Sunday, August 30, 2020


 Genova, 1981. The city is so steep that the roads slowly zig-zag up the mountainsides. The slopes were terraced long ago for olive groves, said my neighbors; in the last century, apartment blocks blossomed instead. But the salitas went straight up, breathless shortcuts for the walkers. In those days, they were also quiet places for the addicts to shoot up. More than once I walked down while i drogati sped past on Vespas, with disposable syringes and the dope they had scored far below in the Port. 

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