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.

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.

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.

And it brought a smile to my face, carried by a distant memory. It was 1998, my last year of high school, and we were on a school trip to Greece. That April evening, we were in Athens, staying in a huge hotel that also hosted school groups from other countries.

Four of us – friends, classmates – had been placed in one room. That evening, our last one, we had agreed to meet back in the room by midnight, aiming to get enough sleep for the journey home the next day. No cell phones – roaming costs were prohibitive, and we were used to being without them – so we made plans in advance and tried to stick to them. We couldn't leave the hotel, but inside, we could meet up with other friends and hang out together – peacefully.

One of my roommates and I left our room and headed towards the room of some other friends. On the way, we bumped into a group of Spanish guys and girls. We had seen them briefly before. They asked us (in Spanish – they didn't speak English, but Italians and Spaniards tend to understand each other) if we wanted to join them for a party in their friends' room. We thought about it for a second and followed them.

There were about fifteen people there. They welcomed us with typical Spanish warmth, friendly and inviting. Discovering we were Italian, they immediately started asking us to sing Eros Ramazzotti songs with them. Then we saw a large pot and gathered they were making sangria. As soon as it was ready, they offered us some. I've always drunk very little, so even on this occasion, I mostly took it not to offend them.

We all started singing together. They mangled the Italian lyrics of Eros Ramazzotti, we butchered the Spanish ones of "Hijo de la Luna," but it hardly mattered: the laughter, the fun, the sheer lightheartedness in a room of a slightly run-down Greek hotel, together with a group of Spaniards we had just met. Two of the girls were particularly friendly, trying to speak a pseudo-Italian with us. We understood some of it, guessed the rest, and had great laughs.

We got back to our room at 5. The girls, incidentally, had the room next to ours. Our roommates were worried, then suddenly incredulous, watching us return at 5 with these girls, who said goodbye with an innocent kiss before going back into their own room.

That night, for the first time in my life, I felt free. I had been myself, sharing wonderful moments with people I had just met and would likely never see again. Outside my world, my usual patterns, free from what others expected of me.

That night I understood who I wanted to be, how I wanted to live, what living truly meant. I will never forget that night for the feelings I experienced, for the very first time. That night laid the foundations for who I am today.

We exchanged phone numbers with everyone in the group, promising to send a few texts and keep in touch. A promise we all knew we wouldn't keep, perhaps except for a quick message just to say we'd arrived home safely a few days later.

That night in Athens, nothing extraordinary happened, and yet, everything changed.

That night in Athens, I became me.