Which means, for three or four hours in the middle of the day, any action is rendered into nothing. The city literally dies. From the windows echo murmurs of conversation, clinking of silver on plates: the shops lower the grates over the doorways, shopkeepers quietly sweep, or sit, or have disappeared, the streets are deserted.
Yesterday, I wandered Sesto twice: once, during siesta; dead.
The second time, during an unexpected nutella party: booths were set up around town, enormous tubs of nutella with diligent workers scooping it generously onto slices of bread, children playing in the streets, parents on bikes, teens clustered in pairs around the doorways, small groups of girls occasionally melding with the small clusters of boys perched on the staircases, waiting for the girls to walk by. Life! In Sesto!
It felt remarkably like the block parties neighborhoods occasionally throw at home, except... it was the whole city of Sesto, filling the streets, gathering to eat... nutella.
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