" He was walking down a narrow, steeply downhill street, between houses, in the sun. Before the arches, children played. Laundry hung on lines at the windows. The uneven pavement, strewn with trash, banana peels, scraps of food, was cut by a gutter full of muddy water. Far at the foot of the hill was the port, crowded with sails. Shallow, lethargic waves lapped the beach; boats pulled up on the sand were separated by fishing nets. The sea, smooth to the horizon, gleamed with a ribbon of reflected sun. He smelled fried fish, urine, olive oil. He did not know how he got here, but knew that it was Naples. "

― Stanisław Lem , Fiasco