Childhood memories stay imprinted in the mind far, far longer than those accumulated in adulthood.

In the square full of columns where that footage was shot, I used to go often with my grandmother, as a child, to the fruit and vegetable market - with that strong, distinctive scent of a herb market. As a teenager, I would sit on those low walls and lean against those columns with my friends, talking about the things teenagers talk about, dreaming and living. Those columns, like other corners of that city, were my world. And the pizzeria nearby, which tempted us every afternoon with the fragrance of freshly baked focaccia.

Ancient cities have a particular quality: they remain unchanged in space and time, allowing memories to reinforce their own persistence. There was a phase of my life when that city was perfect. I knew almost all my peers, at least by sight. All I had to do was step out at half past six in the evening, walk into the centre, and run into someone to exchange a few words with or take a stroll. No appointments needed - we all knew that if we were free, we only had to go into the centre and we would find each other, and then make plans from there. Mobile phones either didn't exist or were still expensive and primitive, and yet social life existed all the same.

When the time came to go to university, many kilometres away, it felt like a trauma. I knew something would change - who knows, perhaps forever - and I decided to cling to my old life. Every weekend I took the train back, even if only for forty-eight hours, to keep living my life - that life - which I had earned with so much effort and which was slipping through my fingers. Some of my friends had stayed in the area; others hadn't moved far, choosing universities nearby or going straight into work.

A few months in, on the train, I was so excited about a dinner organised at one of their houses that I had jotted down notes about the countless things that had happened to me in Bologna during that period - things I couldn't wait to share. I arrived right on time, busied myself helping out - nothing was supposed to change - until we sat down at the table. The conversation drifted across the usual topics, the usual people, and when I took the floor to talk about my experiences, the conversation dropped shortly after. I didn't think much of it - conversations have a life of their own, take unexpected turns. The second time, when directly asked, I started again, and again the conversation dropped.

I was stunned: the lapse, I realised, was not accidental. So I fell quiet, participating half-heartedly in the usual talk about the usual people, the usual places, the usual things. At the end of dinner, a couple of friends who had also moved away - to Milan, for their studies - came over and, pulling me aside, said something that stopped me cold: "They're not interested in what we're doing outside of here. Those who stayed have no interest in what happens to us out there. Some out of a kind of resentment, others simply out of genuine indifference. Their whole world is here - and what we do beyond it is, for them, completely irrelevant."

I realised they were absolutely right. Even when we had greeted each other at the start of dinner, after weeks apart, no one had asked: "So, how's your new life going?" They had continued seeing each other often, but I had stayed away for a while, held back by exams. This seemed to produce no variation on the theme whatsoever. I ran a social experiment: I took the floor again and shared a piece of local gossip. In that moment I had their complete attention - everyone, and I mean everyone, hung on my every word until the very last detail. I went home incredulous. What I had feared had probably come to pass - my life had changed, yes, but not so dramatically. But for them, my life was now different, outside their circle of interest, and in that moment foreign to them, unless it aligned entirely with their expectations. My determination not to cut the umbilical cord only worked if my social life revolved around events that had happened between Friday and Sunday. If something strange had happened to me on a Wednesday in Bologna - indifference. If I had a funny story - silence. If instead I had mentioned that a former classmate had broken up with his girlfriend - total attention. The whole train journey, then, served only to feed in me the illusion of a continuity that was already compromised. I concluded the effort was one-sided, and gradually, I let go.

But I didn't give up on reclaiming what was mine. As soon as I graduated - though I was already teaching and working - I set about finding a way to get closer again. To return to my city. And this desire was so strong that it didn't allow me, at least back then, to consider Bologna as a permanent home in any way. I hadn't even bothered to adapt, to make too many friends - "I'll be going back to my city soon."

Having kept good relations with everyone, I immediately started sending out CVs. Letting people know - friends, acquaintances, contacts - that I was ready to come back, ready to start from the bottom if needed, just to return.

Many pretended not to hear. Others called me in for interviews - and when they understood what I wanted and what I could do, they dismissed me with a flat "you're overqualified for what we're looking for." I was told my skills exceeded those of the owner, and that was completely inconceivable. I tried to enter a public competition - nothing doing: the role required a diploma in IT subjects. A degree, though a higher qualification, would not be valid. And a strong knowledge of French was required - though no one could explain why. I understood. Later, I discovered the competition had been tailored specifically for someone who was always going to get the role. My interest had only "complicated things." Undeterred, I pressed on - until I reached the encouraging offer: "You work for me for three years for free, I sell the service. If I make enough, I'll pay you. Otherwise we part ways - you're young, you have time." When I asked for more details about what "enough" meant, the person grew irritated and ended the conversation quickly, calling me a "presumptuous kid."

Meanwhile, in Bologna I had a dream salary and was doing work I loved. In a city that was not "mine", where I knew no one, but where people actually wanted to use my skills. Since part of my work involved training funded by European grants, I decided to try bringing that kind of training to my city. They already had IT courses - the classic "How to use Windows to write in Word" kind. I would simply bring what I was doing in Bologna, manage everything myself, adding value without taking anything away from anyone. No one listened. Determined, I spoke to an influential person and put forward my proposal. He told me, in all honesty, that this type of course had "always" been run by an elderly engineer, now in his eighties, and that there was no interest in expanding these projects into more modern forms. "If you want, I can look into it and try to speak to a politician, but I can't promise anything. Even if it's paid for by European funds."

That afternoon I drove for 30 kms and sat by my sea. It was moving at just the right pace - that steady, rhythmic sound, the smell of the shoreline and the fine mist of salt that clings to your lips, so that when you run your tongue across them you can taste it too. And I understood, beyond any doubt, that my life would not be in that city.

Almost all of my friends - the ones who didn't have their own businesses in the city - were now scattered across the world. The results had been the same for all of us. The ancient walls were still there, but "my people" were gone. My city no longer existed. Perhaps it had never quite existed at all. Or perhaps simply the fourth dimension - time - had erased what had made it so desirable to me. And I stopped trying, with the bitterness of someone who understands that the dream was always a pale illusion.

I don't go back to my city very often. Sometimes years pass between one visit and the next, because the feeling is divided: on one side, the sweet pleasure of memories. On the other, the sharp sting of rejection. Not of me, but of improvement, of change. The city continues, even today, to live in a self-referential closure, where many of its more ambitious children have found their paths far away, while those who remain indifferent to what happens beyond its walls keep speaking to the instincts of those who stayed. The population is in freefall.

When I speak today with someone who remained, that person still carries that sense of quiet resentment - as if the fault for all of this were mine, and the fault of everyone who left. But I don't hold it against them. They live inside a bubble made of former glory - family businesses, public sector jobs, privileged positions. They have never seen or experienced what it means to want to be, in some way, part of something important. So I have stopped defending myself too, because my city - if it ever existed in the form I knew it - has been gone for over twenty-five years. The market hasn't been held in that square for a long time now. The pizzeria on the corner has closed.

Now it is their city.

Beautiful, to visit. But not mine.

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.

And yet, I used to be a tennis player. Not professionally, of course, but I trained consistently for about ten years - from the age of 8 to 18.

It wasn’t always enjoyable. I started because I was forced to, and I did it almost unwillingly. And it showed. And yet, those were wonderful years, and many lessons from that time have stayed with me to this day. One of them: respect.

In tennis, you don’t “trip” your opponent. If you win a point by hitting the net cord, you apologize. Some do it as a formality, others because they truly feel it. And after the match, players leave the court together, with deep respect and friendship. A contest of skill and physical form, not a battle for dominance. That’s the spirit tennis taught me.

Of course, it’s not always like that, and not for everyone. But there were three events, over the years, that left a mark on me.

The first, when I was very young - probably around 10 or 11. I didn’t feel like playing, and I was only doing it because I had to. It showed. Suddenly, my instructor stopped the training and hit the ball to the far end of the court. She called me over and, without sugarcoating it, said: “If you don’t feel like playing, leave. It’s disrespectful - to the sport, to me, to the others. No one is forcing you. This is not the way to approach it. Respect those who are here with you, always”.

I was crushed - because she was right. I realized how disrespectful, rude, offensive, and stupid I had been. I apologized, and from that moment on, I approached training with the commitment it deserved. Always remembering to show respect to those who were giving me their time.

But it took a few more years - when I joined a pre-competitive group - before I truly felt the spirit of it. Maybe, as a kid, I was missing the motivation: the group, the sense of growing together. Things changed, and from then on, I trained almost every day. Two days of athletic conditioning, and the rest on the court. Summer and winter, in the rain and in the snow. With others. An adventure to live together - people of different ages, similar skill levels, a shared passion. Friends, teammates. Those were wonderful years, with wonderful people.

But, I’ll admit, I was doing it more for the group, for the experience, than for the sport itself. Sure, I liked it, and I had gotten decent at it, but I was far from the best. I didn’t have the right mindset - certainly better than before, but still not the right one. When there were tournaments, I didn’t sign up. My goal wasn’t to rise, but to share a spirit.

And yet, once, during a training match, after my fourth mistake in a row, I had a burst of anger. Extremely rare for me. Frustrated, I threw my racket to the ground. Not violently, but with a good dose of anger. My instructor (still her, my Teacher) looked at me, eyes locked on mine, disappointed: “Out.” She kicked me off the court. Because no, you don’t do that. If I made mistakes, I had to focus more. Or maybe it was just a bad day. But throwing the racket? No. It’s important to stay calm, to manage anger, not to be overwhelmed by frustration. On the court, and in life. Because if nerves, anger, resentment pass a certain point, things can only go downhill - in sports, and in life.

I lost the match like that, to the disappointment of both myself and the person on the other side of the net. I left the court, looking at the racket (now with a few extra scratches), reflecting on what had happened. In the moment, I was still too angry to think clearly, so I just followed orders - but a few hours later, I fully processed it. It never happened again.

I stopped training and playing when I left for university. There were two reasons, but they were somewhat overlapping: moving to a new city meant a new group, new instructors, and I would have to juggle that with a much more intense academic schedule than in high school. In my first year, I had classes every day, all in the afternoon (from 13 or 14 until 19, if I remember correctly), so it would have been extremely difficult - if not impossible - to balance everything. I decided it wasn’t worth it, priority-wise. Especially in light of something that had happened a few months earlier.

Our training group was tight-knit: we were training partners, but some of us were true friends. We would hang out outside the court, go on outings together, etc. A really beautiful bond had formed. One day, for instance, I ran into one of them by chance, and we decided to go home together since our friends were staying longer. I was on my Vespa, not driving a car (I expected a lot of traffic and was still a bit unsteady behind the wheel), so we left together, riding through mountain roads, talking about everything, and having a lovely “journey” of friendship.

The next day, during tennis training, a match was arranged (again, just a practice match) between us, and we started playing. I was focused, but I could tell the other person had a different intensity. Much stronger than mine - bordering on unsportsmanlike. Anyone who’s played tennis knows there are certain shots, certain tactics, certain little tricks that show when someone is trying to put you in trouble in a subtle way. And that’s what she was doing.

During a break (we were more or less even), I asked why she was being so aggressive - the answer was clear and blunt: “We may be friends, but when there’s a match, there are no friendships.” True, in a way. But it really hurt me. A match? I would have called it a confrontation, a friendly challenge, especially since it was just training (mainly physical training). Sure, it wasn’t to be taken lightly, but still - no need to be that aggressive.

I kept playing, and her intensity kept rising. I didn’t understand. Something was up. I talked to the coach during the next break. She smiled and explained: they were evaluating who to move into a new amateur/competitive group the following year. There wasn’t a set number of spots, but the idea was to organize some local tournaments. Not a career in tennis - the truly talented and motivated ones were already in other groups, playing all over the country - but just a more focused approach. And clearly, she had decided that this was something she wanted. So much so that she never told me - the day before, during our long chat - hoping that keeping it a secret would give her a better shot. And now she was playing almost dirty to prove how much she wanted it. To show she deserved it much more than I.

It was a bitter disappointment. Because for me, it was all about the group, the environment, the atmosphere. For her, that didn’t matter as much. Sure, she was a bit younger than me, so she still had time before facing the same choice I was approaching (whether to continue or stop once university came). Sure, tennis is ultimately an individual sport more than a team one. But none of us were real competitors. None of us would become champions. So, personally, I would never have pulled a stunt like that - especially not against someone I had such a deep and long-standing friendship with. Years of friendship.

I won the match. Because at that point, I played with anger. With energy, with tactics, with strategy. With disappointment, with regret, with sadness. I played to win, and I did. Without saying why. Without showing that I knew. When I scored the final point, I approached my opponent to shake hands and leave together. But to my surprise, she slammed her racket on the ground and walked away without a word, visibly angry. She didn’t expect me to win. She didn’t expect me to react that way. She thought she could beat me, shine in front of the coaches. Instead, she showed ambition - but not integrity.

My instructor, my Teacher, came up to me. She had known me for almost ten years and had seen me play thousands of times by then. She just said this, with a smile halfway between proud and disappointed: “You’re a bastard. Look at what you just did. If you played like this all the time…”

It was the smile of someone who had watched the transformation - from the unmotivated kid to the focused, fast, athletic and committed teenager. But she also knew why I had done it. And she knew it wouldn’t happen again. And she was right. I had won - but not with the right spirit. So she didn’t suggest me for the new group, even though, in her opinion, I had all the necessary qualities. Except for the mindset, of course.

That person joined the group, but didn’t last long. Too much ambition can backfire. And that episode marked the end of our friendship. We stayed on good terms, but just as acquaintances. Then I left for university, and we lost touch.

She never knew that I knew. She never knew how disappointed I was by her behavior. The next day, during athletic training, we both pretended nothing had happened. But nothing was ever the same.

Tennis is a noble sport. It taught me so much, and it’s thanks to tennis and the people who guided me that I am who I am - especially in the parts of my character I’m most proud of. But I could never have been a competitive player.

Because for me, tennis has always been about confrontation, never combat.

Tennis taught me to respect others - and myself. And that, more than any trophy, is what I carry with me.

This isn't a BSDCan report, but a general reflection that emerged after participating in the event itself. There's the event, but there's me inside it.

The first question I received, when I went to greet the BSD community present in the days before the conference (there for the FreeBSD dev summit and tutorials) was asked by someone I deeply respect and admire, extremely active and positive for the entire BSD world. "Where have you been for the last 20 years?"

Off the cuff, I replied that I'd been busy doing things, but the truth (which I clarified the next day) is that I didn't feel ready to be an "active" member of the community itself. And the reasons are many, too many and too personal to be expressed here, but at the core there's a specific reason: I didn't feel up to it. Perhaps a form of impostor syndrome - without wanting to put a name to it, basically I felt like a tiny gnat among a group of giants.

I'm not an operating systems developer or an expert dev, I don't work at a company with thousands of servers, I'm not an ISP and I don't work for one. What could I have said or done, me, among them? And for so many years, I witnessed wars of every kind - online and not only - between people (even experts) who, just to excel, feel entitled to mistreat or offend others.

I didn't feel up to it. I didn't feel worthy of participating in conferences or events with people of this level. Except then, every time, I would look with sadness and healthy envy at all the reports, videos, and images of those who had participated instead.

I missed wonderful conferences, fantastic locations, but especially the opportunity to interact, years ago already, with amazing people - some of whom, unfortunately, are no longer with us.

When last September I participated in EuroBSDCon in Dublin, I understood that I had gotten everything wrong and that I hadn't fully grasped how wonderful the BSD community was, made up of real and respectful people, people who, like me, want to share their ideas, experiences, projects, and intentions with openness and respect.

And from here, an even stronger feeling took root inside me. Namely, that it's important to live life and leave nothing untried. If we want to do something, as long as it doesn't harm others, let's do it. Time flows and what's past doesn't come back.

In my case, it's not too late. BSD Conferences will continue to happen, year after year, and I'm already excited and preparing for the next EuroBSDCon - after all, it's only three months away. Because the people who organize them, the people who participate, and the entire BSD community in general have much in common with my way of seeing technology, software, and life.

I had the honor (and terror) of speaking right after Margo Seltzer, but everyone put me at ease. English isn't my native language and I was still a bit dazed from jet lag, but seeing BSD world friends sitting and ready to listen to what I had to say gave me the push to speak, to talk, to tell and tell about myself. And the feedback was really positive - many came to talk to me and share their experiences, ideas, and thoughts. In a healthy and positive way. Making me feel extremely comfortable.

Some speakers cited my talk, sharing the passion and enthusiasm. Unexpected, extremely appreciated.

I'm not a particularly extroverted person. I like to talk and communicate, but deep down, I'm shy. And I saw many shy people, both in Dublin and Ottawa, participate in the event without having any problems. Because the BSD community doesn't force anyone to be talkative but cares that everyone can be comfortable. Just as I should have done 20 years ago, going to attend conferences, in the serenity of being able to be myself.

I lost something wonderful for 20 years, but it's not too late.

Live life. Don't postpone, don't feel uncomfortable, don't worry about being judged by others. Overcome fears, overcome hesitations. Because one day you'll be disappointed about what you wanted to do and didn't do, but you'll never be disappointed for having at least tried.

For me, BSDCan was this: going to Canada for the first time, the journey, the preparation, the anxiety before my presentation and the relaxation, peace, and joy in the subsequent phases, talking with fantastic people and always feeling at ease.

Unless there are particular problems, I won't miss it. Because life must be lived and we must do what makes us feel good, finding ourselves among friends talking about the things that unite us. Without limits, without geography, without narrow ideologies.

Let's focus on what we like, on what we have in common.

Live life. Every single day.

We met up and stayed at the table until very late. We had many years of catching up to do. Their little girl, to whom I used to bring a small gift every time they invited me for pizza at their place (which happened often, knowing I lived alone), is now a teenager with her own life. I wonder if she remembers anything about me – they say she does; maybe it's true, or maybe they're just being kind.

It was a wonderful evening filled with memories, laughter, updates, and future plans. The goal was to see each other again soon and, as often happens with old friends, that familiar ease was still there, as if not even a week had passed, despite the decade that had gone by.

And this wonderful evening, this rediscovered warmth, brought back vivid memories of a time when their friendship shone brightest: the night of 20 May 2012 – exactly thirteen years ago, today.

As often happened back then, on the evening of 19 May 2012, I went to bed very late. I read a book on my Kindle, then browsed something on my smartphone. I turned off the light around 1:15. I barely had time to drift off when I felt an earthquake tremor. I was born in a seismic zone, so I'm used to them, but I was living in an area considered non-seismic. It's the classic human error: to consider distant events in time (even if repeated) as things of the past, not cyclical. But I didn't know that yet.

I picked up my phone again. I thought, "If we felt it like this here, I wonder what the epicenter (which must be far away) must have felt!". But, after a few minutes, nothing appeared on any website. I decided to turn it off and go back to sleep.

04:04 – I wake up with the bed shaking violently. I hear the sound of shattering glass (I'd later discover it was glasses in various neighbors' homes), objects falling in the house, alarms blaring, collapses – and these were my main concern, as I couldn't pinpoint their origin. I sit up in bed and turn on the light. A few seconds later, the power goes out, plunging me back into darkness. I wait – even though the tremor seemed endless. I trusted in the recent construction of the house (built just 4 years prior) and the good work done by the builder.

As soon as this first jolt ended, the power came back on, though only for a short time. Meanwhile, I threw something on over my pajamas and headed outside. Despite it being late May, it was a cold night. The power came back on again, and the earth started to shake once more, almost as violently as before.

All the neighbors rushed outside – I have a bit of experience, unlike most of them, and in the general panic, I suggested we move away from the roofs: in such cases, the probability of a chimney or tiles falling is high, so the safest place was undoubtedly the parking lot at the end of the street, with nothing overhead.

The tremors continued, one after another, along with the sounds of nearby and distant collapses. As soon as the situation calmed down a bit and the first light of morning began to help, a neighbor and I did a rough external reconnaissance. We saw nothing unusual. The phones, both voice/SMS lines and data, were all down. The only thing working was the fixed ADSL internet connection (so, cable or Wi-Fi). I immediately sent a message (and email) to reassure my parents who, I knew, would be getting up shortly for work and would hear the news on TV. "Strong earthquake, we've all been in the street since 4 – no problems, house seems okay too".

I went back inside and started making breakfast, turning on the TV to get the news. There was only a small ticker at the bottom, a preview: "Magnitude 5.9 earthquake North of Bologna". The tremors, though frequent, were of varying intensity but definitely less severe than the first one.

I hear the doorbell. It's my friend/neighbor. He starts yelling for me to get out, to join them. He's worried about me. He put himself at risk, coming back towards the houses, just to find me and call out.

I reassured him. I went back to my breakfast, then, calmly, went outside again. After a few minutes, an SMS arrived from dear friends who live about 100 km away; they too had been woken up and had run into the street (despite being far from the epicenter, which was about 8 km from my house). Having read about the epicenter, they wanted news from me and were ready to get in their car and rush over. All good, I reassured them. But they started insisting I join them and get away. I declined. I wasn't afraid.

The day passed amidst SMS messages, calls, news, and tremors of varying strength. I took the car out – and saw devastation and collapses everywhere. Meanwhile, my friends/neighbors kept checking on me to see if everything was alright. It was, more for me than for them.

Evening arrived. Everyone organized to sleep outside their homes. Some in tents, others had moved away from the epicenter; my friends/neighbors went to sleep in their car in the parking lot of the nearby shopping center – an area where Protezione Civile had set up some stands for the displaced. They insisted I go with them, parking our cars close together, for peace of mind. I declined. I would sleep at home. On the sofa, next to the front door, but at home. In case of strong tremors, I'd rush out. But I preferred to stay in my house.

The night passed fairly quietly, with many tremors waking me (some quite noticeable) but without events like the previous night. At dawn, I got up and opened the windows. Shortly after, my friends/neighbors arrived, looking for me. They wanted to make sure I was okay. They wanted to make sure everything was alright.

When I left that house, my real sorrow was losing the closeness with these people. Because, in a moment like that, their first thought was to make sure I was okay. Even risking their own safety.

I hope it won't be another 10 years before we see each other again. We have some great plans, and I'll do my best to make them happen as soon as possible.