I'm doing my best to treat these topics with respect, since dead people deserve it, icons have their sacredness aura and you don't mess with basil.
Regardless of respect, there are stories that have to be told, even if they're not true: there's people writing books but never reading one and there are chefs praised only within the walls of their homes. Sometimes, as a writer, you have to forget visualisations and content to be a lever or a sling, shooting other's thoughts out of your horizon.
You know Archimedes once said "give me a place to stand and I shall move the earth". So, for once or once more, be that place to stand, even if the spotlight is not for you, even if a place to stand is mostly dust and weeds.
If you're lucky enough, you'll get to grow basil on that square of land.
Frank Sinatra once went to Genova. Maybe it was more than once, but this is not the point.
To start, you should picture Sinatra eating trofie al pesto. This may not be easy, for pesto is green and we all picture Sinatra by photos: in black and white.
Pesto is the essence of greenness, a colorful puddle of taste, edible moss in spring.
Without his voice, the Voice is just a good looking man in smoking, framed by flashy cameras.
The two can't be pictured together very well: Frank feels it and gets out to take a smoke.
La Superba is sleeping bad tonight: nothing new under the moon. He'd like to take a glimpse of it, but it looks like buildings won't let him see more than a small piece of sky.
The waiter speaks some english and he's taking a smoke as well: he hasn't recognized Sinatra, so he asks where he should go to see the moon. The waiter rolls his eyes and produces a simple answer, yet weakly suggesting the possibility to have said something untrue. Frank has seen the world and met many waiters. He finishes his cigarette and says goodbye.
He walks away in the dark, forgetting his coat on the counter after a long talk about the Amalfi coast, the sun, and several shots of limoncello. He's not drunk, for Frank has met many waiters.
The alleys are filthy and have bizzarre names. Usually, he can tell where the ocean is, but the Mediterranean has a different smell and makes a different noise. In fact, most of the times it makes no noise at all.
A couple stop him to borrow a lighter. They notice he has no coat but he changes subject, asking for the name of the alley. The three of them start looking around to find a plate with the alley's name. After a while, they give up and wish each other goodnight.
Frank goes back to the restaurant but it's closed; he now remembers to have helped pulling down the shutter. He lights another cigarette, trying to replicate the taste of pesto, now long gone.