the morning sun hits the cream stone walls of the houses higher on the hills first; each window is a sleepy eye facing the sea, roused minute by minute, level by level down to the old town. you can tell the time by the slices of sunlight falling on the red tile roof lines.
in the old town boulangeries, butchers and markets open doors, push carts outside, unfold tables and spill into the squares, onto the cobblestones, bursting out with color and activity into every available corner and nook. for a few precious moments more, the walkways are free of dogshit.