Lorenzo & his humble friends

The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool

Tag: ada

Books I have read in 2019

I first saw The Schopenhauer Cure in Luxemburg, Torino, next to a dozen other books by the same author. Irvin Yalom is a psychiatrist who turns philosophy into a work of fiction. Arianna gave me this book towards the end of 2018. For some reason, I remember reading it on two distinct occasions: in a café on the hill leading up to the Sacré-Cœur during a cold December night; and at the RER stop in Gentilly, on my way to the Maison Doisneau on a grey January afternoon. I would suggest this book to those who are curious about psychotherapy, meditation, and pain.

Arnold Odermatt, worked as a photographer for the Nidwalden district police in Switzerland from 1948 until his retirement in 1990. He was initially trained as a banker and took up photography as a hobby. His work, which I discovered at Images Vevey, is gracious and ironic. I read and smiled over On Duty in Arianna’s temporary apartment in Marcadet, Paris, courtesy of Mavi. In the future I would like to add to my humble collection his other books, Karambolage and Off Duty.

At some point in January I had to go back to Switzerland, but all trains were full. I remember reading La photographie sociale at 6 in the monring inside Coffee & Friends (a cozy café in the train station of Geneva) after a seven-hour bus ride. This little book is one of the gems of a wonderful collection by Photo poche, Actes Sud. (In Italy, these books are available as Fotografia Contrasto and can be easily found in most museums).

I read most of Waiting for the Barbarians on the train to the Diagonela; then I lost it, found it, lost it again, found it again, and finished it once and for all. I am happy to keep it on my shelves because it reminds me of Florence: I took this book when I left the apartment in Via Ponte alle Riffe, where we (Ada, Dani, Jonas, and I) originally found it in 2013, abandoned there from the previous tenants. The story is not really Florence-like, though: harsh, matter-of-fact, existentialist, with a desolate atmosphere of imperialist denial and defeat. It reminded me of Il deserto dei tartari and Mad Max – weird combination, ain’t it?

Waiting for the Barbarians.jpg

I listened to The Human Stain following Alkistis’ suggestion to dig a bit into the work Philip Roth. I started in Cuba, in 2018, during my wacky journey with Thomoose. However, the general mood of the vacation did not bode well with this book. I stopped for a few months and then resumed. I listened to it mostly on the plateau next to Neuchatel while training for the Marcialonga. This is why it reminds me of these valleys. Ironically, one of the most iconic scenes of the movie is set in a place that could very well be La Sagne, Eglise. This is a difficult book with some truly extraordinary pages. I recommend it highly, although it takes some time to get into the flow. It is a story about public morality and political correctness.

Back in Trento for a couple of days after the Marcialoga I read Il gusto del cloro (which reminded me of Turin, when I used to go swimming quite often ), 100 Brani di musica classica da ascoltare una volta nella vita (this, too, I had first seen it in Luxemburg, Torino), and another book on classical music, Twentieth-Century Classical Music: A Ladybird Expert Book (I remember buying it at Shakespeare and Co.). What a waste, having moved out of Florence where in Winter I could – and often did – go to classical music concerts at La Pergola every Sunday evening. I did not understand a thing, sometimes I fell asleep, but I enjoyed every single session. These are simple books that you can read in-between breaks. Did I learn something new? Probably not, but I felt more intelligent while reading them.

In March I listened to The Adversary: A True Story of Monstrous Deception. This is my fourth Emanuel Carrere book, and hopefully not the last. The story is relatively short, so it only took me one lonely, pleasant day skiing in Les Portes de Soleil. (Sometimes you have to take yourself out on a little date on the snow). This book is mesmerising; but if you want to get into the heclectic prose of Emmanuel Carrère I would humbly suggest to start from some other books he wrote.

In March I went to Brussels where Arianna and I were elegantly hosted by Delina and Giacomo. During our short stay I bought some high-quality bande dessinée: Le Chat, Tome 21 : Chacun son chat (you gotta love Belgian authors); and Egon Schiele (beautiful: brought me back to the exhibition I had seen with Arianna in 2018, Schiele and Basquiat, Fondation Louis Vuitton).

In early April, before spending a few days in Iceland, I wrote to Leonardo, a talented writer and avid cycling fan whose work I throughly enjoy. He answered promptly and most kindly with a list of readings. I only managed to read one: The Good Shepherd. This slim book tells the story of a man who goes looking for lost sheeps together with his dog – Leo – and his wether – Gnarly. The book smells like snow. In case you want to read other Icelandic books, you can start from Leonardo’s own book, Il libro dei vulcani d’Islanda, Luce d’estate ed è subito notte, or the other suggestion by Leonardo: Sotto il ghiacciaio.

Back in Paris at the end of April I went for the first time to Arianna’s new apartment, which is also a little bit mine. Nearby we found a good bookshop, Librairie l’Humeur Vagabonde, and we bought Un anglais dans mon arbre and Orwell. Both of them are elegantly drawn, but not particularly original in their story telling techniques.

In May I spent one happy weekend in Rome with Arianna. I was amazed by the exhibition dedicated to Mapplethorpe at Galleria Corsini, where the provocative pictures were thematically blended with other paintings in the crowded galleries. Shortly after I read Mapplethorpe Rodin that, I believe, I found in one of the boîtes d’echange in Neuchâtel.

There are a few books that I read in my Swiss apartment and on the lake shore sometime between late May and early June: Adieu La Suisse ! Construction Et Deconstruction d’Un Mythe (I saw this book at the museum in Winterthur and bought it shortly thereafter), Marx, Freud, Einstein: Heroes of the Mind (this was Arianna’s gift from Shakespeare and Co) and La ragazza con la Leica. I had great expectation on this latter volume, but it turned out to be boring, unexciting. It was a disappointment. Gerda Taro, whose story inspired this book, truly was an exceptional character.

During a short visit to Florence in June I discovered a strange place: Galleria Immaginaria. I was walking in via Cavour and looking for a quiet spot to work and I bumped in this gallery, wine place, and bookstore. The guy who was there invited me to stay ‘but I have to leave. Here, take my keys. My colleague will be back in half an hour‘. And he left. I was slightly worried this would turn out to be some sort of an insurance scam, but I went with the flow and stayed, a lonely kid managing a shop he just discovered. The colleague who arrived half an hour later was happy to find me there and invited me to a full Chianti tasting, which they have on the menu. In exchange I bought from their library I colori nell’arte. Sweet book. If you visit this place, remember the door is made of glass – I did not realise it and smashed right into it upon leaving the place fully drunk.

In late June I read L’ombra del vento at the Circolino. It was a suggestion of Fabio. Probably a younger version of myself would have liked this book better. Then, just before traveling to Portugal, I read Donna di Porto Pim; in the Azores I read Viaggio in Portogallo; and upon returning from Lisbon I read Poeti di Lisbona. If you have to choose, read Tabucchi and some of the poems written by Pessoa.

 

Ricordo di aver letto Cacciateli!: Quando i migranti eravamo noi nei giorni in cui ero a Murren. Del libro mi ha colpito la desolante descrizione delle domeniche svizzere per gli immigranti italiani, nella quale mi ritrovo ancora oggi. Però nel complesso non raccomanderei questo libro, a differenza di un altro lavoro di Concetto Vecchio, anche quello molto personalmente sentito, che invece regalerei volentieri ad amici e conoscenti.

On the train before my hike on the Pale di San Martino with Giallu I read this collection of essays by Susan Sontag. It is one of the greatest classics in the field of photography. You are likely to find a copy in the bookshops of all photo-museums and exhibitions. For me, this is one of those books that I could easily read over and over again because of its depth and beauty. I was genuinely happy to able to recognise most of the examples used by Sontag, mostly because of the many photography books that I have skimmed through over the last three years. I reckon the essays might not be as interesting for those of you who do not care that much about photography.

On Photography.png

Back in Paris in October, I remember reading the following three books. First, a short but powerful collection of essays: Sull’Iliade. This is a poetic and profound text for all my friends who like epical tales like I did as a kid. Second, quite unrelated, Modigliani: Prince de la bohème. Bought it in Madrid at the market next to the Buen Retiro, I read at Le Village in Place Michael Petrucciani. The third book is another comic text on an artist from the twentieth century: Capa. L’étoile filante. I must have bought it in Brussels. This is a good one, although I recommend Capa’s own ironical autobiography or his and Magnum’s biography by Russel Miller.

Speaking of Magnum, in October I read Magnum Mountains, which I bought at the related exhibition in Le Locle where I went with Arianna on a grey Swiss Sunday. Around the same time in Switzerland I read Dalla mia Terra alla Terra and Quino’s Manger. Quelle adventure, which I bought in a little Neuchâtel bookshop when Iris came to visit me.

I found the book below in an exchange box in Neuchâtel. I have not read many female Italian writers, so I jumped right into L’indomani. It is a short story, intimate, melancholic. A few months later, in the same exchange box, I was to find another book that probably speaks more to my feminist conscience – more on that at the end of this verbose text.

After reading about Mordillo’s death I recovered some of his books at my parents place, and a bought a couple others from second-hand retailers. These are strongly recommended to all the readers of this blog: All’arrembaggio, Lovestory, and Football.


When I went to visit Alberto in Milan, I had a couple of hours to kill, so I visited the Mondadori store in Piazza Duomo and bought Storia d’Italia in 100 foto. My suggestion, if you go to Milan, is to visit the Hoepli bookstore instead. Do not read these random books put together rather haphazardly.

Di ritorno a Parigi in ottobre, mi sono letto d’un fiato le Settantacinque poesie di Kavafis, un regalo di Arianna. Valgono per questo libro le stesse cose che ho scritto per Sull’Iliade e, non a caso, quelle che scriverò poi per le Memorie di Adriano. Un tuffo elegante nelle gioie e nelle contraddizioni della cultura classica. Negli stessi giorni ho letto anche L’arte di essere fragili: Come Leopardi può salvarti la vita. Era sulla mia lista dai tempi di Torino, dopo aver ascoltato un volontario che ne leggeva alcuni paragrafi al circolo per i non- vedenti. Sono rimasto piuttosto deluso: ho trovato il libro ripetitivo e, a tratti, stucchevole quanto il blog che state leggendo. Magari le condizioni non hanno aiutato: lo ho letto nel treno notte verso Parigi, un’esperienza particolare. Ricordo di essere salito pensando a Grand Hotel Budapest. Prendo una birra nel vagone ristorante con Jack (autore di questo bel podcast). Poi lui mi saluta: buona fortuna e buona sopravvivenza. Cosa avrà voluto dire? Prendete anche voi un treno notte e lo scoprirete. En Cuisine avec Kafka. Letto a Reinitas, simpatico, snello.

It is time for the book of the year: Mémoires d’Hadrien. This was a present from Eliana. I started it in 2017 when I was doing research for my Ph.D. thesis in Spain. I dropped it half-way through, because I became unable to find any pleasure in reading. I started again this year, when I found a used copy in this little bookstore next to our house in Paris. I read it and read it all over again. This is a wonderful work, historical, philosophical, poetic, all at the same time. I highly recommend it to all of you, my dear readers, and I suggest you find a version that has the author’s notes with it. Yourcenair’s diary is as poetic as her prose. There is one example that I have posted in a separate space. It is a long quote, but it is magnificent.

Mémoires d'Hadrien.png

I bought Koudelka: Zingari: bought in Milan when I was with Anna, Jonas, and Irene – right after visiting the Museo del Novecento. This is not an expensive photography book as others. Get a copy. It is a wonderful collection of portraits made in different European countries. I read in Paris together with other photographic classics: Bill Brandt: Shadow & Light; Sebastiao Salgado’s Kuwait, a Desert on Fire and Terres de café, voyage au pays de l’arôme.

La prima guerra del football: ho letto questo libro a Trento, in maniera intermittente, tra giugno e dicembre. Mi ha fatto pensare a Giacomo Zandonini e alle sue avventure con Francesco Bellina. Particolarmente belli i racconti sull’Algeria, Nigeria, e Sudafrica.

Chiudo l’anno con due libri in italiano. Il primo è L’inverno del disegnatore, riprendendo in mano un fumettista strepitoso. Questa storia relativamente è corta; come per tutti gli altri autori che già conoscevo non è la migliore, ma disegnata benissimo e con un taglio storico originale. Se però volete conoscere Paco Roca iniziate con i suoi libri che ho letto nel 2016. Il secondo libro, che si legge piuttosto in fretta, lo ho trovato una delle bussole di scambio libri a Neuchâtel. Invoglia a cercare antichi testi arabi di letteratura erotica.

 


Read my ‘books I have read‘ posts from 2018, 20172016201520142013.

Reinventing oneself

Some lessons I learnt after living for two months without a home and spending all my time on trains, planes, and friends’ houses (thanks!). A note for the random visitor: these are just scattered notes I write for myself, not a coherent post.

Communication

People seem to waste too much of their time communicating with digital devices. This is an old refrain, I know, but it is scary how people use their phones nowadays – and for what? I have been on trains where all the persons of a family of four never spoke to each other for the whole ride, because they were all incessantly looking at their devices. Whatsapp, Facebook messenger, emails, sms, Twitter, emails, Telegram: even me, I am inundated by applications to chat. I often think of a line of a certain Passenger’s song, we pretend to be friends on the internet when in real life we have nothing to say. As a reaction I have grown increasingly more inept at communicating with my phone. Forget long messages. Rather, I have elected four simple ways of communicating with you: (1) this blog; (2) a short sarcastic message, picture, or video to laugh about; (2) a handwritten letter, for those of you who really matter; (4) a flight/train ticket to come and see each other in person.

Smartphone apps, more generally

There was a moment of my trip when I was craving for a map of Berlin. Until that point I had been getting around anywhere just fine using googlemaps. Sure, the app was working well; but I realised it was my fourth time in Berlin and I still had no idea of how the city was structured and I could not even remember the name of the neighbourhood where I was staying. The way I use googlemaps is just to get to A to B and, as a consequence, I never memorise the information. I made a resolution for myself to start using old paper maps again – like these. It is not for a case that when I was still in Trento I had the ambitious project of creating one. (I failed, but not for lack of trying).

Being a guest

I received precious hospitality by Giallu, Martina, Pietro, Giulia, Jonas. I learnt to wake up in the sun, listen to classical music, treat wooden objects with respect, prepare a smoothie, separate clothes in the laundry machine. But – hei – I am just not made for being a long-term guest. I feel like I am invading someone else’s space. So this experience confirms that I am a bourgeois deep down in my bones. The word bourgeois, as you know, denotes a person that takes for granted the sanctity of property. This brings me to point 4 of my diary.

Stuff

Niels, who is going to live with me in Torino in a couple of days, says that he wants to have his belongs packed in one simple bag. A-ha: nonsense. Living in Florence for three years I have accumulated an incredible amount of stuff: books, clothes, games, bikes, paintings, a scooter, laptops, tables, all sorts of technology. This stuff -material stuff, really- reflects my personality; in some ways, it is even an extension of it. This is why I feel so strange knowing that it is now scattered around six different houses (err – and I take the opportunity to thank again my friends for their patience).

Home

Material stuff reflects my personality, sure. There is another reason, though, why it is so important to me: it also captures a particularly happy period of my life. So now when I take up Bruti I remember the late evenings playing it with Dani; when I take that one glass of whiskey I remember the night when I was with Thomas and he knew he got into law school; when I look at the little school bus I remember of my improvised journey all the way to Denmark with Iris; and so on: you got the gist. Now – of course you realise I have been bloody sentimental about leaving my home in Florence, but I think that is for a reason. At the moment I doubt I will ever find a place so welcoming, so radiant, so relaxed as that. But then, who knows? When I got there in 2013 I had just experienced Brussels with Mindo, a truly marvellous flatmate and friend. So I was convinced I could not find anything better than that. In fact, half an hour after my arrival in the house Ada and I were fighting -literally fighting- over the consequences of Spanish colonisation in South America, leaving short of words both Jonas, who had rented the cheapest room but was forcefully assigned the most expensive one upon his arrival ‘because you are the last one who arrived and since we have already put our luggages in the other room it be a bit of a hassle to move them now, no?‘; and Dani, who had been accepted in the house at the last minute just because the girl who had been favoured over him turned out to be pregnant. It ended up going swimmingly: they are my closest friends now. So let us be surprised again.

Something like this

Queridos amigos,

I’m honoured and yet nervous to accept Lorenzo’s invitation to write in his blog. I’m supposed to tell you about my first month in Northern California. And first time in the US… (!)

I landed in San Francisco at night, 6pm Pacific time, a couple of days before New Year’s Eve and was first a bit afraid by the dim lights outside on my way to Berkeley. It turned out that Berkeley is pretty safe – though a few days later a guy was shot inside the wagon taking the same train at 7pm.

For about two weeks I was alone in this beautiful wooden house, reminding of that of Charmed witches’, as my sister pointed out. Our fourth flatmate Goose, a black cat, didn’t arrive yet either and I could hear people walking upstairs (technically our neighbours), so I just did what Europeans think Americans do (or at least I thought so)… introducing myself to the neighbours and inviting them for dinner – since I’m not so good at baking cakes.

In Florence I had met these wonderful people living in Berkeley, Dan & Naomi, who invited me to join their New Year’s Eve celebration with some of their friends… namely camping in Marine county, north of San Francisco. Don’t tell anybody, but I was excited when I saw the park rangers from Yogi. We slept in the middle of the forest, confessed our resolutions around a campfire, I made sure we had the 12 grapes a la española 36 seconds before midnight, we froze and heard apparently a bob cat at night. The next morning, first day of 2016, we hiked around the coast of the Pacific ocean!

Sunday after New Year’s I attended the yearly Econ conference, aka ASSA meetings. I went to pretty amazing seminars, including one by Andrea Matranga, who finds convincing evidence explaining why the Neolithic Revolution happened independently at different points in the globe. Below is a groupie picture of Joseph E. Stiglitz.

It was a smooth start, combined with lunch in Chinatown, San Francisco. I had never had such authentic and delicious food from everywhere in Asia before coming to the Bay area.

I also met a good friend of my brother, Adriana, of Serbian origin, whom as you can imagine, made it even more special for me. People ask me how it feels to move all the time, and it’s these occasions, meeting what you can feel are good friends of your siblings, that you feel you’re home despite or thanks to the fact that you’re moving. Few weeks after my arrival I get an email for an incredible boat trip along the Bay! My brothers’ present! Crazy… I could almost touch the Golden Gate bridge.

The academic year at UC Berkeley started only after Martin Luther King Jr Day, January 18. Finally the city began to be populated with students, my flatmates included, classes and seminars started and I found my favourite working space, the Doe Library and my Stammkaffee, the Free speech movement Café, dedicated to Mario Savio, a key activist for the Free speech movement. I quickly met my new friends in Berkeley, a group of material, nano-material, computer engineers, historians & philosophers, a lawyer, a neuroscientist, an economist from all over, Japan, Finland, Brazil, Italy and Germany… “the point is”, like Sheila would say, we cooked together Brazilian vegetarian lasagna (without lasagna pasta!),  Sushi, tortilla española, we had our ‘saideiras’,  our session in the Planetarium and shoes soaked in the Pacific…

I’m enjoying it a lot… I’m working a lot too, and getting extremely useful feedback from my mentor and Professors – amazing people (!) -, attending seminars several times a week that are so close to my topic, it’s very enriching… At lunch a good friend tells me about her lectures with Judith Butler ‘Undoing Gender’. Sometimes I also go and talk to my friend Tyrannosaurus…  It’s such an amazing place to be!

I’ll close with a Japanese poem, an excerpt from ‘Adagio ma non troppo’, by Sekiguchi Ryoko:

On our first meeting, always and only once, the doors facing the street turn this way, and as if left open and released, I run across the street

Love,

阿雫

 

PS: Read in Japanese Kanji, not Mandarin.

PS2: The tall, gray building is Evans hall, the Econ department. It reminds me of la Rive Gauche in Paris… just as La Tour Montparnasse, it has the most beautiful view in UC Berkeley – from the 6th floor you can see the Bay, SF, and everything, except herself.

Riffe 39

La scorsa settimana smaltivo le conseguenze del sabato notte passeggiando lungo il Mugnone, che poi sarebbe il simpatico rivolo di ochette, acqua e nutrie che scorre pigramente a venti metri da a casa mia. Penso sia stato allora che ho finalmente capito: siamo destinati ad andarcene. Per sempre. Ci sono stati momenti in cui abbiamo pensato che saremmo rimasti all’infinito ed abbiamo smesso di preoccuparci del domani. Ma ci sbagliavamo: oggi è già domani, come si intitolava un film mediocre di pochi anni fa. E mentre torno a fissare il Mugnone penso che dopo alcuni anni di relativa quiete il fiume dell’esistenza si prepara ora a lasciare il vecchio letto alle spalle per scorrere in una direzione nuova.

Non parlo della nostra morte, un fatto comunque certo e inoppugnabile, ma della mia casa a Firenze. Tutto sembra indicare che a dicembre 2015 ce ne andremo tutti e quattro, Lorenz-Dani-Ada-Nele. For good. Sono stati due anni bellissimi, forse i più belli della mia vita. Ora restano ancora sei mesi e poi via, prepariamoci a ricominciare ancora una volta tutto d’accapo.

Un fine settimana di giugno dei ricercatori in Maremma

The material provided will be applauded with great enthusiasm by your devoted followers“.

Tosan Kraneis, 2015

Migrare

Ogni tanto servono anche riflessioni personali e sentimentali e ti avviso subito, cara lettrice, che questa è una di quelle bombe sfacciatamente melodrammatiche che scrivo il venerdì sera dopo una lunga discussione a tavola.

Prima di tutti è stato Jonas e già il suo addio fu piuttosto melodrammatico. Tra pochi mesi Dani tornerà all’estero e questa volta sarà per qualche anno, se non per una vita. Ada partirà a gennaio e Nele anche. La maggior parte delle persone che hanno arricchito la mia vita a Firenze, da Martin a Fabio, Niels, Mariana, Anna, prenderanno il volo tra agosto e dicembre. Perfino i fiorentini, penso a Giallu, potrebbero andarsene. E io, che come sempre non ho ancora un programma definito [She said, “Where d’you think your going with that look upon your face / He said, “I’m going nowhere, would you like to come too”] non so ancora dove sarò. Forse dopo tutto anche io dovrò dire arrivederci a Firenze, questa città bellissima che mi ha accolto come una amica forte e virtuosa fin dai primi giorni. Da quando ho compiuto ventun anni ho sempre cercato di muovermi velocemente: non ho mai avuto difficoltà a stringere nuove amicizie e staccarmi sapendo che la vita è breve e va vissuta per tappe, senza fermarsi troppo a lungo nella stessa medesima situazione. E anzi, mi sono divertito a ricominciare daccapo anno dopo anno. Eppure questo posto, queste persone: non sono sicuro di essere pronto al distacco. L’unico modo di tirarmi su è una canzone che passa in questo momento alla radio e mi fa venire in mente una clip particolare: la emulerò, ballando ai tempi passati e quelli a venire.

Yellow dot in a violet tide

I am adding a long awaited photo story of the months of January and February. This is an anticipation of what you can expect to find in the gallery below:

– two pictures from Berlin – these are courtesy of mr. Gionas von Kalben;
– a lot of pictures by/with Thomas. The reason is explained here;
– pictures of a homeless guy sleeping in our house before leaving for Spain;
– pictures of two male parents-for-a-weekend taking care of their energetic child;
– pictures from the stadium Astemio Franchi – relatedly, it has been a glorious week for Fiorentina;
– some ski pictures – it was about time;
– a picture of a new brand of Grappa we are about to launch.

Sciare/Abetone mon amour?

La settimana scorsa, dopo che siamo andati a sciare assieme, il perfido Giallu ha diffuso una foto in cui appaio con espressione glaciale e una mano malamente sanguinante. Old Tom mi ha scritto apposta per dirmi che nei western quando un personaggio assume quell’espressione poi di solito si piega in avanti e appare in bella vista una freccia conficcata al centro della sua schiena. Tanti altri mi hanno chiesto se fosse tutto a posto. Vorrei approfittare di questo spazio per spiegare alle folle cosa è successo.

Il fattaccio accadde approssimativamente verso le 2 di pomeriggio, quando Giallu decise di avventurarsi su un declivio non battuto. Lo seguii, anche se a posteriori vorrei mettere per iscritto che avrei probabilmente preferito il placido e rassicurante tracciato della pista. La discesa, ad ogni modo, non fu memorabile: la neve si presentava infida e la presenza di pietre contribuiva a renderci prudenti. Arrivammo quindi in un punto dal quale era possibile rientrare in pista. Decisi che valeva la pena lanciarmi a folle velocità: il piano, semplicissimo ma evidentemente mal congeniato, consisteva nel rientrare da un passaggio perpendicolare, produrmi in una spettacolare sterzata e ripartire davanti stupore degli umanoidi che scendevano in quel momento per la pista battuta. Non avevo calcolato, o meglio, non m’ero accorto dell’esistenza di circa un metro di dislivello tra il declivio fuori-pista da cui sarei arrivato e la pista stessa. Me ne avvidi solo sul momento, ovvero quando mi trovai sospeso in aria a una velocità che non saprei quantificare precisamente, ma che non esiterei a definire considerevole.

Quel che successe dopo non é facile da descrivere. Penso di aver flesso le gambe, stabilendo quindi un contatto tra il mio deretano e la neve. A quel punto ho provando a risollevarmi spingendo con la mano al suolo, ma con scarsi risultati. Normalmente questa piroetta non avrebbe lasciato conseguenze, ma nella fattispecie non indossavo guanti da sci – già, come mai? Questo interrogativo ne aprirebbe tanti altri, quindi preferisco sorvolare. Gli increduli sciatori che discendevano per la pista in quel momento si videro quindi tagliare la pista da lato a lato da una specie di pazzo accucciato al suolo eppure velocissimo e accompagnato da un gemito sordo (“oooohhhhfuuuuck“) e una scia di sangue a segnare la traiettoria. Tutto effettivamente molto scenico.

A documentare il resto della giornata ci sono due video e tante foto. Il video fatto da mano tremante ma non ancora insanguinata é mio. L’altro, più professionale, é di Gianluca e ritrae me ed Ada.

Un mapazzone

Too bad I don’t have a camera – so these are the only and completely scattered pictures I could secure from friends. They cover the period between the beginning of October up to now. You will find some objects, a couple of landscapes, and four cool flatmates – a bit of everything, a pastiche, un mapazzone.

Weekender: meet my Florentine family

florentine family