I could sit on the terrace and read with the sea in front of me, or walk along a steep white road toward a long, wide, dark beach that was called Spiaggia dei Maronti.
In the beginning, after all the fears that my mother had inoculated me with and with all the troubles I had with my body, I spent the time on the terrace, dressed, writing a letter to Lila every day, each one filled with questions, clever remarks, lively descriptions of the island.
— My Brilliant Friend, by Elena Ferrante, translated from the Italian by Ann Goldstein
Kanlaon 
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