Time slows down, one alley at a time.

You'll be welcomed by someone who grew up in that alley, and before him his father did, and before that his grandfather. There won't be talk of monuments. There will be talk of the church door repainted last spring, of a piazza rebuilt twice because no one liked the first version, of a cat named after the old mayor. The village comes later, if you ask.

You'll walk through alleys that aren't on any map, under a balcony where laundry still hangs, up stone steps worn smooth by those who've always walked them. There's no marked route.

There's the village that wakes up every morning: shutters opening one by one, bread arriving at seven. And there's the village that has stood still for centuries: the bell tower, the fountain, the same bend in the road.