موضوع تعبير عن مكاني المفضل قصير
موضوع تعبير عن مكاني المفضل بالعربي
موضوع تعبير عن مكاني المفضل قصير
تعبير عن مكاني المفضل البحر
تعبير انجليزي عن my favorite place of entertainment
تعبير عن مكاني المفضل للترفيه
my favorite place to relax paragraph
my favorite place تعبير قصير
موضوع تعبير عن مكاني المفضل بالانجليزي
My favorite place.
On the irregular concrete vault, the light degrades his palette in dark clear, underlines the craters. Outside, the white is dazzling, inside, the wet smell, the cool soil, the dust everywhere. There is the sound of the waves and the silence of the rest. I get up, in a few steps I'm outside, on the forecourt, still cementing. On a cardboard, underpants and sneakers, Paolo is sleeping. Diogenes with a sad heart, he thinks of Pamela, who promised her that she would come back. The path is deserted, the air is hot, it is eleven o'clock. Most grottini are closed. On the water, a fishing boat: it is the couple of the cave next door. I put on my shoes and I join others.
my favorite place
Mussel fishing.
Our equipment is ready. A buoy, a piece of net found on the beach, a rusty rake lying at the bottom of the cave, plastic masks. The offshore rocks are covered with moscioli: that's how they call the mussels here. You must quickly jump between the slippery rocks and shoot his arms in long fathoms. On the boat, the couple makes big gestures to show us the direction of the best corners. We dive and in the middle of bubbles and algae they appear in black clusters. Flexible and fast, we fill the nets. From time to time, we take a break, to contemplate the fishing. We still take some? It is the stomach that responds, already thinking of the taste of spaghetti mussels. Again.
visit ancona
Pamela.
Then here we are on the cement pier, a long cylindrical net trapping our fishing. A two, each takes one end, it pulls and pushes, in a clash of shells, to rid them of debris from the sea Paolo comes to us, the shadow of the mountain has covered and pulled from his sleep. Pamela is not here, do you think she will come? It is only at noon, if it came, ah, the long meals in front of the grotto, ah, the beers we would share, the joints it would smoke in front of the stars, and the night that would stretch, the dawn to look together, why does not she come? Pamela is a real bitch, but Paolo does not say it. Pamela comes, eats, drinks, laughs, bathes, loves you, then leaves. She does not come back. Or when you do not wait for it. It could happen anytime. Now, tomorrow, tonight, never, or in three years. Paolo goes down the path to the cave and goes back when he has no hope, when he gets too bad or when he says that Pamela is not worth it. Paolo tells and we go to the knives, to clean the shiny shells.
Grottini.
It's time for rest, reading and daydreams. I like to think while walking, so I go exploring the coast. Some caves have opened, in front of their gaping colored portals, couples play cards, women come out, a deckchair under the arm. Here, the caves are wild, they have changed little since the fishermen of Conero, we do not know when, dug them at the foot of the mountain, facing the sea. Some still use them to tidy up their wooden boat or their kayak on which they spin at dawn along the coast. No electricity, just running water, sometimes a gas stove. I spend the ride of the promontory and find the sun. The rock changes, whiter, it slides gently towards the sea or it forms pools with low water. In front of me, the caves become palaces: a floor, several rooms, a jetty to park the Zodiac, and everywhere kids who paddle, run, shout. Berlusconi's grottini, exclaims my friend, sarcastically.
Night.
Paolo did not want to stay, he declined our invitation, put his cardboard in his cave, abandoned his rotten sneakers and his looks of iodized tramp to return to his apartment.
Our cave is bare. She does not have furniture yet. Just if we extracted the stones and the dust that filled it for 40 years. Yet, with its large sheet laid on the forecourt, some tealights and plastic plates facing the pink sky, it looks, our dining room. Spaghetti with mussels, pepatta di moscioli, we emptied one by one the shells before throwing them again with the water, in a single gesture.
It is enough to clear and return the tablecloth and the dining room becomes bedroom under a ceiling of stars to tell stories. Tomorrow, around six o'clock, dawn will awaken the sky. His yellowing and pink yawning will compensate ours.
My favorite place in Italy is a small cave at the foot of Mount Conero. You have to walk 20 minutes on a steep path to get there, but there is wild mint and breathtaking views of the coast. My favorite place is the cave of my friend Mimmo, a cave that has been entrusted to him for nothing but good care. From Ancona, share a swarm of grottin
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