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.

That afternoon in 2011, I was on top of the world. I was getting ready for a series of connected events I had been looking forward to for some time. I was going to an introductory meeting with an important potential client - one that would have allowed me to do wonderful things - and then a journey of around 150 kilometres to somewhere else, for a rather important evening, and the following morning, another work meeting. In those two days I would lay the foundations for my entire future and, after such a long time, I was truly, truly proud. I looked at myself in the mirror before leaving the house, and I liked what I saw. My smile was full, rich, bright. I decided to take a photo of myself in front of the mirror, to capture that moment.

Keys - taken. Wallet - taken. Laptop - of course. Suitcase with everything I'll need - yes. Does the car have a full tank of diesel? Yes. After closing the shutters and taking one last satisfied look at the living room, I locked up and got into the car.

The Thick as a Brick CD - to get myself going - and off. The journey went smoothly, filled with thoughts about what I would propose, how I would play it. And the meeting was a success: their situation was a disaster, and my project would give them stability within a few days. They approved it immediately, without any hesitation. In the meantime, an unexpected message had arrived, which I only saw at the end of the meeting. This message carried considerable weight - perhaps as much as the previous meeting, though in an entirely different context - and I read it twice, feeling my heartbeat shift. I arranged an evening programme, given how close my hotel was to this person.

I put on the Thick as a Brick CD again, this time turning up the volume and driving more calmly. I watched the people in the other cars and tried to read their expressions. Now and then, someone would look back at me. Who knows whether my expression gave away my emotions. What I do know is that I got a few smiles in return.

While I was comfortably overtaking, I felt something strange in my mouth. I paid no attention - I had eaten a sandwich not long before - and carried on singing. Until the moment I glanced down and saw fresh blood on my shirt. I pulled down the sun visor and looked in the mirror. My entire mouth was red, and a trickle of blood was running down my face. I opened my mouth and saw a whole pool of fresh blood, with no way of understanding where it was coming from. I froze. I turned off the music. I indicated right and pulled into the first service area I could find.

I couldn't make sense of anything. On instinct, I just thought about rinsing. I opened a small bottle of water I had brought with me, rinsed and spat out of the car door. Again and again, but the more I rinsed, the more the blood increased. The pool beside my door had become enormous, swelled by the blood diluting with water. I decided to run to the service station bathroom.

I don't like the sight of blood - but I immediately thought to bring my bag with me, with my precious laptop inside. They get stolen all the time, precisely when you're travelling alone and you step away toward the bathroom. The blood kept flowing, kept filling my mouth. That taste, that terrible taste, wouldn't leave me. I couldn't understand. The more I tried to find the source, the more agitated I became, the more it accumulated in my mouth.

I started to feel dizzy. I couldn't tell whether it was from the fright or from losing too much blood, but in either case, there was no time to work it out. I decided to sit down, not far from the sinks, on the floor. The service station was fortunately clean, and various people were coming and going. I had come from a work meeting - I was well dressed, with my bag. I was pale, my shirt stained, and visibly worried. I decided to half-close my eyes for a moment, without allowing myself to faint - and I decided that no, I was not going to die there, like that.

Meanwhile, dozens of people came and went. Lorry drivers, family men, businesspeople, young people and not so young - it was a busy service station at peak time. And I was there, worried and deeply ashamed, sitting in the corner of a motorway service station bathroom, alone, with blood coming out of my mouth. Many people saw me. Nobody asked if I needed help. I didn't need help - I would have asked - but nobody cared. Nobody alerted the staff. At best, I was invisible. At worst, someone to glance at sideways with disgust.

I could have cried - from shame, from fear, from the sense of emptiness. Then, all at once, I understood that no, I was not going to die in this corner of a service station, and that, in fact, the bleeding had stopped a few minutes ago.

I waited a moment longer and stood up. I rinsed the shirt - cold water removes fresh blood, a friend had taught me - and decided I would change it as soon as I got back to the car. Or perhaps not - what if the blood started flowing again?

I rinsed my mouth once more and returned to the car. I saw the pool of my blood beside the door, stepped over it, and continued on my way, with the headache of someone who had come close to passing out.

After about ten kilometres, I felt the taste of blood again. I opened my mouth and saw it was coming from a tooth - that wisdom tooth. It had decided to push through on exactly that day, far from home, with such important plans ahead. I reassured myself and simply managed the situation. I understood that by breathing through my mouth and letting air in, it would stop. My dear old platelets - you just have to stop rinsing them away.

Calmer, I continued my journey to my destination, my hotel. I checked in and went to my room to have a long shower. I didn't cancel the rest of my plans, but adapted accordingly. I took off the shirt, looked at it carefully, and decided that if the blood didn't come out, I would dye it a dark colour once I got home. I checked that the others were in order - they were, and I always pack at least one spare. The shower was long and relaxing. I changed into the other shirt - the one I had packed not for work, but for the evening - and checked myself in the mirror one more time before going out.

That night I fell asleep very, very late. The room was exactly as I had left it - yet somehow emptier. And no, I wouldn't have wanted to be alone. I didn't feel calm. Yes, the wisdom tooth and the bleeding seemed to have stopped hours ago - but I was alone, in an anonymous, clean, sterile hotel room. And no, I wouldn't have wanted to die there either - I thought - though this time almost mocking myself for the excessive fear of the afternoon.

When I woke the next morning, I made an unpleasant discovery: the pillow and the sheets were heavily stained with blood. I felt guilty. White sheets, a wonderfully comfortable pillow - ruined. After a shower, I went down for breakfast, making sure to eat only soft things. I went back to the room and got ready for the next appointment, though worried about this new episode of blood loss.

I went down to reception to check out. The receptionist was different from the one the previous evening: an older man, professional, with a reassuring smile - but with wrinkles that showed the smile was simply a professional habit. I handed over the room key and explained what had happened, asking to pay for the extra cleaning or any damage my blood might have caused to their linen.

All at once, his smile became real. "You can't imagine what we find in the rooms", he murmured. And he asked me to wait. After about a minute, he came back with a small white bag. "These are two gum swabs. If it happens again, place one on the affected area. It will absorb the blood and help the wound close." He wouldn't let me pay for them. I thanked him warmly and said I hoped we'd meet again. "Oh, that won't happen. Today is my last day." As he said it, though, his smile shifted, and his face settled back into the shape of his wrinkles, until the greeting for the next guest.

"I've never understood what that thing is, but I suppose it's ready to be thrown away by now?" My wife knew about my adventure on that trip, but some details were and will remain mine alone.

"Nothing, just a swab to absorb blood in case of problems with a tooth. It's fifteen years old, but I want to keep it anyway."

She asked no more questions, and carried on looking for a plaster to cover my slight abrasion.

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.

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.

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.

My mind wanders, and memories resurface. The sound of the light switch here is different, yet it brings back the dull, dry click of my first-grade classroom. On days like this, the teacher would walk in and turn on the light. It came from a single globe light hanging in the center of the room; its yellow glow tried to dissolve the grayness of the walls and the atmosphere, without ever truly succeeding.

The school was old. It felt ancient to me - built fifty years earlier and seemingly frozen in time. The desks still had holes for inkwells, the teacher’s platform was raised, and in a corner, there was still a cane for corporal punishment. In 1985, of course, no teacher would have dreamed of using it without risking jail, but it was clear that at certain moments, they looked at it with far too much longing. They likely remembered its brutal efficacy from years before. Fortunately, times had changed.

Our teacher, Eva, would enter the room sternly, always at the exact same time. The moment she stepped into the classroom, we would all stand up in silence. Through an unchangeable ritual, she would wind her mechanical alarm clock, which she used to keep track of the passing hours. I remember it as old, gray, and anonymous - its ticking marked the infinite time between arrival and dismissal more than any school bell. As a six-year-old boy, I couldn't help but smile, looking down at my vivid blue, small, efficient, and punctual digital watch, with its LCD display.

After setting her alarm, she would glare at the class and tell the children sitting near the windows to put on their coats: the old glass panes let in every draft, and the winters were colder back then. That was the year of a historic blizzard, which I still remember vividly; the air was particularly biting. She was stern, yet worried. Perhaps she wanted us to be well. Perhaps she was afraid of catching something from us.

Eva was an austere woman. She inspired fear. She seemed very old to me, though she probably wasn't. She was simply an old-fashioned woman, far removed from the modern ways of our mothers. She was perfectly in theme with the school: ancient, severe, a residue of a bygone era. Her hair, tending toward gray, was tied back behind her head. Who knows, perhaps she was nostalgic for educational methods no longer permitted. Or perhaps she was simply sad, bent by life and experience.

While we were still standing, it was time for the morning prayer. Never sit down before - NEVER! The prayer was always the same. Every single morning. For six-year-old children, it was just a repetitive, boring chant to be recited by heart. For her, however, it was a psychological support. An anchor of hope.

My mind must have filtered out much of her severity, but I remember well (partly through my mother’s stories) that almost every morning, as soon as I arrived in class, I didn't feel well. I had nausea and stomach aches. I don’t remember if I was actually sick or if I was faking it to escape the teacher, but I remember she would send me to the janitors. They would prepare a warm drink for me and have me sit next to the electric heater - I can still see the glowing red of the heating element. I remember the scent of that warm, yellow, sugary chamomile. I had realized that this was the only way to soften the teacher’s heart. Perhaps my child’s body was psychosomatizing as a defense mechanism.

My mother remembers her as having a terrible attitude - not just as a teacher, but as a person. She says she wasn't just strict; she had violent outbursts, likely not limited to the psychological level. That was one of the reasons why, in an age where a teacher usually followed a class for all five years, she only stayed for the first. I’m not sure if she was relieved of her duties or if, as was common then, she was simply transferred to another school.

I remember that, even as a child, I couldn't stop thinking about her daughter being sick. Maybe I was defending myself from the idea that her behavior was pointlessly cruel. In my mind, her daughter was a child like us, but objectively, that was impossible. To this day, I don’t know how old she was, but she certainly couldn't have been a young girl. She was likely a teenager, or perhaps older. One day, I understood that this was why Eva was so afraid of us getting sick, making us wrap up if we sat near the windows. Because once, during an outburst, she said it: "If you get sick and make me sick, I risk making my daughter sick, and it would be a tragedy. Pray for her."

Only later did I realize that this was also why she worried about me not feeling well in the mornings: she had a gravely ill daughter and was terrified of the illnesses other children carried. So, she did show a flicker of something maternal after all.

Many years later, she was admitted to the hospital ward where my mother worked, and she died there. She was old, but she hadn't lost her temperament. My mother, recognizing her, tried to talk to her, reminding her that she had been my teacher. She remembered nothing of me. Scornfully, she replied: "Signora, I taught thousands of children; I certainly can't remember them all. Especially since the school took away the tools to keep them in line.". I wasn't a child who needed to be "kept in line" - perhaps that’s why she had forgotten me.

Normal people often go unnoticed. They live their lives, do their things, and try not to disturb anyone. When it seems the world is dominated by the malicious, I think they are just louder and more influential, but I like to believe the majority consists of positive people, focused on constructive things or, at the very least, on not bothering others. Silent, sometimes. Effective, always.

Even today, when I try to tell my mother that my memories of her are mostly defined by compassion for her sick daughter, her response is sibylline: "I'm glad you think that way. Sometimes, the mind protects us.". She is convinced her attitude didn't stem from the daughter's illness, but preceded it. She is certain. She sees the humidity; I see the mist.

I will probably never ask her for the details. I prefer to keep living in my cushioned memories, thinking of an old, gray school, in a cold, gray classroom, with a dim light that couldn't quite dampen the grayness of the room, and an old, gray, decaying teacher.

Eva was simply in theme with the entire school.

Together with some former colleagues, she had organized a set of decorations to add to the local parish's Christmas display. They had created something beautiful. Perhaps not in my style, but certainly valid, appropriate, and fit for the purpose. When they decided to bring everything to the parish, despite having announced the work in progress, they received an unwelcome surprise. A person who, over the years, has self-appointed herself as the manager of the local community's activities, rejected it as "not in line with her idea of decoration". Even though, in fact, her idea wasn't even clear yet. But this one was rejected from the start - knowing this person, simply because it wasn't her own production.

This phenomenon is not isolated. Having grown up in the city and lived in larger urban areas, these types of situations remained fairly unknown to me. Yes, I witnessed figures who sought visibility and importance in local communities (religious or otherwise) clearly more for image purposes than actual positivity of spirit, but in the end, I didn't pay them much mind. But since I started looking more closely at the dynamics of smaller towns, this phenomenon stands out much more.

There are figures, if not entire families, whose existence (and, in some cases, economic subsistence) relies almost exclusively on the accounts of the community itself. And while this phenomenon exists in all sectors, I find it particularly grave when it happens in contexts where morality should reign supreme. And precisely in religious contexts, which in our country are seeing increasingly reduced numbers, partly due to a shortage of priests, partly due to the disgust that certain dynamics arouse in people approaching with positive intentions - these families live, almost imposing themselves, as if it were their personal fiefdom.

Priests, often busy with other things (or simply disinterested), let it slide. Sometimes these are intergenerational situations, crystallized over decades. The power of these families is stronger than that of the priests themselves, and I have personally witnessed priests being removed just for trying to "unhinge" certain opaque systems managed by such families.

Both by my observant nature and through my work, I witness many things, and these phenomena, once unknown to me, are now clear as daylight. Masks of goodness but, precisely, only masks. And the most serious part is that often these people truly believe they are acting in the right way, like royals who are such by birthright, and feel better than everyone else. Their opinion is law, even when it hinders the true nature of the community. The positive nature that the parish, as such, should spread throughout the territory.

Even if, in fact, they steal - using their power to divert funds towards their own interests. Even if, in fact, they act in the name of morality, but for them, morality coincides with their private ambitions. Because when a politician does it, it is serious; but when a person does it in the name of the soul, morality, and religion (and remains convinced of being in the right), in my opinion, it is even worse.

And here a reflection arises: hypocrisy has millions of masks. Ranging from the most innocent to the most grave. Because if they act in the name of religion, it is no longer hypocrisy but "divine right". An association triggers in their minds: active in church equals always right. Better than others because they cross that threshold in a "privileged" capacity.

But pride is a sin. They should know this, more than anyone else. But the conditional tense, in this case, is mandatory. They are not proud. They are the fulcrums of the parish. The guardian angels. Yet they are left stunned when someone points out to them that, according to the very religion they fill their mouths with, the brightest angel was Lucifer himself. I personally witnessed two figures, totally oblivious to all this, badmouthing people simply for not having donated "enough" to the parish for their "religious holiday" fund. Obviously, a fund for their own group.

Hypocrisy has many masks. The most common is precisely that of sanctimony. The smile, many promises, high-sounding words but nothing, or almost nothing, in reality. Unless it is for their own gain. Unless it is to feed their ego. Unless it is to cleanse their consciences.

I reassured the lady. She did a good job; she put in the effort. She was widowed young, her children are adults and live far away, she has health problems and is very lonely. This activity gave her a reason to approach the holidays with pride and a sense of purpose. She is a strong person, and the disappointment of the moment will transform into something positive. She thanked me with a smile and started walking again, a little more relieved and a little less sad.

I looked to my right and realized I was right in front of the facility that I served with passion for a few years. The owner was a man I perceived as elderly at the time, though he was actually under 70. He was, however, worn out by a hard life that had taken its toll on his body, but not his spirit. His spirit was innovative; he looked ahead. He wanted Open Source software and wanted to contribute to development. Much in the same way that, for many years, he had contributed to the well-being of his employees.

All of them spoke highly of him and his family. There weren't many of them, and he knew their families too. When a worker's wife was about to give birth, he told him "not to show up at work until he came back as a father". When an employee's mother was on her deathbed and he showed up for work, he sent him home. "You have something more important to do these days". And every time a new employee was hired, he would organize a reception (with plenty of food) for everyone. Because it was a celebration for everyone.

Those were different times, different years. It was a different kind of entrepreneurship. He would arrive every morning in his old company Volkswagen Golf. It was sufficient. It was fine. He had no reason to desire anything else.

I was struck by how, when it was time to upgrade the internal network, many volunteered to help pull the cables. And it was like that for any internal activity: they collaborated with passion. Not everyone was like that, of course, but this gentleman was happy with his employees. He never called them a family: "Families are the people they choose to share their lives with. Here we can be colleagues, friends at most. But never enemies". There were issues, naturally. But they were always resolved serenely, thanks to his wise mediation.

When the earthquake struck in 2012, his headquarters was severely damaged. I passed by that morning and saw the scene: a large crack on one side, broken windows, debris on the ground. He was outside, looking at it all with his hands on his head. Motionless, silent. I decided not to disturb him and drove on, passing by again over half an hour later. He was still there, so I approached. He looked at me without saying a word, but I understood everything. In the meantime, the Firefighters arrived and began their checks, asking us to move away for safety reasons.

As we stepped back, some of his employees arrived. But he wanted to be alone, for the first time in over 50 years.

The damage was less severe than it appeared. Nothing structural, only aesthetic. Following a more thorough check, they could have returned to the building. Reassured, he still decided to keep his employees at home (paid, of course) for a few more days. "Your families need you in these complex days. We will resume production next week". And so it was.

There was another strong tremor, almost ten days later. And this time, the cracks were far greater than before. Everyone rushed out of the building and, at that very moment, they saw a chimney stack detach from the roof and crush the old Golf. Which is still there, almost 14 years later.

The Firefighters returned but, this time, the verdict was much harsher. Only the offices were usable - but not the production area.

The last time I entered the offices, I went to disconnect the servers and make a full copy of the data onto external drives. He was too old and too tired to start over. He had worked hard to ensure each of his employees found a job at least equal to the one they had with him. He had paid off all suppliers and declared the business closed. But the State insisted on taxes that, according to him, were not due. And this would have meant only one thing: the seizure of what the business still had, namely this now unproductive and useless structure.

He knew that the next day they would arrive to seal the building and he would never be able to set foot in that place again. And I accompanied him on this last journey. Rising for the last time from his chair, the same one he had used for over 50 years, he wanted to leave it in his favorite position: facing the large window from which he watched the cultivated fields, "recognizing the seasons by their colors, scents, and sounds". That chair deserved to stay there, almost waiting for his impossible return.

He died two years later. The building is still there - with seals now faded - and the chair is still in the same position. Waiting for his return. Waiting for its final destination.

Green. It’s time to move on.

So we started visiting flea markets, antique shops, and secondhand stores, searching for pieces that might interest me. The goal wasn't to find something of great value (quite the opposite!), but something I liked, something with a particular, fitting quality. Websites, online auctions... everything. For a time, it became a mission: to find and save mechanical clocks, hanging them on walls or placing them on furniture to keep them from being destroyed. These were once precious instruments, loved by their owners, instruments that undoubtedly accompanied joyful waits and moments of anguish. At times, I imagine mothers watching them, worried, waiting for their children to return home. I imagine the rituals of winding them, carefully marked in time. I imagine how many eyes must have received a precious piece of information - one we take for granted today - by watching those hands, listening to that escapement, or hearing those chimes.

We found a few - and then a few more, and more after that. But one, in particular, caught my attention. It was for sale at a reasonable price, but the ad specified that it would only be sold "to a person who would take care of it". Intrigued, I called and arranged an appointment.

An elegant, kind woman greeted us. She wanted to talk for a while and then decided that yes, the clock could be mine. I saw it in person, hanging in an elegant room with some obvious gaps in the furniture. She explained that it had been her grandfather's house, then her father's, and finally, hers and her husband's. The clock had been in that house for nearly 100 years; it had marked her father's entire existence, and her own, and they were deeply attached to it. Her husband had it restored by a professional in the '70s - a conservative restoration that remains beautiful to this day.

The mechanism needed work. It kept time, but the springs likely needed to be replaced or rewound. One was broken. The small hammers were worn by time and chimes, like the lady's face, which was clearly marked by recent hardships and sadness.

She explained that her husband had passed away a few years earlier and that, facing the most difficult phase of her life, she had decided to move closer to her daughter, who lived in a distant city. A city with such high prices that to afford a small apartment, she had to use up all her savings. For this reason, she had decided to sell the family home, now dated and empty. But before doing so, she wanted to "assign" every single piece she held dear (and which was impossible to place in the new house) only to people she felt she could trust. I was one of the fortunate few, and I went home with the new clock.

As soon as I got home, I examined it closely. Yes, the mechanism was in order but needed some attention. I made some minor adjustments within the limits of my knowledge, intending to give it a proper overhaul later.

The clock has been hanging in a central place in one of our rooms for almost 10 years now. Every time I walk past it, I think of this story, of how important it was, and of the lady's sadness.

A couple of years ago, I decided to send her a photo - to reassure her of the clock's place. Her WhatsApp account, however, was no longer active. Who knows, maybe the lady changed her number. Or perhaps she has rejoined her loved ones, telling them about all the objects they left behind.

To strangers, perhaps. But to people who, in their own way, will love them as much as they were loved in the past by those who cared for them for many, many years.

Many young people ride by on their bikes, often with a portable speaker. They listen to the classic trap music, feeling rebellious, yet in reality, conforming more than they probably realize. But they're young, and this is the rite of passage for every generation, so it's perfectly fine.

One evening, like so many others, I hear a familiar tune in the distance. Summertime, in the Janis Joplin version. I look up, curious, expecting to see a cheerful older man, but surprisingly, it was a young man pedaling by, singing softly to himself, relaxed. I smile. He doesn't see me, lost in his pedaling and his own world. Serene.

The same scene repeats the next evening, this time with The Doors. The Crystal Ship, once again sung quietly but, from the movement of his lips, with clear intention. I realize it wasn't a coincidence. And so it continued for three more days, curiously always with classic bands or tracks that I also love: The Rolling Stones, The Mamas & the Papas, PFM.

On the fourth day, I didn't sit in my usual spot. Instead, my wife and I went to a nearby bar for a refreshing drink a little earlier. He was there with his group of friends, making plans for the evening. As they were saying their goodbyes, I overheard a classic teenage line: "Yeah, but just don't bother us later with that shit music of yours".

He replied calmly: "I like it".

I didn't hear anything else.

The next day, I was back in my usual spot, without my laptop, just relaxing and chatting with my wife. Suddenly, I hear a melody I recognized instantly: Child in Time. The young man was pedaling, smiling, pure, energetic. Free.

That same place. A cassette Walkman and those same songs, but many years earlier. A boy pedaling happily, with the wind in his hair and so many dreams to chase, while the music - his music - accompanied him on his journey.

I smiled. I felt a deep human connection to him.

Fly on, stranger kid. Let yourself be carried by the sounds you love. Don't be swayed by others, just live. Dream. Smile. Always be yourself, do what you love. And never stop saying so.

Make your own kind of music.

And that is why, on these evenings, my wife and I often go out. A stroll, savoring the lights, the colors, the sounds, and the scents that we have always, inextricably, linked to summer.

On Friday evening, one of these venues was playing music, with a great many people dancing. We, on our stroll, stopped to watch. People of all ages, strangers to one another, but united by the same feeling: the desire to relax, to have fun, together.

We stood and watched for a while, entertained by the music, by the constant, pungent smell of toasted bread, of cotton candy, by the sound of corks, deftly removed from bottles. By the contagion of the laughter and the movements (often clumsy, but spontaneous) of the people taking part. By life itself.

Suddenly, the music stops, to everyone's amazement. A few seconds of silence. The gazes of strangers meet. Everyone asks the same question, beyond any language barrier. Suddenly: "Is there a doctor here?". Silence again. The gazes, now, are worried and frightened. Those who did not understand the question, understood the atmosphere. No one steps forward. That silence, at that point, seemed as if it would never end.

A murmur begins. A young woman had felt unwell. "She's a young woman with cognitive disabilities - she had an epileptic seizure". Once again, worried and silent glances, yet deafening in their intensity. Passersby begin to draw closer, curious. Interminable moments.

And yet, in a few seconds, something happens. All the 'dancers' join together. They form a circle, their backs to the young woman in distress. Protection. They did not organize themselves; it happened instinctively.

Many took out their smartphones, but for one purpose: to call the emergency services immediately. No photos, no videos, no attempt to sensationalize the moment. Composure, respect. Protection. The paramedics arrive, and the wall opens and closes again.

After a few minutes, the young woman is accompanied by a friend toward her hotel. Visibly confused and frightened, she was nonetheless doing better. The paramedics, as they left, reassured everyone: "She's going to be fine. It was just a bad quarter of an hour".

The group disperses, each person returning to their own table. Without another word, without another glance.

I then lived for a few years in a house in a busy area again, and I decided I would move to a quieter place.

Without listing the subsequent steps, I eventually arrived at my current home, in a quiet area. But here I've come to know a new phenomenon. It doesn't just concern this place but, in general, all the non-urban places I've frequented in recent years: the constant use of cars for laughable distances.

Saturday afternoon, with a bit of peace and 30 degree Celsius weather, I lay down on my bed for a bit after lunch, intending to rest a little, with the window open. The Azores High, increasingly rare in Italy lately (the African anticyclone, much more humid and hot, has been dominant in recent years), gave that sense of peace. I could hear the late spring birdsong, the warm air caressing my hai... er... face, the peace of a Saturday afternoon. All of this was continually interrupted by car noises.

I went to the window to watch and noticed that, in the end, it was the same 3 or 4 cars constantly passing back and forth. Many of my neighbours, like many residents in small towns, take the car even to go 200 meters.

And I remembered a time, a few years ago, when I made a sort of bet with my father-in-law: my wife and I would walk from his house to the pizzeria (a few hundred meters away) while he would drive. He went out, got into his car, and only then did we set off. We arrived at the door, and he was still maneuvering to park.

I wonder: why have people in small towns, or generally outside large cities, developed this dependence on cars even for minimal journeys? Is it habit? A perceived lack of alternatives? Laziness? A status symbol?

Many of them, when I've brought up the subject, couldn't give an answer. Perhaps in small towns, thanks to the ease of parking, there's still that very 20th-century philosophy of "only those who can't afford a car walk". But I'm not sure.

What makes me smile is that often people who live outside the city do so for peace and fresh air... and then they pollute and make noise just to go a hundred meters from home.

Sometimes, human beings are truly curious creatures to study.