A Sicilian Spring

It’s Easter Sunday and the church bells are ringing over Palermo. We’re sprawled on the rooftop terrace of our apartment, watching the seagulls over the domes and palazzios and the Arab-Norman towers, the blue hills and the just-glimpsed sea. Wagner’s Tristan and Isolde is mingling with the shouts of a market trader and the table is littered with olives and espresso and remnants of last night’s wine.

Next week, I fly to Rome and then Bangkok and I throw myself into making a living. But right now, here, in the soft spring sunlight and surrounded by my dearest friends, time is suspended, exquisitely, in a timeless Sicilian afternoon.

 

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