The city has gone crazy. Is there a city where fireworks were lit every day near midnight? Not the spectacular display of colours and fiery imagination, no. It is only a few shots of parsimonious sparks that sounded as if the sky just farted,always guaranteed though to be loud enough to awake the sleepers, the babies and all the cars. The car alarm then burst into a free opera style, producing a lasting cacophony, memorable in itself as the lingering aftermath of fireworks. If you have the patience to wait until the car alarm to abate, the next dish on the noise menu won’t be delayed. Next door parties. Parties produce, in this sense not stinky politicians, but stinky drunkards – men and women hollering throughout the night of non-sensical words and happiness, against the strong beats of music that kept sending shock waves through the century-old stone walls. Even if there is a limit to their revelling, you have no reason to expect silence. Some undying passion for noise stirs within my own house. At 4 a.m., you could hear Martin gaffawing like a choked sea gull, 5 a.m., his culpable and cuddly friends clambering up and down the ladder to the attic and exchanging epithets the whole way, at 6. a.m., Congratulations! now you earned your first toilet visit of the day, which will be immediately refreshed by a pungent smell of piss with alcohol. No escape, the whole house smells like that,with a delicate hint of cigarette smoke besides the keynote fragrance.Speaking of fragrance,it could be the Herb itself.

 This is an exact and non-exaggerated account of my August weekend experience.  

Welcome to my city!