I'm sitting here under a big old tree on the grassy city walls of Lucca, lapping up the glorious afternoon sun and watching people italian-style. Everyone continuously tells me that the Italians prance around when they walk. I hadn't really seen it until today, but up here overlooking the town, I know what they were talking about. There's couples holding hands and lingering over a kiss; elegant - always elegant - elderly ladies walking their miniature dogs; fathers chasing two year olds from one side of the wall to the other, yelling Claudia, Ciara, ciao!, their words a melody. There's a group of old men sitting around a wooden table, playing chess in deep concentration. Everyone is watching on, heads bent over the moving pieces, each one made of marble from Carrara, I assume. They all
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