City Townhall, a shining white building that stands out against the intense blue of the sky. Pretend gothic, pretentious just like the rulers of this city, king soldiers who no one remembers with joy. Students and loafers hang out under the colonnade. I walk across several times, trying to mingle and to go unnoticed, while I am busy looking for the sign somewhere around – it would be dangerous for me to stop here. I’m not dressed to blend in with the crowd of wedding guests, coming and going from the Townhall. I have always felt something off in here, a sunny yet neglected surrounding that brings other Mediterranean capitals to mind. My eyes dart: the wrinkled jacket of the janitor, cigarette butts on the ground, graffiti on the wall, the discoloured pedestrian crossing and a lamppost… where I finally noticed the sign left by my target, who has just postponed our meeting, moving it to the square with the big statue.