Corinne Meghan
Mitglied
I love Palermo. Its houses which seem to be clustered together, whitewashed and terracotta, the noise, its tranquility, the balconies that look out onto the small alleys, the men staring and whilst touching themselves in order to fend off the devil.
Its paintings of the Madonna and of the Palermitan soccer team. I like the finger food from the market – and I’m not that fond of the frangipanne, although it looks and tastes little pretty. A bakery at Corso Tucory boasted of it, and I once bought two or three tangerines made of the sugary stuff for an Italian teacher in Pisa.
A friend of mine took me out on her moped once or twice, and we speeded along the market stalls as if there was no tomorrow.
I like buying veg at the local veggy market. The other day I bought two plastic bags full of artichoke and boiled them until tender in our shared flat in the quarter of town known as Albergheria.
Nicola was gentle in terms of character, and he was working for the internet café at Via Roma, in the vicinity of Cassa Risparmio and Albergo Olympia, where I first rented a little room with a bed made of green iron. – They even offered me to use the washing mashine, and I put the clothes to dry on its roof.
I liked him, but he didn’t seem to notice, and he seemed to have left. Maybe he went abroad.
Talking of bakeries, I wonder what happened to the French bakery and ‘Little fish’, the guy in the cute jeans jacket with his long, wavy hair. He called me ‘Spagat’, because I liked wearing sports trunks with ‘Dance Works’ written on it.
And what happened to the guy with the funny nose, who looks like that French actor from ‘Green Card’?
I think of the cats in Palermo. Our neighbour feeds them on a regular basis. She pours a bit of milk into a small white bowl, and puts it on the floor outside our Palazzo, much to the detriment of the Portiere, who looks after the Palazzo and who looked after my blue bathing towel, which had fallen into the inner court yard, as I had left it to dry outside the kitchen window.
What about the flowers, somebody asks me. What flowers? I think. I only know the cactus at the end of the Viale delle Scienze, close to the Palazzo di Philosophia, where I went to some lectures on Storia Romana. Its blossoms are bright yellow.
You don’t know how cold it gets in winter though. The heating never seems to work, so I have to buy a warm jumper from the second hand shop in Corso Tucory, and spring seems to be a long time away.
Its paintings of the Madonna and of the Palermitan soccer team. I like the finger food from the market – and I’m not that fond of the frangipanne, although it looks and tastes little pretty. A bakery at Corso Tucory boasted of it, and I once bought two or three tangerines made of the sugary stuff for an Italian teacher in Pisa.
A friend of mine took me out on her moped once or twice, and we speeded along the market stalls as if there was no tomorrow.
I like buying veg at the local veggy market. The other day I bought two plastic bags full of artichoke and boiled them until tender in our shared flat in the quarter of town known as Albergheria.
Nicola was gentle in terms of character, and he was working for the internet café at Via Roma, in the vicinity of Cassa Risparmio and Albergo Olympia, where I first rented a little room with a bed made of green iron. – They even offered me to use the washing mashine, and I put the clothes to dry on its roof.
I liked him, but he didn’t seem to notice, and he seemed to have left. Maybe he went abroad.
Talking of bakeries, I wonder what happened to the French bakery and ‘Little fish’, the guy in the cute jeans jacket with his long, wavy hair. He called me ‘Spagat’, because I liked wearing sports trunks with ‘Dance Works’ written on it.
And what happened to the guy with the funny nose, who looks like that French actor from ‘Green Card’?
I think of the cats in Palermo. Our neighbour feeds them on a regular basis. She pours a bit of milk into a small white bowl, and puts it on the floor outside our Palazzo, much to the detriment of the Portiere, who looks after the Palazzo and who looked after my blue bathing towel, which had fallen into the inner court yard, as I had left it to dry outside the kitchen window.
What about the flowers, somebody asks me. What flowers? I think. I only know the cactus at the end of the Viale delle Scienze, close to the Palazzo di Philosophia, where I went to some lectures on Storia Romana. Its blossoms are bright yellow.
You don’t know how cold it gets in winter though. The heating never seems to work, so I have to buy a warm jumper from the second hand shop in Corso Tucory, and spring seems to be a long time away.
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