Morning errands in the city centre have a bittersweet flavour. The need to park far away brings a long walk which, depending on the day, can be either a punishment or a tonic.

This morning fell at that particular hour - the moment when every city releases its own scent. Like nature in spring, every city gives its best when the morning's activities begin to stir. Like when a curtain rises: the real theatre begins. The one where, in London, you could smell the Starbucks coffee everyone carried to the office. Too hot to consume on the go, scalding at just the right temperature to fill the air, otherwise already saturated with the smell of kebab. The one where, in Paris, you smell croissants and pain au chocolat, while the traffic on the Champs-Élysées reminds you that frenzy and poetry travel side by side, there. The one where, when I went to the market with my grandmother, it meant I would soon be eating my corn focaccia - the reward for... having eaten. Because, back then, getting me to eat was difficult, and they tried everything just to stop me wasting away.

And crossing Corso della Giovecca, you catch the stately, ancient scent of the old hospital. A place of care, respect, and reverence - the way hospitals were once regarded. Different and distant from the smell of disinfectant in the new one. Brighter, certainly. Precisely - more sterile. Smells that are familiar to me - like when I used to visit my parents at work, in a hospital too, but hundreds of kilometres from here. Yet the sensations remain the same.

The Palazzina Marfisa d'Este opens its ancient door and, from within, that unmistakable scent of old walls, mingled with the perfume of the flowers in its garden and freshly cut grass. And then the bars - from which drifts the aroma of espresso, typical of Italian bars - and the older the barista, the further back in time that scent carries you. The many buildings, at that hour, see their occupants stepping out to reach their destinations. Peeking inside, you glimpse damp courtyards, well-kept gardens, car parks. Or heaps of useless clutter, mixed with mould and weeds. Bicycles - oh, so many of them - everywhere. And each one emits its own perfume, its own smell. As people reach their destinations, these places come alive, and from their freshly reopened doors comes the scent of that building's era: the ancient ones smell of damp, almost of mould - but a precious, ancient mould. The merely old ones carry the typical smell of their era. For someone like me who has already lived through a few decades, these scents are somehow linked to memories of my own life, lived in buildings of that period. The modern ones, by contrast, smell of newness, of the future. Perhaps a little sterile, but clean.

Arriving in the main square, the distance between the buildings frees the air, and you breathe in history, antiquity. The many university students, sitting at tables talking about their insurmountable problems - love affairs, exams, accommodation - carry the mind forward, connecting past to future. Speaking of the present. And the scent is tied to whichever drink is fashionable at the moment, always surrounded by the unmistakable aroma of cappuccino. I'm not a cappuccino lover, but that scent takes me back to my university years. Then as now, in Bologna, I liked walking to lectures. Three and a half kilometres through the city centre, crossing streets full of bars, trattorias, hotels, hostels. Flats of young students stumbling out of their doors, still half-asleep, their faces still bearing the marks of the long night before. Like the nights I spent with my flatmates - sometimes until four in the morning - sitting on chairs, laughing, joking, chatting, talking about everything and nothing. Dreaming of the life we - hoped - we would have.

But the scent that envelops Ferrara in the morning is mainly one: bread. The coppietta, but not only. Every kind of bread, expertly prepared by artisans or bakeries that still contribute to the beauty of the landscape with an unmistakable, unique perfume. Bread that I remember, as a child, on my aunt's table. She wasn't from Ferrara, but she loved that kind of bread all the same. I liked it, yes, but it was... how to put it... exotic. It was the scent of the trip to my aunt and uncle's house, which I loved so much. Also because my uncle had a PC - which I didn't yet understand, except that the files I could run were the ones marked .com, .bat, or .exe - and it looked so professional!

Then, as the hours pass, the scents shift to the residential streets, which, with windows open, enrich the air with the aroma of ragù - each one different, mind you! - prepared by the person who lives in those places, following the ancient recipe of their mothers, grandmothers, great-grandmothers, in a ritual that remains unchanged despite the passing of time. Just as my grandmother used to do. Just as my mother does. As I do myself.

When evening falls, the scents change. The aroma of cappuccino transforms into spritz. That of bread becomes pizza. That of ragù turns into roast. Even Marfisa d'Este changes its scent, because the open windows and the coming and going of people have altered its atmosphere. And when people return to their homes, they imbue the buildings with a different aroma. All day long, they will have turned on air conditioners, opened windows, set out fragrances. But, all at once, they return to silence. And the silence, in the night, will restore their dignity and their original character. Because people, with time, come and go. They appear and they vanish. But the scent of the city - that remains.

I was staring at the rubber keychain, shaped like a big foot. I was bursting with anticipation. The next morning, weather permitting, I would go to school on my scooter. On my scooter. My "Zippo" - that’s what I called it because it was a Piaggio Zip - which had been sitting there for years, waiting for this moment. That evening, I told my grandfather that no, he wouldn't be driving me to school the next morning. "But it might rain", he remarked, just to make me give up. I didn't care about his "adjusted" weather forecasts. I was going to get on Zippo. That night, I barely slept. It was September 1996, and the moment had arrived. That moment.

The next morning, my friend pulled up under my house and honked. It was time to go. I grabbed the keys and, instinctively, brought the keychain to my nose. I smelled the scent - that specific smell of rubber that, from that moment on, would be, for me, the scent of freedom.

Wearing my full-face helmet, I was terrified. But my friend was with me, on his trusty 60s Vespa, to escort me. I nodded, he took off. I followed. The smell inside the new helmet was strong, and the promise I had made to my parents was clear: I would get a license to drive any motorcycle by taking proper driving school courses. Only on those conditions would they allow me to keep riding my Zippo. Conditions I found decidedly acceptable.

During my first trip, I thought about my grandfathers. The one at home, disappointed to have "lost" his taxi driver role, and the other one, who had died two years earlier, who had given me the scooter and the helmet. And I felt lucky. Fear gave way to satisfaction. A kid left home. A young man arrived at school that morning.

When I arrived at school, I flew to my classroom. I walked in and, as per tradition, placed Zippo’s key on the teacher's desk. My classmates cheered and congratulated me. Another one of us had crossed that milestone of life.

That sense of freedom and growth changed me. I started to feel different. To carry myself more securely. To have greater awareness, and this improved my social relationships, my self-esteem, my perspectives.

Then came a day of frost. One of the few, at those latitudes. My grandfather warned me: "Be careful - it's going to freeze tomorrow morning". I didn't listen to him. When my friend came by, we set off in a line, as usual. At the curve of the bridge, I saw him skid slightly, but before I could process it... boom, I was on the ground. The speed was low, so I didn't get hurt, but I damaged Zippo. My friend turned around and burst out laughing. I was more disappointed than in pain, and I decided to go back home. Not for the dirty jeans. Not for the pain. For the shame.

The next day, at 7:30, my grandfather was waiting for me proudly in his blue Fiat 131. That regained role had rejuvenated him by five years. The same years I felt I had lost the moment I admitted to myself I didn't want to try that road again. So the following day, I decided to try again, and on that fateful bridge, I managed to keep my Zippo upright. Arriving triumphantly near the school, I realized there was a cluster of young people right at the street's curve: there was another sheet of ice, and as they arrived, they slipped and fell. One by one, almost all of them. I realized it in time and got off before the curve. Instinctively, I started signaling from the road to slow down. Some followed my advice. Others decided to kiss the asphalt. Maybe it served as a lesson to them. Or maybe not.

January arrived, and I was at driving school. I liked the lessons, and right after, I would go to my tennis practice, not far from there. All on my own. That afternoon, however, tennis lessons were suspended: heavy rain was forecast, and the courts, at river level, would almost certainly flood. When the driving lesson ended, the heavens had opened. I waited two minutes and got on the scooter anyway. My mother, worried, called the driving school. She asked them to stop me, saying she would come by car, but the secretary looked out and saw neither me nor my Zippo. At that instant, I opened the front door: my mother burst out laughing. It looked like I had just stepped out of a bathtub, leaving rivers of water behind me. "Rain is not a problem", I repeated. "Freedom cannot be contained by a little water", I thought.

In May, a good opportunity arrived: my father was buying a Vespa ET4 125, and they had made him a good offer for another scooter - bigger, modern, fashionable. A Gilera Runner. I accepted willingly; I would have one of the trendiest scooters, and I didn't mind that. But I knew I would miss my Zippo, so on the day of the handover, I decided to make a short video, immortalizing all the details I had grown attached to. I still have that video, with the faded colors of a VHS recorded in a hurry in a garage. I took off the keychain and decided to keep it as a souvenir. And the helmet would stay with me, of course. Along with the hair I was starting to find inside it, even if I wasn't paying attention to it. It didn't take many hours to realize I had made a monstrous mistake, because Zippo was small and light, maneuverable. This new one might have been fashionable, yes, but decidedly too high and uncomfortable for me. But that is another story.

Years later, I was already in Bologna. I had another "Zippo" - which I adored - and the same helmet. One evening I went to the cinema, in the center, and coming out I found a surprise: they had forced open the compartment under the seat and stolen my helmet. That helmet, the only remaining part of my grandfather's gift. Old, smelly by now, but it was my helmet. My reaction was very, very negative. To the point that when I got home, a friend and housemate tried to calm me down by downplaying it, reminding me that there was probably more hair inside that helmet than on my head. He was good. I was not. I lashed out verbally, almost insulting him, even though he remained calm until the end and let me vent. Then I told him the story of the helmet, and he lowered his gaze and, in a friendly way, patted me on the shoulder. I probably still owe him an apology for that night, if he remembers it. He probably forgot it many, many years ago.

From time to time, when I am at my parents' house, I open my old memory drawer. There are many of my things - many from that very period - and last time I found the "big foot". Faded, hardened by 30 years. Instinctively, I bring it to my nose again. And I still smell, intact, the scent of freedom.

179 Euros.

Decidedly over the budget I had set for myself. But it was beautiful, Japanese, big, and efficient. It had a grill and a "crisp plate". Terms whose meaning I ignored at the time, but they sounded good.

I thought about it for a few seconds. There were only two left, and a couple of gentlemen were approaching, looking interested. After all, the original price was 299 Euros, so it was an excellent deal.

Impulsively, I grabbed the box - large and decidedly heavier than I expected - and headed toward the checkout, satisfied.

I had already owned a microwave for many years, but a cheap model had broken down back in 2008. When I threw it away, I learned to do without it. It was 2008, and doing without had become something I was getting used to, willy-nilly.

But I had recently reappreciated its advantages during a trip and didn't want to do without it anymore. "So I did well to get a good model", I thought as I struggled to get to the car. However, I hadn't reckoned with one detail: that day, in Bologna, I had gone with the Smart. And that big box, in the trunk of a Smart car, would never fit. Since I was alone, I managed to work some magic with the passenger seat and, somehow (under the amused and approving gaze of the shop assistant, who had carefully avoided helping me), I managed to load it.

When I arrived home, triumphant, a neighbor was there. As soon as he saw me open the car door, he burst into laughter. We had never spoken much, but that scene, worthy of a cartoon, was the first step to getting to know each other better. I had a new friend.

This scene, lost for years in the fog of memory, came back to my mind just this morning, while I was defrosting bread for breakfast. Then the “beep” brought me back to the present, leaving a smile on my face. Starting the day in the right way.

Just before lunch, rearranging the freezer, I found a bag of fries. And I went back to 2011 - to that evening when a pizza at the neighbors' house was planned - on the day of my return from a long and tiring trip but, due to a last-minute problem, the evening was canceled. Too late to order a pizza nearby, too cold to go out, alone and not in great shape, to look for another one. I opened the fridge, remembering why I had planned to go grocery shopping the next day. But I found, in the freezer, some fries meant for frying. I had no oil, though, so I decided to try putting them on the crisp plate and firing up my trusty oriental ally. In a few minutes, the scent left no room for doubt: even without oil, I had somehow saved dinner. That term, “crisp plate”, finally made sense.

While making coffee after lunch, a very heavy truck passed by the house, causing a tremor. And my mind went back to May 2012, while continuous earthquake tremors were terrorizing our area. A neighbor was preparing his dinner and, due to a strong shock, the oil in the pan spilled out sideways, ending up on the flame and triggering a small fire. I, for prudence, decided I wouldn't use gas cooking tools, especially at dinner, but only the microwave. In those days, I specialized in many recipes - thanks to the grill, my roasts had become legendary among my friends. Prepared quickly, soft, and seasoned just right. I often thanked this “grill” - even this word, suddenly, made sense—for what followed.

Once cooled, I decided to prepare some jars and freeze the ragù leftover from lunch - which will undoubtedly be useful for dressing pasta at least two more times. Glass jars with a lid - not too full. Seven minutes with program number 3 and they are ready to be poured onto the pasta, hot at the right point. Like when, many years ago, I prepared entire pots (strictly terracotta!) of ragù, letting it boil for hours, as per the traditional recipe. And then I prepared all the jars that I froze and that would be lifesavers when, returning home hungry after a trip or a visit to a client, I was in a rush to eat. Or like that time when my neighbors had a breakdown and found themselves, at lunchtime, without the possibility of cooking, during the heavy snowfall of early 2013. They came to ask if I had gas and, in return, I invited them to share lunch with me. I perfectly defrosted two extra jars and increased the pasta dose. They decided they would buy an oven like that too, and the day ended with many beautiful laughs, made of stories and serene chatter. Snow outside, but human warmth, that was abundant inside the house.

The oven then became a friend to my girlfriend - later wife - who now uses and appreciates it more than I do. After 16 years, the buttons are now faded, and the right side, very close to the stove, has oxidized. But the operation is still perfect and after so many years, for sure, I don't need to read the buttons.

And a little while ago, while I was using it to heat the water for our nightly herbal teas to the perfect temperature, I thought back to how, in some way, it has been a witness to the transformations of my life. In serene moments, in tragedies, in small discoveries - like the fact that in the old house, when it was on, the entire WiFi network stopped working. He has always been there, ready to serve me, a silent witness to many changes. He was the only clock in my kitchen. Then he became a way to discover if the power had gone out during my absences. Then he moved to a new house, in three different positions.

I opened the door, took the cups - at perfect temperature - and said goodbye to him. Until tomorrow morning, when, again, he will defrost and heat my bread to the right point, bread that I learned to make precisely in those years when the oven and I were the only, silent companions of many, many meals.

The doctor, with an air that was austere yet kind, looked up at the patient: "You see, until a few years ago, it was thought that certain pains were of psychosomatic origin. Perfect test results, no instrumental readings, impossible to explain: invented, self-induced. Then we understood that they weren't invented, but real - today we know how to treat them, with good results, restoring a normal life to those who suffer from them. We are not yet able to detect the markers that tell us which nerve endings, transmitters, or whatever element gives or causes these pains, but we know they exist and we know how to treat them. Science will explain this too."

I was a mere spectator of this situation, but fascinated. The doctor's clear, crystalline eyes showed passion and confidence, while her wrinkles, though composed, betrayed the concrete fear of not having enough time to see these developments. To cure her patients. Those who were initially labeled as psychotic, then sick with something unknown, and now, at least, able to lead a normal life. Something she had worked on for a lifetime.

Passion has no age. And that look, that spark, that satisfaction of having identified something others had ignored - I won't forget it easily.

"Keep me updated, let me know.". Smiling, she half-closed the door as she returned to her notes.

The box of the new earbuds stayed closed for a few hours - I had other priorities. Once things calmed down, I took my time to take them out. A necessary unboxing rather than a desired one, because the previous pair, after years of honorable service, had started showing signs of age. I use them mainly for calls, so I need efficient and reliable tools, especially when I'm on the move.

The first thing I tested them with was a podcast I follow, whose new episode was about Pixar. And while some titles were being listed, Up was mentioned. It was in that instant that something sparked, making me reflect.

I still remember the first time I saw it, 16 years ago now. Carl looked just like my grandfather, his "cartoon" version. Identical! But it was a particular moment in my life, a specific situation, a personal mood, a recent impactful experience - I remember the first part touched me deeply. Carl and Ellie's story left an immediate mark. Two invented characters, yet bearers of something true, something profound. Of something wonderfully and joyously painful.

Somehow, I identified with both of them and, for a few days, I often found myself thinking about that situation. A normal situation, one that over the course of a lifetime we might, unfortunately, find ourselves facing. Either they were good at rendering it, or I was particularly susceptible.

Wearing the earbuds and hitting play, I went back to that mood. With 16 more years, a different life, and somehow, a different awareness. At 30, you see certain things as distant. At that moment, perhaps impossible. And I couldn't say if, back then, I was more afraid of living an experience like Carl and Ellie's, or of not living it. Of not wanting to live it. Of not being able to.

Today, everything is different. More certainties, perhaps. Fewer safety nets, certainly. And an awareness: that defending yourself helps protect you, but it makes you lose all the pleasure of what lies in between.

So - I ask myself today - does all this make sense? I don't want to give myself an answer. Or rather, it’s too late to wonder: I'm already on the dance floor, fully involved in the dance. In the meantime, however, I'll enjoy the view, as long as there is still sun to illuminate it.

I'm in bed, but sleep won't come. And in these moments, the mind wanders - often in the wrong directions.

When I was born, it was a joy. Much wanted, I came into the world a bit late, on a cold December morning. The hospital was up on a hill but that hadn't discouraged my loved ones. I didn't seem very eager to come out, apparently, but everyone had rushed to wait for me. Outside the delivery room were my grandparents, without doubt the most impatient. One of my grandfathers walked back and forth along the corridor, restless, while the other (who had already lived through this experience with my cousin) tried to calm and reassure him. It wasn't easy for my mother. A somewhat complicated delivery, but everything turned out well.

When I finally started breathing, many smiled. I had so much hair - red! - and it was impossible to comb it down. The midwife, bringing me out, apologized for not managing to flatten my hair. Poor woman, it wasn't her fault: it's still impossible to flatten it today, even though it's a fraction of what it was back then.

Sometimes I think about the day I'll die. If I'm lucky, I'll be very old. If I'm very lucky, I won't realize it. If she's lucky, my wife won't have to live through this experience. And I think that, probably, I'll die alone. On one hand this reassures me: I've never liked to inconvenience others or to be a burden to them, and I don't want that to happen when I take my leave from life. Yet, from another point of view, it casts a veil of sadness over me. Perhaps I'll be in a sterile hospital room, alone or surrounded by strangers, and when my heart stops I'll be just another old man who passed away, handled with the appropriate professional detachment by staff who see these situations every day.

When I arrived, there was joy, anticipation. I was surrounded by loved ones. When I leave, if I'm lucky, there will be silence, indifference, and solitude.

I close my eyes again, in the overwhelming silence of the night.
Tomorrow morning, thankfully, there will still be familiar people, lights and sounds.
My coffee. My breakfast. My life, still waiting to be lived.

I opened my eyes and looked at the alarm clock next to my bed. For the first time in days, I had managed to sleep. It was 7 and I was in no hurry to get up, but I no longer felt... I no longer felt the tingling in my legs. I felt nothing.

I fixed my gaze on the photo hanging beside me. The one where I stood leaning against my car, at the Piana di Castelluccio. Standing. I didn't have the courage to try. The moment had arrived - that moment. I wasn't ready. The whirlwind of thoughts continued to envelop me and, as I often do in these cases, my brain told my body to let the thoughts tangle among themselves while I acted. I turned and placed my feet on the ground. I felt the floor beneath me. I stood up. I felt no pain. I tried walking in various directions. I moved. Apart from the back pain, everything from the legs down was fine. Everything was fine. Everything was fine. I sat back on the bed and, finally, managed to cry.

It was a cool but sunny morning in March 2007. I had an appointment at the training center I collaborated with. The goal was to present new courses on Open Source operating systems, focused on Linux and BSDs. The attendees were system administrators expert in other OSs who wanted to approach the open-source world in a systematic, complete, and guided way. I liked it, I liked it a lot, so by 10:15 I was already in the saddle of my trusty Suzuki Burgman scooter. Bologna's traffic, at that hour, was decidedly less intense, but parking a car would have been impossible. Besides, it was a beautiful day; two wheels were undoubtedly the best way to move. I had time, so I planned to enjoy the ride calmly, already thinking about how to present my ideas to the organizers. Smiling, positive, optimistic.

I left the house and put all my documents under the seat, safely stowed. I opened the gate and edged the nose of the scooter out. No cars were coming, so I decided to set off slowly. The limit was 50 km/h, but I had just left, so I was advancing much, much slower. A few meters later, as I was proceeding, I saw something out of the corner of my left eye. Then I felt a blow and lost control of the Burgman. Instinctively, I threw myself off the vehicle, sliding on the asphalt. My gloves, helmet, and jacket completely cushioned the blow, and in a split second, I realized I had made the right choice, without yet understanding what had happened. I was going so slowly that I slid for very little distance; I was already stopped and ready to get up. Before I could even focus, I felt a very strong blow to my back, without feeling any pain. Again, I didn't understand, but I saw the handlebars of the Burgman coming closer right after. Instinctively I stood up, immediately, and turned around.

There was a car, a Fiat Punto, and my scooter near me. The car was trying to maneuver to get around the "obstacle", but I understood immediately, from the damage, that it was a car - that car - that had hit me. I planted myself in the middle of the road and immediately stopped the person behind the wheel, an elderly man - but not too elderly. Meanwhile, some people who had witnessed the scene or heard the noise rushed over. I wasn't alone. He got out of the car and looked at me and the scooter. He only said, "Well, I see you're standing and you haven't hurt yourself, I'd say I can go, right? I'm in a hurry." He wasn't confused. He wasn't trying to pull a fast one. He was just focused on his schedule.

I lost my temper. He only thought about the fact that he "had to leave", and not out of fear or a sense of responsibility. He was distracted. I lashed out, "But didn't you see me coming?" His response, calm and relaxed, froze me: "Of course, but I was in a hurry to get to the bar for my usual card game and I was late. I thought I could squeeze past, I was in a hurry. Anyway, you're standing and the damage seems minimal. I have to go."

No, he wasn't a confused elderly man. He was a person focused on his routine, and this had been just another hindrance. It was him, being himself. I shouted, with the support of the people who had gathered, "No, you're not going anywhere, we're waiting for the Carabinieri." In that moment, fueled by adrenaline, I lifted the Burgman and leaned it against the side of the road. Alone. Immediately after, my vision went almost black, and I had to sit down. A piercing pain in my back which - I realized only then - I had had since the beginning, but the adrenaline was making me ignore. Meanwhile, both the Carabinieri and the Ambulance arrived together. Someone had called them, and they had arrived with some speed.

I got into the ambulance on my own legs, and they examined me immediately. They decided to take me to the hospital for checks, especially for the back pain. Meanwhile, the Carabinieri took their measurements. One of them got into the ambulance. He must have been only a few years older than me and, looking me in the eyes, said words I will never forget: "So much damage, so much pain caused by small distractions, by small things. By our small lives. That man didn't do it on purpose. He is sorry, but he keeps repeating that he was convinced he could get through and keeps emphasizing that 'he couldn't be late'. So much damage, so much pain due to our vices and whims!" A venting from a man who, every day, saw all kinds of things. Yet they were words of comfort. Somehow, this man was bitter for me, sorry. And, probably, in the general confusion, amidst the professionalism of the medical staff and the voyeuristic interest of the passersby, I really needed a contact without barriers.

As soon as he got off, I called the Training Center: "I had a small accident, I won't be able to be there as agreed. Can we postpone by a few days?" They, of course, agreed.

Small accident. I downplayed it. Because, all things considered, I was back on my feet. Because I didn't want to show vulnerability to the client, risking losing this beautiful project. Because, perhaps, I was protecting myself from reality.

When I arrived at the hospital, everyone was extremely kind and diligent. They did all the necessary checks - including an X-ray. And it was precisely that X-ray, suggested by the type of impact and the tingling I felt in my legs and feet, that brought the doctor into my room. There had been a hairline fracture of two vertebrae and, for less than a millimeter, there hadn't been grave, very grave damage. That damage would have caused the total loss of sensation from the pelvis down. I breathed a sigh of relief, but the doctor continued: "We have to monitor the tingling. I believe the problem is linked to the impact, to the effort made immediately after to lift the scooter - suggested by the bruises on both legs - but we are not certain. We have to wait." Confused, I asked what that meant. What we had to wait for. He was vague. At that point, I was myself and went straight to the point: I asked him if I was still risking losing the use of part of my body. He lowered his gaze. He didn't answer. He stayed vague and said that within a few days we would better understand the situation. He focused on the tingling. "It will probably disappear - and at that point, we will understand. If you feel everything normally, it means everything went well. Otherwise..." He said no more. I asked no more. I didn't want to know, at that moment. I kept focusing on the probably. The rest of the sentence, instead, I metabolized in the following hours.

I was just going to present my ideas for my course, on a pleasant early March morning, calmly, on a road I had taken every day for years. With prudence. Building my life, my future. My projects. If I had left 30 seconds earlier - or later... or by car. In that instant, probably, I would have already been on my way back, maybe retrieving the car from a distant parking lot, regretting not having used the Burgman.

I was discharged in the afternoon, with the prescription to get out of bed as little as possible, exclusively to go to the bathroom. There was no way to sleep: I had pain everywhere, my legs had turned completely black. I took a photo in front of the mirror - then deleted it, in the terror of what I had seen. There was no position that didn't give me pain and pangs. I had continuous tingling and little sensitivity from the pelvis down. Problems going to the bathroom, problems doing everything.

They were terrible days, compounded by a further problem. Because of the false promises of a salesperson, I was also left without an Internet connection. But necessity is the mother of invention, and the discovery that a directional antenna pointed towards the end of the street, where there was an old router with an easily "guessable" WEP password, was like a lifeboat after a shipwreck.

The tingling went on for days, until that morning. The morning I realized I had managed to sleep because I no longer had pain. The "probably" had come true. And it had gone away giving me back, again, my sensitivity.

The doctor confirmed: it was an excellent sign, meaning the healing phase had begun. No serious permanent damage. It would take time, but I would heal.

That day I understood many things - many more than I thought - about myself, about the world around us, and, more specifically, about those around me.

And about the importance of keeping one's access points updated, of course.

My smartphone just showed me a photo, taken exactly four years ago today. I published it on the Fediverse back then, showing nothing but enthusiasm for the great takeout food we had ordered.

The truth was different.

That morning, I had received a phone call from my mother, telling me that my grandmother wasn't feeling well. We thought it was just a common flu, but it felt "strange". I rushed to her. I found her standing, in high spirits, welcoming me with her usual affection and joy. She was already feeling much better but was a bit tired, so she had already eaten dinner and was heading to bed early. Her usual spirit, her usual stride, her usual grit.

Relieved, we decided to pick up some seafood takeout from a restaurant owned by a former classmate of mine. And the fish, besides being delicious, was abundant.

The next morning, I received a call from my mother: my grandmother was doing terribly - in her view, perhaps close to death. She had wanted to stay in her own home, alone - she refused to give up her independence - but seeing that her shutters hadn't been raised, my parents had burst into her house before 7:00. She was barely lucid, very lethargic.

The point was this: she was nearly 93 years old and almost unconscious - would it be right to call an ambulance, or would it be better, since she wasn't suffering, to let her take her leave from life that way? We talked about it for a moment: she was in perfect shape, took no medication, and until the day before, she went for walks of over an hour every day (to do the grocery shopping and back), carrying a cane only "to give her security" but never actually using it. We decided to call the ambulance immediately, and she was hospitalized as an emergency. The doctor told my father to prepare himself - it was too grave, and saving her was almost impossible. That night, mentally, I tried to prepare myself to say goodbye. I tried.

A week later, she was back at her house, on her feet, in good shape, with perfect lab results.

But it was a hollow victory because, as my other grandmother used to say, "death looks for its reason". Her condition would decline - slowly - over the following months, giving her both the awareness of her own frailty and the knowledge that she was leaving. She lost the self-sufficiency that meant everything to her.

I would only see her two more times, and speak to her on the phone a few others. On her birthday in March, she was angry because she had wanted a party, knowing it would be her last birthday. She knew it; we didn't. We saw a recovery; she saw the decline.

And today, looking at that photo, I asked myself if, perhaps, it would have been better to avoid calling that ambulance. To let her go like that, without suffering, in her own bed, in her own home. Independent, until the very end. Things went differently: one is never truly ready to let go of someone they love.

And today, looking at that photo, I can't help but think that the restaurant in the picture is now closed. Because the restaurateur, my former classmate, passed away a few months ago. At an age when one should be living life to its fullest, certainly not gone.

Sometimes, a photo is enough to bring you back to the exact mood of that precise instant. A photo where all you see is excellent and abundant fish, but all you feel is anguish, suffering, and sadness.

This morning, I opened the studio window as I do every morning. But the pigeons' nest on the ledge was occupied by a magpie. Startled by the noise, she turned toward me and began to screech. Like a Pavlovian reflex, I slammed the glass shut and jumped backward, hitting my leg against the cabinet.

That stare. That sound.

It was late autumn 2022 - a year when everything had happened. We were slowly emerging from a period even heavier than the one we were living through, just trying to return to some form of normality. And normality, among other things, meant sitting at my desk around the same time each morning, soft jazz in the background, running through my usual checks. Small rituals. Anchors.

For a few days, something unusual had been happening. Curious, almost pleasant. A magpie had taken to perching on my windowsill and peering inside. This happens sometimes - especially with pigeons. But there was something different: even when I stood up from my chair, she stayed. Magpies are intelligent creatures, I thought. She probably understands the glass is closed and I pose no threat. I saw it as something positive, if odd.

As days passed, she came more often. Stayed longer. At some point, she began tapping her beak against the glass. Insistently. Obsessively. I didn't pay it much attention and went on with my life.

Until that afternoon.

I had decided to replace the old intercom - we couldn't do without one, but replacing the entire system was out of the question. I went outside with everything I needed and started dismounting the old unit. I stepped back for a moment to figure out where to mount the new device. Suddenly, she landed on the low wall in front of me, right on top of my screwdrivers and the new intercom. I barely had time to register the scene before she launched herself straight at my eyes.

I ducked. She circled around me, then returned to the wall. I took out my phone to record, tried to back away, but she kept attacking. She pecked violently at my jacket, damaging it, then flew back to the wall. I tried to run inside, but she was faster. She landed on my head - even as I moved - and tried to reach my eyes. Instinctively, I extended my arm, hoping for the perch effect. She calmed immediately and settled on it. I froze. All I could do was take out my phone and capture the moment. Then I thought: I need to get back inside, somehow. But seconds later, she began hopping up my arm toward my head again.

A truck passed close by, disturbing her enough to make her fly to the balcony ledge. I seized the moment and ran for the door. As I opened it to enter, she tried to jump on me and follow me inside. I slammed the door and inadvertently caught her between the door and the frame. She kept trying to enter. Finally, I managed to close it.

No one fully believed me. My wife did, but she hadn't quite grasped the extent of it. We locked ourselves inside. For a few days, we didn't see her. I convinced myself the blows against the door had injured her - perhaps killed her. I felt guilty. I hadn't wanted to hurt her. I just hadn't wanted her to hurt me.

The morning of 6th December, I was tired of staring at the monitor and suggested a walk to my wife. She agreed. The air was humid but not too cold. As soon as we stepped outside, we started our usual route, but my wife noticed something on the garden wall. It was her. Distant, but I recognized her voice immediately. Before I could look closer, she arrived, landing on my wife's head. My wife panicked and ran toward the house, but the more she fled, the more the bird insisted. She targeted her hair and pecked - fortunately the hood offered some protection. But the path to the front door wasn't short. I threw myself at the bird to drive her away, which worked. For a few seconds. As we neared the door, she returned, screeching relentlessly. I yanked the door open and tried to get my wife inside, but the bird wouldn't let go. I waved my arms, tried to push her away with my hands, but she had clamped down with her claws. Finally I managed, and my wife got inside - but the bird came back for me. I barely made it in, nearly crushing her in the door again.

The security cameras captured everything. Including what she did afterward: she perched on the boiler pipe, puffed up her feathers triumphantly, and flew away.

We contacted the authorities. At the carabinieri station, they didn't take us seriously - until I showed them the video. Then they called the local wildlife protection office immediately.

The following days were a nightmare. The magpie had learned our schedules. Every time I opened a window, she would attack or try to enter. She would station herself on my windowsill for hours, pecking at the glass, working at the rubber seal as if trying to break through. Screeching while she knocked. We couldn't go outside during the day anymore. We couldn't set foot beyond our door: she was there, waiting.

The mail carrier rang. There was a letter requiring a signature. Strangely, she was in her van. I couldn't go out and asked her to take it to the post office, where I'd pick it up. I explained it was because of a deranged magpie. She almost smiled with relief: "So it's not just me. This is why I don't get out of the car around here anymore. She attacks me. Always. It's like a horror film".

We only went out after sunset. Talking with neighbors, we discovered the bird had a precise pattern. She attacked women, younger men, and children. But she was playful and friendly with elderly men. She had injured someone's eye a few days earlier, not far from us. A girl's ear - someone who lived across from our window. She knew when that girl would return from work and would position herself there, waiting. All of this captured by our cameras.

The neighborhood divided. Everyone who had been attacked pushed for something to be done. The others resisted. "She's a free, playful animal. You're clearly the aggressive ones, and she's just defending herself.". So much for community spirit.

Meanwhile, despite reporting to every possible authority, nothing moved. A game of responsibility - which no one wanted - while people walked around with umbrellas for protection. In some cases, she entered through windows and attacked people inside their homes.

That February evening, the sun had already set, so we felt safer. The kitchen shutters were still open, as usual, and I decided to close them. I opened the window and looked around, even though it was dark. I felt calm: in the darkness, there's no danger. A dull thud of claws against the metal gutter and, in a flash, her screech announced the attack. She had been just above me, on the roof, ready to strike. Fortunately, the mosquito net was half-broken and she got partially tangled in it, giving me time to slam the window shut. The shutters stayed open until late that night. So did my eyes.

The next morning we woke to banging. It was barely dawn and she had started hurling herself against the shutters. Obsessively. Continuously. From the cameras I could see her: she would charge from the tree across the street, slam into the shutters, return to the tree, repeat. That day we didn't open the windows. We spent the entire day in darkness, using only electric lights.

The only way we could breathe was to take the car and drive away. To the city center, mostly. We felt safe only among the tall buildings, though every now and then a magpie's call would freeze us in place.

One early April afternoon, I had just made coffee. As I often do, I walked to the window - closed - to look outside. The horse chestnut had begun filling with leaves, a beautiful spectacle marking the start of the warm season. She was right there, on the chestnut tree. The moment she saw me, she launched herself with that unmistakable voice, slamming violently against the glass. She had a sort of crest raised: she was furious.

A very private neighbor had been unaware of the whole affair. Or rather, she knew something but hadn't had direct experience. She too thought the stories were exaggerated by local gossip. Until the magpie tried to attack her husband and then her little girls. Drawing on her civil protection contacts, she immediately took action. We sent her our video to strengthen the case. It was late afternoon and raining heavily. A phone call came: "They caught the magpie. They came to take my statement and she arrived on the scene, attacking even them. They should come to you - since you have the video - for a statement and an identification.".

Incredulous, I agreed immediately. It seemed strange that everything had gone smoothly. Too easy.

Two minutes later, the forestry service car arrived below our house. "Would you like to come see her, to confirm it's the same bird?"

I agreed. A neighbor came too - more for vindication than curiosity. As soon as they opened the trunk, we both jumped back. The magpie, the moment she saw us, began screaming and throwing herself violently against the walls of the cage. In that moment, I believe, she would have torn us apart. It was her. Without a shadow of doubt.

They came upstairs and took our statement, along with permission to include the video. They wouldn't harm the bird, they explained, but they would have to keep her somewhere she couldn't hurt anyone: a sanctuary for birds raised in captivity, unable to survive in the wild.

Like this magpie. And they told us her story.

She had been captured by an elderly man who, since she was a chick, had fed her and let her roam free in his home. She had become possessive and demanding, but never dangerous - with him. With his wife and children, however, probably out of jealousy, she was extremely aggressive. The man was very old, and eventually he died. His wife and children were afraid of the magpie but couldn't report it: magpies are protected and cannot be captured or kept in captivity. So they released her, several months before our first encounter. Perhaps a year earlier. The area was different, so she had likely wandered into our neighborhood in late summer 2022.

While they told us this, one of the officers received a call from colleagues outside: two elderly neighbors were circling the car, trying to open it. They wanted to free her. A criminal offense, but they didn't care. In their eyes, we were evil creatures for wanting "the capture" of that poor, defenseless animal. Even though she had injured dozens of people. Even though she was a direct and constant danger to children. The officers managed to send them away, though they remained angry and threatened legal action against us too.

The rain stopped. A timid ray of sunlight broke through the clouds. I looked up. I saw the trees full of leaves, felt the warmth on my skin and that particular scent that rises around the house just after rain.

I felt free.

I called my wife and asked if she wanted to take a walk. She said yes. We went out and, for the first time in months, returned to places that had been forbidden to us.

This morning, opening that window, I relived the nightmare for an instant. But this magpie, true to her nature, immediately flew away in the opposite direction. She had never known an old man's living room. She had never learned to see a human as home.

I left the window open for a few seconds, breathing in the humid air of the first real day of winter.

I heard a deafening noise coming from outside. It sounded like a dying clutch mixed with a completely mistimed acceleration. I looked out and, with a grim sort of satisfaction, I realized I was right: it was an old, battered Mercedes W124 - the famous, "indestructible" 200-Class. Indestructible, perhaps, but old enough now to finally show its age.

It was 14 May 2002. Against my will, I had already returned my car to the dealer because "it sells better during this period", and while waiting for my new one, he had lent me a "courtesy vehicle". It was an old Mercedes 250D - over ten years old. Slow but unstoppable, its odometer boasted over 520,000 kilometers. According to the dealer, it had traveled at least double that, but it was "mechanically perfect".

Actually, it was pleasant to drive. Slow - very slow - but the sense of solidity and quality was still perfectly palpable. I admit that, in the end, I didn't mind those "bridge" days. And that evening, I had no desire to stay home. My parents were going to bed early. I had studied all day and was tired. The evening was mild, and I wanted some space. I made a phone call, grabbed the keys to the Mercedes, and headed out. "I'll be back before midnight; it’s just a short drive".

The evening passed quietly, and by 22:30, I was already on my way back. Sometimes, a little is enough to feel like you can breathe again. I decided to take it slow, enjoying the clear night, the non-existent Tuesday night traffic, and the simple pleasure of extending the drive. I took the highway, with a limit of 130 km/h, but I stayed in the right lane, keeping it under 100. There was no one else on the road.

Lost in my thoughts, I noticed something moving at the edge of the road, barely illuminated by the headlights. Before I could even process it, that "something" darted into the lane: a large white dog - likely a Maremma Shepherd - and a smaller dog by its side. Without even thinking, I slammed my foot on the brake and swerved to the left. The dogs were saved. But in an instant, I knew something was wrong. Despite being equipped with ABS, the car completely lost traction at the rear. Thump - a dull thud - and the front hood flew open, completely blocking my view of the road. The car went wild, spinning in a tailspin, and I heard a loud grinding noise as warning lights flashed on the dashboard. The car kept spinning, then another loud crash. Suddenly, silence. Those moments, though brief, are etched in my mind as infinite seconds, ticked away one by one by an atomic clock.

Then, a slight hiss. Then louder. I saw smoke and decided to get out immediately. I pulled the handle, but the door wouldn't budge. The smoke was increasing - and so was my urge to escape. I gave the door a well-aimed kick, and it suddenly burst open, revealing the road. Fortunately, I was at the edge, so I scrambled out and moved away. I turned around and felt the air leave my lungs: the front of the car was destroyed, the rear torn open, and it was halfway off the road. It had dislodged the guardrail, which, however, had done its job: I hadn't ended up in the canal. Debris was scattered across the asphalt, but luckily, the smoke stopped. It was probably coolant or oil.

I saw a car approaching - it slowed down, drove over the scattered pieces, and kept going. And so, over the next few minutes, did two others. With the third passerby, things went differently: he stopped and positioned his car so his lights would illuminate the scene. My own hazard triangle had ended up in the canal when the trunk flew open during the impact.

The man made sure I was okay and told me that a few days earlier, the same thing had happened to his wife. Same spot, same dynamics, but fortunately, she had managed to regain control. I wondered why I hadn't been able to handle it.

The Carabinieri arrived, and I called my parents. I was unhurt and answered the officers' questions; they admitted they were aware of the problem. They didn't feel it necessary to breathalyze me - I was perfectly lucid.

The next day, I went to the car dealer and told him what had happened. He smiled, telling me the important thing was that I was okay. Then he explained that yes, the car's suspension had over a million kilometers on it and he should have replaced it before the next inspection, but he figured he would eventually sell the car to some "exporter who would take it abroad for pennies". And there was more: the car had been in a bad accident before and had been "decently" repaired, but the frame was no longer entirely straight.

I looked at him. He lowered his gaze. All my fear transformed into rage. "Don't worry, I won't make you pay for the damage", he said. The words bounced off my ears. My expression didn't change. The silence said much more than a thousand words. As I walked away, I looked back one last time toward what could have been my coffin. Despite everything, it had protected me - because its mileage and inefficiencies hadn't erased the underlying quality of its build. Just as the three-pointed star continued to shine, pointing proudly upward amidst a tangle of metal, wires, and whatever remained of the car’s front end.

I tried to erase this story from my mind, and it worked. Until a July morning when a registered letter arrived for me. I opened it, curious; I wasn't expecting anything official. It was from the road management company. They were asking me to pay for the repair of the guardrail, which hadn't been fixed yet. Infuriated, I called the reference number and pointed out that the Carabinieri had documented the presence of dogs and were already aware of the issue. In fact, the officers themselves had written in the report that they had received several reports of two stray dogs in previous days. Furthermore, a section of the perimeter fence was missing because it was completely rotted. They replied, coldly, that the fence had been restored and that I had no direct witnesses to the actual existence of those dogs. I would have to activate my insurance or pay. Tertium non datur.

The insurance paid. I was left with a bitter taste in my mouth, but in the end, what mattered was that no one had been hurt. Not me, and not the dogs.

The W124 outside my window, amidst hellish noises, finally managed to pull out of the parking spot and drove away. Sitting back down, I thought that even for "indestructible" cars, the time eventually comes to let them go.

I received an email yesterday morning. It was a thank-you note for one of the open-source tools I created and maintain. The sender explained how useful the software was for their specific needs, and as always, this brought me an immense sense of satisfaction.

But at one point in the email, a question appeared - one that has become a recurring theme in the modern software world: "I notice there haven't been any new releases for about ten months. Should I consider the project abandoned?"

I decided to reply immediately: "No, it’s not abandoned. But it satisfies all my requirements, so unless there are bugs or new needs, I consider it 'complete'."

The person’s response was telling: "What do you mean by complete? Software is either in active development or it's abandoned. I’ve never heard of 'complete' software."

I started reflecting on how the very ideal of "completeness" has totally vanished from our lives. And on second thought, I wasn't surprised.

This doesn't just apply to software; it permeates every corner of our modern existence. There was a time when you bought a car, you owned it. Today, almost everyone leases or uses financing with a final "balloon" payment - often so inconvenient that people find themselves taking out a new loan after just a few years. The result is that we never truly own our cars, and they are constantly plagued by automatic software updates that, in some cases, break things that previously worked just fine.

When we bought an appliance, we installed it. Barring a breakdown, it stayed exactly as it was for the rest of its (often long) life. Today, an immediate software update is mandatory the moment you plug it in. Fail to do so, and essential features won't work. A modern washing machine often comes with only two or three built-in programs; the others must be downloaded from the "cloud" - sometimes for a fee. If you don't, you can't fully use what you already paid for. I don't wash my clothes the way I want anymore; I wash them the way the manufacturer’s questionable cloud dictates. And this continues only as long as the manufacturer decides I am allowed to wash my clothes at all.

Before everything was "always online", the concept of complete software was common. Yes, new releases happened from time to time, but they weren't taken for granted, and sometimes years would pass between them. The premise was clear: software was released to solve a specific problem. Distributing updates wasn't easy, so it had to be reliable from the very first release. It couldn't come out riddled with bugs - that would have meant a loss of face (or even bankruptcy) for the producer.

When a new release or a new product did come out (be it software, an appliance, or a car), the manufacturer had to entice the user by focusing on what was actually new - on what new problem it would solve. Consumable goods eventually need replacing, but for durable goods, the battle for the customer's attention was more complex. I remember buying many books, VHS tapes, CDs, and DVDs during sales, and then spending the following months reading, listening, or watching them. The beauty of today's streaming is choice. The tragedy is that the moment we stop paying, we are left with nothing.

The "disposable" has become the norm for everything. Quality has plummeted - even in our relationships - because we are always searching for something "new". And yes, I say "we" because I include myself in this chase for dopamine - that intense, albeit brief, pleasure of something new. Even when there is almost nothing new about it. Even when I didn't need it.

Just as with my relationships, I like to take care of my things. Making my wife laugh, sending a message to a friend, painting the house. Sometimes I rescue old objects and give them a new life. Behind me sits a cabinet - I bought it for next to nothing, and it's incredibly useful. Ten years ago, with some hours of work, I completely restored it. It’s beautiful, sturdy, and perfect. It had been thrown away by someone who considered it old and outdated, only to replace it with a fragile piece of furniture from a well-known chain. To each their own, sure. But taking care of what you own is an act of respect.

I replied to that email. Yes, the software is currently complete. I will take care of it. I will ensure that bugs are fixed. And if I ever have new requirements, I will resume development. But as of today, it has solved my problem and it works excellently. Why should I add useless "stuff" just for the sake of expanding it? For whom? For what? I gain nothing from it. I don't have to sell it. And even if I did, I would rather sell an effective, working product than a constant, never-ending process of fixing something that is perpetually buggy and incomplete.

Not "continuous integration", but "boring software" that does its job.

And this is perfectly aligned with my business ethos: I would rather stop growing indefinitely and take care of my current clients than start hiring incompetent people just to make numbers and provide a service that doesn't meet my expectations.

A little while ago, I took the clean laundry off the drying rack and opened the drawer. The plan was to fold everything neatly, but I handled it exactly like I did back in my university days: I just dumped everything in a heap, much to my wife’s amusement.

Shortly after, wanting to make myself useful and to quickly escape the "crime scene", I went out to take out the trash. The sky was already dark, with the first signs of frost appearing on the plants. I decided to take the long way around, breathing in that crisp, biting air of a new year.

As I walk in the evening, my eyes are drawn to the lit houses. And in every house, I find myself thinking, there is an entire universe. The universe of the people living there. Their relationships, their pleasures, and their pains. Their affections - often jealously guarded in the warmth of their own homes. Just like their secrets, their valuables, and their memories.

Where do they put their socks? I wonder if they, too, sometimes just toss them in like I did earlier. Maybe someone there is laughing, like my wife. Or maybe someone is starting to yell, as many others would. Or maybe there is silence - a silence worse than laughter or shouting. Is this a season of joy or sadness for them? What are their problems right at this moment? Are they cooking their favorite dish or some tasteless broth? Perhaps they are dreaming of going out to a restaurant tonight. Or, perhaps, they have other things on their minds. Has the new year started well, or are they still carrying the weight of the past year? And I wonder if they will still be there at the end of this year. Or if they will simply still be there, behind those lights, doing the same things they are doing right now. Focused on the same old things - or free, in mind and body, moving toward something new. Maybe folding their socks, absent-mindedly, getting ready for a new workday.

Lost in my thoughts, I run into a neighbor, who tells me about the beautiful evening he had yesterday. He had a clear, bright, happy look in his eyes. His son had come to visit, and they had spent the evening together. He shared his contagious joy with me, and I started walking back home. I looked at those houses again, thinking that they probably do fold their socks - always - maybe while thinking of something else entirely, remembering happy moments or dreaming of running away.

Then I see my own windows, the light on. And I know that behind that light is my wife, listening to her favorite music. And behind the other light is my chair, the one I am about to return to. Behind those walls is the life I have built. My universe.

I close the windows now; it is dark. I wouldn’t want someone passing by to think that I actually tossed my laundry in like that.

A peculiar year is coming to a close. Looking at world news, it has been a heavy one, with the lingering fear that the next might be even worse. Right at the start of the year (in one way) and toward the end (in another), some truly heavy things happened that were hard to digest. So, let’s focus on the positives.

The year kicked off with the announcement of FediMeteo and the warm, enthusiastic response it received.

I participated as a speaker in three conferences, all of them exceptional:

• OSDay 2025 - which brought me back to beautiful Florence after many years. I met fantastic people and learned a lot, stepping out of my "bubble." I spoke about BSD to many people who had never even heard of it.
• BSDCan 2025 - which took me to the American continent for the first time. I saw old friends and finally met new ones in person (people I had been in contact with online for years, but never face-to-face). I saw the city of Ottawa and experienced, at least in part, its atmosphere. I truly hope to go back soon. It was a fantastic event with wonderful people that made me feel at home, even if I was almost "halfway across the world". Chatting with the president of the NetBSD Foundation at the final reception and discovering a shared childhood passion (the Amiga) was the icing on the cake.
• EuroBSDCon 2025 - Zagreb is stunning, but the best part was being part of another marvelous event. Seeing some people again after a year, others after just a few months, and meeting many new friends. Strengthening bonds with people I’d stayed in touch with after Dublin was an unforgettable experience. Participating in the FreeBSD dev summit and Eurobhyvecon, then eating pizza in a random spot in Zagreb with one of my favorite authors is something I’ll never forget.

Unfortunately, I had to decline an invitation to a conference I would have loved to attend, but sometimes life chooses for you.

I met a friend in person in Bologna (something I really cared about), and we spent an unforgettable day together.

I reconnected with old friends and former neighbors; we got together for dinner several times, culminating in a trip to our favorite amusement park. After so many years, it was as if nothing had changed - sharing a truly memorable experience.

I launched a few projects, including BSSG and the illumos Cafe, as well as new services for the BSD Cafe. I handed out many stickers - though never enough; someone always misses out.

On the work front, I started new projects, closed others, gained a few great clients, and let go of a couple I couldn't wait to part with.

Thanks to some fantastic people who indirectly gave me the idea, I resumed writing on my personal blog. And thanks to one person who pushed and encouraged me, I started writing more than just my usual tech rants or technical articles; I’ve started sharing parts of my life and my memories.

I’ve eaten many pizzas, drunk many coffees, and had a few tiramisus. But mostly, I've met fantastic human beings who made me feel optimistic and gave me the energy to keep going with all of this. The world is full of negative noise emitted by a few, but fortunately, there are many positive figures who often remain in silence.

For all of this, I have to say thank you to the fantastic communities of BSD Cafe, illumos Cafe, and the general communities surrounding these great operating systems. They are the ones who pushed me forward and make me feel excited every morning about what a new day will bring. The positive atmosphere I breathed among these people - never as an outsider, but always as an old friend - was exactly the oxygen I needed in this phase of my life.

And I must thank (dulcis in fundo) my wife: she supports me, accompanies me, and pushes me. She is a special person in every possible way.

I wish you all a wonderful 2026, in the hope that the world stops spinning toward the spiral of madness it has been caught in lately and brings more positivity to everyone. The plan already includes:

• Many more pizzas.
• Many more tiramisus.
• Coffee.
• A wedding we've been invited to and will happily attend.
• Conferences - I won't waste any more time; I want to experience that atmosphere as much as possible, with my usual Smile(TM).
• Writing a lot - both on the tech blog and the personal one - and more (spoiler).
• Meeting friends and making new ones. Friendship isn't about geographical proximity; it’s about mental affinity. Even if we think differently. Even if we are worlds apart.
• Making my wife happy.
• Remaining the BSD, illumos, and Fediverse Barista (and meteorologist), trying to bring constructiveness and positivity to the world.

I hope we'll share a bit of this journey called life together. Just as we are sharing it now, through these words. Thank you to each and every one of you - because thanks to you, my life is better.

There are moments when I need to take refuge for a while. Distant, in space and time.

Far away.

Connected with someone who is no longer here.

Like a ten-year-old boy with glistening eyes, behind a pair of glasses, watching a movie, unaware of what was to come. Yet, somehow, sensing it. Because not everything can be explained.

Tonight is one of those moments, and music - my music - helps me go back.

No, not with a DeLorean. Because the flux capacitor doesn't exist. But the mind can do much, much more.

And those tears, inexplicable then, are full of meaning today.

Christmas afternoon. Outside, rain, wind, and cold. My wife and I decide to finally do something we have been postponing for a long time: reorganizing the bookshelves. We have many books, accumulated over the years. Almost all of them read. About ten years ago we switched to e-readers, but the poetry of a physical book remains inimitable.

Among the Italian books there was one in English that needed to be put back in its place. As I picked it up, a small piece of glossy paper slipped out: a passport photo of me from many years ago.

It was a cold morning in late spring 2009. While Italy was already warm, the north of Great Britain was showing its properly Nordic side. I was prepared, wearing a thick padded jacket.

Checkout at the hotel had been slower than expected because of a long queue. I was not in a desperate rush to get to the airport, but it was my first time in the city, my first time using local transport which was unreliable due to work at the central station, and I was struggling to understand the local accent. I wanted to move with some margin. If everything went well, I would be home late in the evening, already imagining the usual welcome-back pizza on the sofa in front of the TV series I was obsessed with at the time: Desperate Housewives.

I hurried to the Metrolink stop right in front of the hotel. I knew that would be the last tram and that, because of the works, the next one would not come for almost two hours. There was nothing around and I neither could nor wanted to go back to the hotel. I ran to the ticket machine with several minutes to spare. There was no one else. I placed my suitcase in front of me and started tapping the screen.

While I was waiting for the ticket to be printed, the Metrolink arrived early. When I heard the sound of the doors closing, I started swearing at the machine, which at that exact moment finally printed my ticket. I grabbed the suitcase by the handle and jumped inside. The doors closed as I was getting on, catching the suitcase between them.

The tram departed quickly. Early. I smiled, relieved and satisfied. At least I would reach the central station in time for the next connection. Then I felt something was wrong. I started patting my pockets. Where was my wallet?

Panic hit. Inside were all my money, pounds and euros, my train and plane tickets, my documents including my driver’s license, my credit cards. Everything. I kept searching until I understood what had happened. In the panic of the closing doors, I had stupidly placed the wallet on top of the suitcase while retrieving the ticket. Then I grabbed the suitcase by the handle and rushed inside, making the wallet fall onto the platform.

When I boarded, I had been the only person at the stop, and there would be no other trams. I thought that if I went back immediately, I might find it. Or maybe I would find it in a bin, stripped of cash but with the documents still there. But that Metrolink, fast as it was, seemed to take forever to reach the next stop. And when I got off to catch the one going back, the ninety-second wait felt endless.

I got off with my heart in my throat and rushed to the ticket machine, full of hope. Useless. The wallet was gone. I checked every bin, the tracks, the pavement. Nothing. I understood there was no hope. Someone had found it before me.

The first thing I did was block my credit cards. Then I went back to the hotel to ask if someone had found a wallet and brought it there, since the last thing I had put inside it was the hotel receipt. Nothing. I called the airline, explained what had happened, and they allowed me to move the flight. The problem was that I was now without a ticket, without money, without documents. I felt, for a moment, completely erased.

I went to the nearest police station, Pendleton, to file a report. The officer was very kind and suggested I contact the Italian Consulate to find the best way to get me home. I tried calling immediately, but they were closed. I left a message on their voicemail. Assuming I would need passport photos, I went straight to the Arndale Centre, the only place I knew with a photo booth, and took a set of terrible pictures.

The next morning I went to the Consulate. There was an incredible queue of people who were clearly neither Italian nor English, to the point that I wondered whether I was in the right place. I was, so I waited over an hour before my turn. Eventually I was received by a middle-aged woman.

"Yes?"

"Good morning. I left a message yesterday. I lost my wallet and I have no documents. Here is the police report and..."

"This says stolen, not lost. Someone is lying."

I replied, darkly: "Listen. I placed it on my suitcase, ran for the Metrolink, and when I came back to get it, it was gone. I do not know whether this counts as lost or stolen. I am not an expert. I only know that I am here without money or documents and I need to get home. I have found a place to stay and a small loan, I am not sleeping on the street, but I need to leave."

"Wait here. Give me one photo and the report."

She disappeared for a few minutes and came back with some forms.

"You need to write all your personal details here. Do you have an ID with you?"

"No. That is the problem. Otherwise I would already be back in Italy."

"Fine. I cannot do anything now. We are closing soon and there is a long queue. Sign this request and come back in a week."

"A week? That is a disaster. I have work commitments. I cannot stay here for a week."

"I can give you an appointment for next week, but not a time. Come next Tuesday and queue again. You have no documents and we need time to handle this. Avanti il prossimo. Next please."

I took my papers and walked away in silence. I have always been extremely careful, and I already felt like an idiot for what had happened. Being treated like that only made it worse. I was not expecting an immediate solution, but a week felt absurd.

Outside, I looked around and understood that I would need to survive the following week with very little money, leaving the house in the morning and returning in the evening. I discovered that Tesco’s Chunky Chicken was a reliable cheap lunch, that I could spend some hours at Starbucks not far from the table often occupied by Tiziano Ferro, always deeply absorbed in his laptop, and that I would be walking around without documents. The best solution, I thought, was to spend a small amount of money on something cheap that could occupy my time anywhere, without electricity. My laptop at the time had less than two hours of battery life, and Wi-Fi worked intermittently.

A book. A cheap book, on offer, something that would keep me busy for at least a couple of days. The first bookstore I entered had a bargain corner, but almost nothing matched my taste. Except one. A hardcover with John Lennon’s face on the cover. The title was simple: "John", written by Cynthia, his first wife. It cost only two pounds. I bought it and carried it with me. To avoid losing anything else, I put my photos and the police report inside it. In the book, I thought, they would be safe.

I decided I would only enter Starbucks when I needed coffee or my laptop. The rest of the time I stayed in the Arndale atrium, under the stairs, where there were benches. It became my reading room. There was the Apple Store, where I went in to play with the devices and read news, sweet shops nearby, and restrooms close enough. A good place to spend several hours.

On the second day, a cleaning lady asked me what I thought of the book. She was reading it too and was curious. "You do not often see a young man reading a book like that", she said. We talked for a few minutes. She was not English by birth but had arrived there young and was now close to retirement. Her children were grown, about my age, all working in the City of London, and she still worked, proud and calm. Her English was full of local slang that I did not understand, but she took the time to explain it. Those ten minutes of conversation became a daily appointment for both of us. It was probably the best local accent course I could have had.

The week passed fairly quickly, between other small mishaps. On Tuesday morning I arrived at the Consulate very early, but an hour before opening there was already an endless queue, again of people who were neither Italian nor English and barely spoke either language. I still did not understand, but I queued.

After more than two and a half hours, it was my turn. This time there was a different clerk, with the same expression as the woman from the previous week.

"Good morning. I was here last week. I have the document your colleague gave me and..."

"Do not make me read all that. What do you want?"

"A document to return to Italy."

"You do not have an ID with you?"

"No. That is why I am here. I need some document, anything that allows me to return to Italy. I do not know whether I can file an Italian report here or only once I am back, but..."

"I cannot do anything. If you have no document, how am I supposed to know you are who you say you are?"

I lost patience. It happens rarely, but it happens. And when it does, I become surgically sharp.

"I was told to wait a week. I was given forms, which I filled out. Now you tell me you cannot do anything. Can you explain how an Italian citizen who has had his documents stolen is supposed to get home? I can bring witnesses, local and Italian, to confirm my identity. Tell me what I need to do, but I need to go home as soon as possible."

He stayed silent for a few seconds, completely uninterested. "Wait here."

He disappeared for over fifteen minutes.

"I have prepared a Declaration of Identity, in Italian and English. One of your photos is attached. Attach it to the local police report. Once in Italy, go to the Carabinieri to redo all your documents. Avanti il prossimo. Next please."

I took the paper and left, extremely irritated. But at least I could finally go home.

I immediately called the airline and they managed to put me on the Friday flight. Two more days, but at least there was an end.

On Wednesday I worked all day. On Thursday I went back to the Arndale to look for my reading companion. I found her upstairs, along the corridor. I told her I had the document and she smiled. "I am happy for you. Less happy for me. I will miss our chats.". I told her I would come back in the future and look for her. She was glad. We shook hands warmly.

I looked for her many times after that. I never found her again.

On the morning of departure I left extremely early. I arrived at the airport hours before my flight. I decided to go straight to security and wait there. I showed my new ticket and the Consulate document.

"Come with us, please."

They took me to a room and disappeared for about ten minutes. When the officer returned, he approached me with cold politeness. "I am sorry, but this document is invalid. You cannot fly. We cannot verify that you are the person who owns this ticket.".

I felt discouraged, then asked them to check by calling the Consulate, their own offices, anyone they wanted. I needed to get home. They refused. I insisted until exhaustion, eventually convincing them to call the airline.

"All right. You can go. The document is irregular for us, but the airline said to let you through.".

That evening I collapsed into my bed and slept for almost twelve hours. The next morning I went to the local Carabinieri station. I was received by the commander, kind and attentive. He listened to the whole story and became annoyed. Unfortunately, he said, some Consulates caused more problems than they solved. They could have taken my report directly and issued me a real Italian identity card immediately. I could have walked out of that office with a valid document and all replacement procedures already started. "But they almost never do. They prefer issuing a useless piece of paper and sending you back here. And now you will also have to pay a higher fee, because the English report says stolen, while they wrote lost.".

I left the station relieved by the efficiency of the local Carabinieri and went home, finally unpacking my suitcase.

Outside, the rain had started again, with a cold, biting wind, just like in Manchester. But this time I was at home, taking care of my things in the warmth of my nest. I put the photo back inside the book, smiled, and returned it to the shelf among the English volumes, greeting it like an old travelling companion.