Palazzo

Gallipoli was and is my solitude of palatial head space operatic tremors, sun spiked skin, dancing in endless laughing moons and waters of trick the light fantastic. Sabres steal corks of bubbled rosy gold liquid and we splash our feet for the fishes. Jackarieah and me, Smuggle days on toasted sands and swim good out to bay boats habited by local heroes in rival of the marble statues, of that proud Italian anatomy. Stunning I must say, as much I say, the cloth that wraps our holiday bodies is Holy Gucci, Pucci and Fiorucci.    

Gallipoli, Parisian sweet styled nights roll into decent days in sweeter smells, fico and textured details with rolling fingers sifting envelopes of exotic skins, buckles and Byzantine jewellery. Coral and pearls drip from our softly bronzed lobes. Gifts are a delicacy. Paving our way to the diamond coastline, cobble streets, that look as though made of washed up shells; Botticelli knew this place, a gaze of untiring blue beyond the horizon of 360 degree.        

I was there, Gallipoli, to write, almost 3 months I stayed, rolling from one adventura to the next. When Jackariah came to stay, it was a three day trip which lasted three weeks. Every day the water was glassy and the people were some of the most caring I have ever come across. We ate food that makes my mouth water just to think of. Carpaccio, Tonna Rosso, juicing pomodoro and capers lined up next to grilled fishes and peppers whose colours were unspeakably beautiful. The peaches. I was staying, by luck, in a countless room Palazzo, built some time in the 14th century, with ceiling arches cascading above our heads you could compare to those of magnificent cathedrals. It was a palace and my home, the modern Moroccan industrial decor spiralling staircases led you to a multi tiered terrace that stretched the roofs of the island like a small town. We hung silks that billowed in the wind and you could smell these fabrics catching the sun. Every day we exercised or indulgences. Food, sun, sea, men and most importantly style. Our endless chatter on this shoe with this ring set off by an impressive bomber that let us explode across town in nights of fizzing soirées and body shaking until the pink sky rose to blue’m. We hadn’t known one another long and so it was our time. Our intricacies pronounced only in the sunglasses on, morning massacre of the night before. We laughed, cried and made friends for life. Our time spent in this country of deconstructed beauty constructed much more than our Parisian sweet style that made the Italian boys talk; we found a solace and passion in each of us to change, to align what was important for us right then. To define it, to achieve it and to really believe it. We arrived good people and we left great.      

And across those blues beyond that horizon of 360 degree...came nothing, it remains unchanged. It will never flinch more than a lapping wave. Those who choose to stand there though, surrounded in witness to it’s confident wisdom, they are grateful, it's they who change, they who begin to understand.