Legend had it such a land never saw gloom; even dark nights never got that dark. They were blue, and stars tickled the nocturnal blanket in a comfortable weak glow.

It was not like the atmosphere had any possibility to get dark, anyway; even at night, there always was someone alive, someone who lighted up the air with candles, lights or just their own smile.

There seemed to be some kind of an unspoken rule, over there, for everyone had to always smile; unless there was something really serious going on, smiling represented the basis of anyone's facial settlement. Back in Tokyo, people who walked down the street, without necessarily being busy, all had that standard unreadable neutral expression stuck on their brows; seeing the difference between them and those hit like a mischievous slap in the middle of the face. The usual, nothing-important-is-happening-right-now or I-am-living-my-life-like-I-do-every-single-day look was enclosed by sweet, cordial smiles, which grew into real grins by the time there was something to be actually cheery for. Frowns only got picked out of the box when tragedies happened, like they really had to be prepared for the only important things. And the first hints of gravity always had to be chased away like the symptoms of a vicious disease.

Winter must have been some sort of a legend, over there, for such a luxurious green should have never seen snow. Trees' leaves shone like they had been polished ten times, one by one, painted with the most precious emerald paint and beautified by just the right position to be hit by sunrays with the most charming effect. Tons of green bushes and plants of all kinds and races breathed all around, just to be interpolated by the largest fields of green grass - which was soon to deliver wheat -, yellow marguerites and crimson poppies.

Intervals of the greatest admiration and almost fearful exhaustion from such an endless display of life had overcome Kenji Michael's mind since his first step into what he had immediately acknowledged to be the land of the Sun, stealing all of his other thoughts and distractedly taking away his basic abilities and cognitions of his surroundings. By the time he got into the white old car which carried the worn-out "Taxi" signature, his father had already called him back from his contemplations twice and pulled him along by the sleeve of his russet-colored velvety jacket once.

Hiro was actually really excited as well, his young son could see, for the faint clue of a cherry emotion had taken hold of his old cheeks. The place's conventions had already contaminated him, as his petite dark lips delicately stretched up in a satisfied delicate smile, his peculiar almond-shaped eyes thinning further among his wrinkles in the admiration of what was running on the other side of the window.

And that really was saying something.

When the gabbling engine of the white 1936's Fiat 500 shut up, the strong sunlight had already burned his retinae and melted his skin into a thin sheet of sweat; as the husky, laughing driver made him get out of the car, the green-smelling breeze hit his humid body in the most pleasurable wave of relief. He smiled subconsciously, as he intook the strong aroma of fresh grass. Somehow, he was starting to understand why those people always had to beam that much.

*

"Latin Americans invented coffee, but we turned it into art."

When coffee beans were presented under his nose, the peculiar smell hit him like a tsunami, leaving him drenched and shocked in unexpected pleasure. He thought he liked the drink, but he realized he didn't even know it.

There was something, in the rough and experienced gestures of the pale hands before him, that seemed to enthrall him too much for what was consented. Two handfuls of chocolate-colored tiny beans cascaded into an old brass grinder, and as they were turned into precious powder he felt the smell tightening around him in an almost physical blanket of velvety aroma. He was tasting it with his only sense of smell, and it felt enough. But it wasn't till one slender finger pushed one bean between his unconsciously parted lips that he could completely relish in the bliss the fruit held. He kept it upon his tongue as the finger still stayed, and the deepest pair of dark eyes he had ever seen held his stare without wanting to let go just yet. He split the crispy grain between his teeth only when the other one lowered his stare back to the crank handle he was turning.

"The only real coffee is our own one", the other began, as he took out some machine Kenji Michael had never seen before, one that looked like coming from old times and Tokyo only heard tales about. "Up until now, you only thought you drank coffee", he murmured as he unscrewed it and held its lower part under the sink, waiting for it to be full of water at just the right level he had previously set. "But it's only now that you really get to taste it."

Another part was added, and ashen hands began working to transfer the brown powder from the bottom of the grinder to the other machine. It took a good five minutes for him to be satisfied of his work, during which Kenji Michael worked hard to hold his breath and inspect every movement of the figure he had before his eyes, so natural and beautiful.

It only was when the closed machine was put upon the burning stove, that Chester let his lips curl up in the large grin that characterized his happiness. The warmth of his stare should have been made illegal, the Japanese thought. But they had to wait for the potion to brew, and no other killtime seemed to be able to compete with the reciprocal inspection of each other's beauty.

"You'll love it, you know", the pale one said as he got further from his creation, closer to his guest. "You'll never want to taste anything else, ever again." Something in his smile - the beautiful smile that was oh so contagious around there - made the other sure the future held the confirmation of such a promise.

"And I'll have to keep you my prisoner, slave to the great pleasure I'm about to let you know."

Was he only talking about the beverage that was now muttering out of its content, into two refined Italian porcelain tiny cups?

The dark fluid burned his lips as soon as it touched them; he had drunk too hastily, too eager to find out its magic. But on the back of its throat he could already feel the velvety, thick flavor he had never experienced before, not with that intensity, not with that perfection.

There soon came another pair of thinner lips to treat his injury; he burned twice as strongly.

Naples, Italy. The land of coffee. And sun. And smiles.