Drinking coffee at a table in the street outside the little cafe is so Italian: Add a perfect brioche filled with blueberries and crema and a morning can drift by in dreams. The cafe is owned by an ebullient man who greets me with loud compliments and laughter. His ever patient wife smiles and makes my coffee : they have a daughter. She calls out my name , I am the artist who used to live in this street but now lives in the hills. For them I still live here. This is Italy.