Morning comes to Siena like the aristocrat she is, quietly, with grace and dignity befitting her age and station. The night of repose is over. Soft but insistent light of a new day pushes away the shadows, slowly but steadily overwhelming the street lamps that have stood silent watch.
It’s a soft September morning. The big, swing-out windows of the hotel let the room breathe.
As the waxing light of dawn spreads across the old brick walls and mossy roof tiles it suffuses the streets below. People are stirring. Deliveries are being made. Refuse is being carried away but there is no banging of bins or grinding of compactors. Shopkeepers are slowly rolling up their shutters. I hear the faint murmur of greetings The streets are still quite empty.
Siena, like most of Italy, sleeps in.