Page 73 - Wake Up and do Your Thing

NICHOLAS BOOTHMAN
That night, after grilled fish and steamed spinach, a fresh peach and a glass or two of red wine I set off to listen to jazz.
Just off the main street between the cafe and the shoemaker’s house, a short, steep cobbled passage led to a simple sign with just two words in cream-colored paint on a deep navy-blue background: Take Five. A single lantern cast a warm glow around the simple wooden door. Beyond it a dimly lit flight of winding stairs dropped into a room large enough to hold about fifty people.
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