The other night I came home after making an after dinner, two guests without a car at home. It is only driving the pickup and the headlights lit up the blue and yellow of the third street where we live now for two years and more. And I had a strange effect, perhaps because of the now distant evening of July 17, 2007, when we arrived newlyweds and full of enthusiasm in this African country, that is the image I had remained in the lead. Imagine: at the rear of the baggage claim, a jostling between Omoni sweaty and pissed off without knowing a word of Lingala and even French. And then the exit to the yard, with those who would become our neighbors and work colleagues to welcome us. After the military checkpoint along the road out of the airport is not lit, the first houses on the roadside, many small lamps to illuminate the stalls where figures darker than usual selling something. And the first African traffic, overloaded vans from windows cut into the sheet and everything else. The cartel troisième rue, then, had represented a sudden change for us, even in perspective: let the grand boulevard, yet still familiar, because in the end all roads leading into town are similar at least in their main function, ie precisely to bring to town. And you're rushing to the right, left or maybe, but in our case was the right, and enter into true life of neighborhoods.
Because nobody lives in an alley, the alley is like a river that takes you to your destination, and the target is to force the bank, somewhere. And then the image was reinforced by the fact that the sides of the avenue were all a flowering of trees, tall and lush, and we slipped right there, in a small road that took us then to the house where we live today. A little
'syndrome is dell'autogrill: we like because they are like marinas, where you can feel comfortable to sip coffee while the trucks roar behind you, and you're there, dusty traveler who pulls your breath before thrown back in much traffic. The most great contribution that American culture has given the world.
Our roadside restaurants we know, finally, and so the surroundings. Now we no longer live the syndrome of the siege, we know our surroundings, we have a network of friends, acquaintances, places visited and places where we have never entered. And that evening, returning home with the pick up was just what had hit me: behind every port there is a country, a life, and if you happen to stop for a bit 'of time, you also happen to know him. The third road, our house has become a point of a network that we have learned to appreciate the connections.
Some people might wonder why the title of this post.
First of all is because I have always appreciated the people who can ruin everything good you could say a sentence out of place, and therefore I try, when it's my turn to follow this philosophy of life. Simply write a boiata any, a bit wrong 'the tone of a farewell speech, maybe put a joke out of place, leaving a bitter smell in the mouth of all. This is not to make gaffes, there's so much more to this.
This is the greatness of knowing a bit rubbish 'when there is a danger of giving too much importance to what you are going to say, recognize that deep down we always talk about shit. Take a scureggia before a funeral speech: the dead man, from where it is, will appreciate.
And still is what we did, we experienced a pair of years in the midst of the people who hit us, affects us because he is black. Dark Continent, Africa, black, u deny you ....
One day when I was a kid I went to see a basketball game between Cassano and another basketball team. Accomplice boredom in the stands, the father of my friend and started visiting fans taunt each other, then to insult, the final insult to the fan that incattivito the defeat: "Hail, Africa." They made four to keep our countryman, who is also blind from offense stumbled into concrete steps.
I was eight but I understood fully the gravity of the insult.
Now, I do not understand anymore.
Because nobody lives in an alley, the alley is like a river that takes you to your destination, and the target is to force the bank, somewhere. And then the image was reinforced by the fact that the sides of the avenue were all a flowering of trees, tall and lush, and we slipped right there, in a small road that took us then to the house where we live today. A little
'syndrome is dell'autogrill: we like because they are like marinas, where you can feel comfortable to sip coffee while the trucks roar behind you, and you're there, dusty traveler who pulls your breath before thrown back in much traffic. The most great contribution that American culture has given the world.
Our roadside restaurants we know, finally, and so the surroundings. Now we no longer live the syndrome of the siege, we know our surroundings, we have a network of friends, acquaintances, places visited and places where we have never entered. And that evening, returning home with the pick up was just what had hit me: behind every port there is a country, a life, and if you happen to stop for a bit 'of time, you also happen to know him. The third road, our house has become a point of a network that we have learned to appreciate the connections.
Some people might wonder why the title of this post.
First of all is because I have always appreciated the people who can ruin everything good you could say a sentence out of place, and therefore I try, when it's my turn to follow this philosophy of life. Simply write a boiata any, a bit wrong 'the tone of a farewell speech, maybe put a joke out of place, leaving a bitter smell in the mouth of all. This is not to make gaffes, there's so much more to this.
This is the greatness of knowing a bit rubbish 'when there is a danger of giving too much importance to what you are going to say, recognize that deep down we always talk about shit. Take a scureggia before a funeral speech: the dead man, from where it is, will appreciate.
And still is what we did, we experienced a pair of years in the midst of the people who hit us, affects us because he is black. Dark Continent, Africa, black, u deny you ....
One day when I was a kid I went to see a basketball game between Cassano and another basketball team. Accomplice boredom in the stands, the father of my friend and started visiting fans taunt each other, then to insult, the final insult to the fan that incattivito the defeat: "Hail, Africa." They made four to keep our countryman, who is also blind from offense stumbled into concrete steps.
I was eight but I understood fully the gravity of the insult.
Now, I do not understand anymore.
