I stop at the middle of a bridge above the Roia river in Ventimiglia.
Below me the lucid swirls of the river draw curious ripples against the pillars of the bridge.
I contemplate the lovers who stood here years ago, throwing keys into the same clear turqouise current.
Before me are rusty locks with the names of those unknown couples - some locks have hearts drawn on them, others with carved statements of passion.
I do not know and will never meet them, yet I am secretly happy for them; it is not every day that one declares an unbreakble bond to another, throws away the keys and never looks back.
Beneath the rusty locks are a new and shining locks.
I smile, for it tells me that the heart's traditions are still carried forth by the locksmiths of Ventimiglia.
