It's a hot night at Portogruaro. Music called me out from my room, rythmic jazz, female voice singing incomprehensibly in English. They were playing on the street, parked up under a portico. The androgynous saxophonist swayed, the plump guitarist sweated under his hat. All seven of them so young, so immersed in the music.

A serious looking man dressed in black is making baloon animals on the main square, children flock and he scares them away pretending to bite off their little fingers. Someone is selling heavy telescopes, but no-one is buying, the stars are close this clear night.