Conversations linger in the air like water vapour, As well looked-after manicured fingers sip multicoloured cocktails out of silly straws, and grip tightly on hourglass shaped glasses lipped with sugar and lip-gloss. Its 5:30 and the incongruous smells of barbecue from balcony grills, and squid and grilled haloumi and garlic from the Almond Bar behind me and sweet gelatos and small cream cakes from the narrow shop called Messina seem to brush every sense. The whole suburb speaks. The walls whisper behind me and the grey concrete slabs speak a language that I can'tΒ Β interpret. Apathetic hipsters gaze blankly at the street from the stairs of their apartment block. What a pleasurable patchwork pastiche that pulsates through my senses.