But, apart from the harbour, one notes few signs of
activity; the one long street, Corso Garibaldi, has little traffic;
most of the shops close shortly after nightfall, and then there is
no sound of wheels; all would be perfectly still but for the
occasional cry of lads who sell newspapers. Indeed, the town is
strangely quiet, considering its size and aspect of importance; one
has to search for a restaurant, and I doubt if more than one cafe
exists. At my hotel the dining-room was a public _trattoria_,
opening upon the street, but only two or three military men--the
eternal officers--made use of it, and I felt a less cheery social
atmosphere than at Taranto or at Catanzaro. One recurring incident
did not tend to exhilarate. Sitting in view of a closed door, I saw
children's faces pressed against the glass, peering little faces,
which sought a favourable moment; suddenly the door would open, and
there sounded a thin voice, begging for _un pezzo di pane_--a bit
of bread. Whenever the waiter caught sight of these little
mendicants, he rushed out with simulated fury, and pursued them
along the pavement.
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