Polignano

in the deep south of Italy a small fishing village sat perched on the very edge of the Adriatic Sea. it was the summer of 1994 and a sense of yearning swept across the beach below, in the evenings the horizon would slip into the sea and you felt that in moments like these maybe this really was the edge of the earth.

the cliffs seemed to fall away into the blue water below, bodies scattered across the rocks, the water broken every few seconds with people diving from the cliffs. it felt like a place to be young, to spend days under the shade of blue umbrellas and to lie in the shallows where the fish were carried gently by the currents from the east.

cafes bustling under the heat of the italian sun, dried branches from olive trees scattering the pavement around the square, hot smoke from cigarettes swallowed in the warm salty breeze. the glimmer of aperol lining the tables around the piazza, half empty shots of espresso basking in the sun, the flutter of pigeons drowned out by the footsteps of people down the white limestone streets.

streetlamps lit gently across the bridge in the evening, the hush of the water in the distance, the red and green lights of the fisherman's boats falling into midnight across the horizon. the spilled flour behind the restaurant, the smell of garlic and rosemary suffocating the old town, a saxophone soothing the pink sky to sleep at night. the moon hung gently like a wallpaper, the dancing in the square until late when the stars crept from behind the clouds and you could see Orion sleeping deeply in the sky.

people spent long days here by the water with the cliffs on either side of the beach, taking short drives south towards Ostuni where the village rose in a spiral of sandstone and sweat. there was a constant desire to be immersed in bodies of water, to read books by the Port in the afternoon as the sun fell over the hills and the air began to cool, creasing pages in books from summers before. spending hours in the small shops that lined Via San Vito from the station to the beach.

the ring of soft church bells in the morning, espresso by the Cathedral, tall apartments with the windows ajar and the white curtains alive in the breeze. an east bridge romance, a love lost in the shadow of the city walls, postcards from Italy that would stay with you for some time. skin pink in the summer, hot nights and sleepless days, watching her pick Apricots from the garden with Bach playing gently in the chords of her headphones.

500 days of summer where restaurants hid in caves beneath the cliffs, where life simmered beautifully in the sun and the people really lived. where the Nonna's swept the doorways in the morning and played cards until the sky bled with midnight. where peoples eyes burned with a sorrow that only something so beautiful could inflict. where the sea sparkled and copies of 'La Gazzetta' were printed with blues and greens and football on the first and last page.

a place where you could look into the night and really feel wonder, knowing that even for just a moment you lived in this little town by the sea.