When you stroll through the city, early in the morning, you wonder why the crowing of roosters echoes through the streets and squares you pass by.

Here, vegetation is scarce; it’s rare to even come across a tree on the stone sidewalks you step on. The solidity of the granite, that holds you to the ground like a magnet, reflects the sounds of a secret nature that escapes your gaze.

You walk along the streets, bordered by narrow, tall houses with tiled facades, rhythmically carved by rectangular doors and windows, where tiny elaborate wrought-iron balconies are embedded. The grey aridity of the granite stretches across the street, rises behind the tiles, reappears framing the windows and supporting the weight of the eaves – and that’s all you see.

But, if you were a seagull, you would know that behind the houses it’s like a garden city. Looking up above the rooftops, you would see that all the houses have balconies that open generously onto a lush, continuous green of trees, lawns, vegetable gardens, and flowers, where tourists immerse themselves in swimming pools, some elderly residents still work long plots of land, friends have barbecues and children play barefoot, chasing roosters. Then you would understand.