Is there anything else in the world of perfect like a bunch of grapes?
If you look carefully, watching the grains of golden-yellow flesh and blue violet, lighter or darker, large or small, round, or even long, dull, or more often, as clear as the eggs of a snake, who had the good fortune Baccanaglia to see, like me, can not help but have it return in mind. But where
Baccanaglia, a city in the shape of a bunch of grapes?
However, she was in the Cilento, all towns in the chimeras.
Baccanaglia was, in fact, lying on the coastal area between Agropoli, Castellabate, Tresino and down out to the sea.
soon as you arrive, just the smell Grape reached the traveler, who happened to follow a single path winding and yielding as a series of lifts from the ground.
Viaducts incredible, absurd, flyovers, footbridges senseless, rambling casings acrobat followed one another, forming a single road twisted and strung, into receiving many other equally skewed.
left and right, up and down the steps, there was a carousel of spheres: the houses, churches, schools or shops, taverns and craftsmen then, numerous taverns were in a succession of balls and bowls.
Tavern by funny names, fragrant inns, inn, clean and tidy, and smelling cellars bottiglierie new or old, dusty or neat, they were everywhere.
The noise of clinking glasses, flasks, bottles and BOTTLE, carboys and bottles of uncorked just reached, at times, deafening tones. Among the Cincin
Plok explosives and bottles of far-fetched, the happy days spent in Baccanaglia.
Many items that were there, you could get cheap purchase stock in a good mood.
Jugs of colored glass, flask-shaped bum, jugs of all sizes, fine crystal decanters or more raw materials, ceramic or porcelain teapots, cups personalized with text and decorations in various colors and glasses and mugs engraved or hand-worked silver and pints or pewter and earthenware jars and jars of every shape and color as they were exposed together with berries of grapes and wine red or white or pink or gray, cold or cellar, dry, sparkling or bubbly and sweet.
There was no person who went to Baccanaglia without buying at least a grain or a grain or any small cup that somehow it would lay in her mind the sweet memories.
the main road and away from the bazaars, you could take the smaller roads, narrow and cramped. These branched two or three were ever raised from the ground and leads us straight, in their convoluted, the doors or gates, and Then there were leafy squares and soft, velvety, broad and had the shape of palms outstretched. There used to get children to play with balls similar to ball, but more transparent, sometimes wrapped in thin shells exploded, and soon, all the children ran from everywhere to lick and suck the sweet juice that flowed.
There was also another good fun Baccanaglia: it was the slide!
Just outside the town, down to the sea, the slip appeared as a beautiful tangle of thick green and pliable curls looked like a set of locks of hair, soft, elastic as springs and swaying to the point that even a slight hint of wind was enough to make him move.
Thus, the older kids would gather there and dive into the void were real, and those meeting the more reckless they launched waves of the stormy sea or from the winter wind and stayed - for hours - to hang in the air and go on and down, attached to the slide.
Those dives into space flight knew: I remember well.
The finest hour in Baccanaglia was, however, that the sunset from the sea, the sun shone down with the ball.
The light was coming in and sparkle round houses made of shiny flesh and sweet sauces: everything became transparent like a light bulb, and everything inside was visible outside, just as happens in dreams before waking, then, gradually, the sun's light was extinguished in the sea like little fairy lights and a nativity scene, Baccanaglia lit, and the eyes of those who watched were lost in a succession of one thousand globes of light, supported by amazing bridges between sky and sea.
In those orbs there was life.
Every move into the houses or churches or taverns was visible. Those who had none should, could spend hours looking at this or that: to observe the shadow of beautiful women, who, inks, bathe or shower - straight - arching their backs, or watching the families gathered at the table for dinner or much more that I'm not here to enumerate. Through
thin walls, tight, translucent, dome every gesture became a show and maybe it was this, that, there, there were no movies or theater or the circus. The people of
Baccanaglia had no shame to perform and so were the shows, every time, different, exciting or discounted new or repetitive, good or bad, love or violence, but always real, so real and still fascinating.
How many things could be seen at night Baccanaglia!
In the silence of the darkness lit by many lights, the ball seemed to just hanging lanterns in the darkness, and each of them, the small images glimpsed inside gave life to shows surprising.
The eye, like a kaleidoscope, passing, jumping from one world to another and could be built by putting together different stories and fascinating lives of the people without shame.
It was not uncommon to see the body of their beloved in the arms of a man other than themselves or noticing thefts and robberies in their own home or that altruism: a Baccanaglia was visible all night and everything was possible. It seemed that this day and night so it was that Miss coli and the sun seemed different from what was in the dark was a fact that did not create scandal, or stupor.
Baccanaglia was not in the substance to be different from other cities, but apparently it was.
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