Alfonso Neal

The disquiet returned, but I had realised why: it was awed intimidation. Rain was forecast again at the bottom of the dulled silver mountains; I travelled along the winding road to the city of Salerno-the province’s namesake and second most populated city behind Naples. I spent the afternoon ducking in and out of buildings and alleyways, always keen to avoid the rain while still getting a sense of city life.

A metropolis surrounded by water. And it’s tethered to the past by its networks of docks and shipyards. The thump-thump-thump of shoes travelling over wooden planks is still audible. All but absent are the sounds of creaking dock cranes hoisting cargo from ship to shore. This doesn’t mean the City of Portland, Maine, is no longer a bustling hub of activity; quite the opposite. The city is a vibrant hub of art and culture.

At 9.00 am-not a minute before-steel shutters crawl up rusty tracks towards their designated and hidden resting place. Once out of sight, shuffling feet run out the front door, followed by the slow and discomforting sounds of metallic patio furniture dragging across the concrete. The many cafes standing next to each other create a perfect line of patio furniture and ambience choices — everyone has their preferred establishment. The morning unfolds with a mixed tune.