Rust-colored window shutters and ivory linens dancing in the wind are disregarded as the light tune of a whistle makes its way from one roof to the next. It squeezes in between copper railings, cutting corners of balconies, and sashaying through vents. It has no easy path, for the houses are built on hills and there is no straight line between rooftops. But it is not deterred, no, for the tune must make its way to the cobblestone streets below. It surges through the slits in deck chairs, rustles the leaves of the basil plants in their clay pots. It is light and jovial, using the wind as its sail and the shaded walls as its guard rails. Bit by bit it makes its way down to the busy stones, where it is met with a heavy, busy rhythm. Feet meet stone and the tune tries to keep up, raging against the sound that nearly overshadows it. But then it happens, it’s picked up and carried by a passerby and the whistle moves on to the next block.