South America in Sicily

I went to the next town this morning to see the owners of a language school. They would like me to work for them but I don't know if I can spare the time - I need to dedicate myself wholeheartedly to marketing my book (Water Will Find its Way), now that I have published it. You can check it out here - it's already available as an ebook and will soon be out in paperback. I also am thinking about the next book, which will be set in Sicily. Inspiration was everywhere as I walked the streets of Barcellona (not to be confused with the one in Catalonia!). It felt like I was in South America, and I mean this in a good way. Old men gathered on benches in shady piazzas, palm trees scratching the pale pink paint off an old Art Nouveau villa on one of the main streets, 19th century houses barely standing next to ugly 1960s constructions ... And to complete the tableau, a police car screeched past me at a corner, siren blaring. I investigated the park (with bambino) and an old man came in with red, wild, unhealthy looking eyes and a black binbag held swag-like over his shoulder. He started shouting at the first man he saw. Unfortunately I couldn't understand his toothless dialect. There is always a crazy man on the loose in these places. Another old man, who appeared to be nodding off outside the butcher's, greeted me with 'Madonna, what beautiful eyes your child has, signora'! The huge battered door of a decrepit stone building had two notes of bereavement on it. One said, 'For my brother', the other 'For my brother-in-law'. Both yellowing at the edges, who knows how long they had been there. But there was post jutting out from under the door. There is a note like this on a door on my street 'For my wife'. It has been there for twenty years.