season yet, there’s just locals, just Italians.
My cell rings, it’s Nello, my handsome friend from Sorrento. He asks if I am in Italy, I say that I am, but in North, he says he is out with friends, I say - me too. He says as always – when are you coming? I answer as always soon. Bob is looking at me on the phone through the window smoking out his cigarette, he smiles, I smile. Another night in Italy just has started again.