The rain is gently pattering the stony driveway outside. It's well-suited for the midnight hour, quiet and anonymous as the wolves now flushed from the hills. They haven't lived here in quite some time.
I'm sure their presence would astound me as much as my continued existence. My internal muttered dialogue this evening: This seems about appropriate, my last meal shared with foreign strangers in an unfamiliar land, the paradoxes crawling over each other like worm-infested kittens... But I didn't go. Though I could do so, on any similarly worthless, empty night.
Not a very good cropping but you get the idea... At least notice that Coke comes in a glass bottle, and is prepared with actual sugar, not corn syrup. The Spanish hippies were (are?) puffing behind me, not sharing, dreads tangled.
Regardless, this is fairly typical for a small terrace restaurant. Note the Mediterranean architecture prevalent in this part of the world, er, kingdom.