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Bacchanalia

Is there anything more perfect for a bunch of grapes?

If you look carefully, watching the grains of gold or yellow flesh purplish blue, lighter or darker, large or small, round or long, opaque or clear more often, as the snake eggs, those who had the good fortune to see Bacchanalia, like me, can not help but have it return in mind.

But where Bacchanalia, a city shaped like a bunch of grapes?

However, she was in the Cilento, all towns in the chimeras.

Bacchanalia was, in fact, in the coastal area between Agropoli, Castellabate, right next to the sea.

soon as you arrive, just the smell of grapes reach the walker, which was to follow a single path winding and yielding as a series of lifts from the ground.

Viaducts incredible, absurd, flyovers, footbridges foolish casings acrobat followed each other to form one road twisted and strung.

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 a succession globes and bowls.

taverns, inns, wineries and bottiglierie were everywhere and the sound of clinking glasses, of flasks, bottles and BOTTLE of carboys and flasks reached a toast at times deafening tones.

Plok Among the cheers and the explosion of bottles fetched, the happy days spent at Bacchanalia.

the main road you could walk streets smaller, but equally raised from the ground, that leads right straight at the doors and gates, and then there were leafy squares and soft, velvety, wide and had the shape of palms. There used to get children to play with balls like footballs, but more transparent and small, which sometimes exploded, and soon, all the children ran to lick and suck the sweet juice that flowed.

There was also another good fun to Bacchanalia: it was the slide!

Just outside of town, the slide was a tangle of curls as curls of hair fall out, soft, elastic and swaying to the point that even a breath of wind was enough to make him move.

So the biggest gathered there and were real racing in a vacuum, hurled those most reckless against the waves of the stormy sea or the wind in winter and stayed for hours swinging in the air and go up and down, attached to the slide.

The finest hour was at Bacchanalia, however, that the sunset on all sides, the low sun lit up the set of balls.

The light was coming in and sparkle houses made of shiny flesh and sweet sauces: everything takes on the color of gold, everything became transparent like a light bulb, and everything inside was visible outside, just as the dreams before waking, then, gradually, the sun's light was extinguished in the sea like little fairy lights and a nativity scene, Bacchanalia was lit, and the eyes of those who watched were lost in a succession of a thousand globes of light, supported by amazing bridges between sky and sea.

For all those who have been at least once a Bacchanalia, the remainder of memory is the slight feeling of dizziness and melancholy happiness.