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The buildings in the Villa Serena district had sprung up like mushrooms in the sixties. Neither dilapidated, nor well placed, but far from the real decay, they surrounded a large circular square, which over time became a roundabout.
In the middle of the square, a dignified monument of white marble held a bronze obelisk with ugly bas-reliefs carved to sing the praises of the Renaissance. Beyond the monument, the houses, all downhill, disappeared following the profile of the mountain, opening an airy panorama filled with the stinging colours of the thriving hills struggling with the last stretch of land, the one that divided the coast from the shining blade of the sea.
The Grancafé was the only exercise that overlooked the square: it displayed a bare and unpretentious display case on t
