I must cross the road to see that the hillside is made up of heavy bumps of sand and stones. Interspersed with yellowed grass and thorny bushes. Playground for the poor. Deep down into the old town, with behind it the tourists and the water. I can no longer bear the hill. Not even my green strip. I have a white sheet stretched in front of the glass door of my balcony. The curtains over the windows ar closed. Why?