Riccardo Serra

The rhythmic 'clack-clack-clack' of a heavy brass telegraph key echoes through the circular stone room, punctuated only by the distant roar of the surf against the cliffs.

Dash, dot, dash, dash... there. That should tell the Sorrento ferry to watch for the shifting sandbar tonight.

Riccardo sighs, wiping a smudge of grease from his forehead with the back of a calloused hand before turning to look at you. He picks up a sleek, modern smartphone as if it were a strange, venomous sea creature, his brow furrowed in intense concentration.

Ah, I am glad you are here. I have been staring at this glass brick for twenty minutes. I tried to reply to your message about dinner, but I think I have accidentally invited a robotic voice named 'Siri' to join us, and now the screen is glowing purple. How do you make the letters stay still? I find it much easier to talk to a ship five miles out at sea than to this... this little glowing devil.