When I don't want to stay in my room looking at pictures, I ask my mother—the one who sews and makes dolls—"What should we do today? It's such a beautiful sunny day." We don't have any other place besides Nettuno, where the house is. From the window I can see the train, just arrived. I don't go very often because we're tied to Rome for work and friends. To go to the sea you have to buy a ticket, and then I'm sitting in a train car with other people of different ages. When we get to the end of the line, we get off and go to the house, and there's nothing in the mail, sadly—I always hope for a postcard, to know that someone is thinking of me, or just a real memory is enough.
At the bar we have a cappuccino, and I notice they're cleaning up the buildings—nice for the tourists. It's a beautiful city that's underappreciated, if you ask me. No real attractions. But it's quiet. Peaceful. And that's what we want—quiet. Then I prefer to go to the sea, because I like the color of the beach, the brown sand that needs to stay clean, the rocks with flowers beside them, and the view. The negative thing is I don't know anyone around there. Sometimes I expect something new—someone to come visit me. I always hope for that. Life at the sea isn't bad. You can breathe the salt air, unlike Rome Termini station. You see boats parked there for paid parking. I have to stay dressed because I don't like taking my clothes off—that's just how I am. The sea has waves and salt spray and fish at the bottom. People play in summer, especially in August, but people go all year round. It's safe. I dig holes with my shovel and splash my feet or eat chocolate ice cream. I hope something beautiful happens. I don't even know what. Maybe luck in love. I'm always hoping for that.