Sylvester

The sky has been clear the whole day, the air chilly and sparkling, the winter sun shining as much as it could afford. Enough to make one regret that it's the last day of the year.

For once, a peaceful handover to the new year. No sensational discoveries, no exotic destinations, no exciting encounters.

In this hamlet on the side of a forgotten mountain in South Europe, a blood red sunset closes dramatically the show of another year in our lives. A good one or a bad one? If 2010 is the benchmark, outperforming was too easy a task. 

A number of memorable events, people and trips, sure - and a few others better to forget. Tomorrow will be a beautiful day and another opportunity for a beautiful start.

Christmas three - or four

So this is Christmas. And so it is gone.

Buying presents, visiting family, eating too much, getting a flu from one of the kids, maybe.
Same as one year ago, nothing like the years before, not sure about the next ones. Christmas in Rio next year?

I'll be gone soon. A Christmas tree too big to decorate will overstay me here.

1984

When I was a child, we used to make the Christmas tree every 8 December. We were dreaming of the day when we would have a real one and not the plastic one fitting our living room - and surviving us children's ability to raze anything within our reach.

When I was a child, you wanted to be a "Duran Duran" or a "Spandau Ballet" fan. I liked them both and then they sang together a beautiful Christmas song. In my childhood, also "We are the world" was a Christmas song. And the Gremlins were a bit scary.

Now Christmas is coming every year but at the same time it is like not coming back. Childhood, for better or for worse, will never come back. Waking up on Christmas day to open presents will not come back. Simon Le Bon and Tony Hadley will never sing together again. Parents will not come back again.

Yet, I see no reason for not making a Christmas tree every year by 8 December, and for not leaving its lights on to have them welcoming me back home in the evening. Perhaps, a good thing about childhood memories is that you can pick what you like and leave the rest in some forgotten corner of your new self.

And my 1984 Christmas can come back whenever I decide it. Here and now, for example :)

Pas de deux

Today I fulfilled one of those childhood wishes, which are rooted so deeply that they have become just another part of you. Today for the first time I watched Čajkovskij's Swan Lake.

Sure, I could have a word for the too lateral seats, the stinky neighbour, the unflattering theatre. But then the lights went off, the oboe started playing the Swan theme, the harp gently accompanied the dance and nothing else was left to feel, just the harmony of the music and the melody of the moves.

Ballerinas' tutus are one of the most beautiful human creations, the perfect body of the dancers is one of the biggest human achievements, the tense muscles are among the most elegant sources of emotion, Odette and Siegfried's pas de deux is one of the most touching representations of love.

Most amazing of all, all this was there, inside me: it had always been there, with that amazed little me who first heard the leading theme, a couple of decades ago, and remained hypnotised forever.

Memorabilia of Kenya

Tourist in the park: "Wow, we managed to see ALL 4 of the big 5!"
Tourist at the hotel: "I don't want a masseur, I want a masseuse. My body is reserved to women"

Dialogue at the diving centre:
"Is it really 47 his fins size???" "Yes, he's the monster"


Difficult conversation with a Maasai at the foot of Mount Kilmanjaro:
"Are you from Italy? Ooooooh... Berlusconi, bunga bunga, not good!" "..."
"So, lady, you are not here to entertain the boys" "..."


My two "knights" talk to each other, spilling the beans in the Maasai Mara:
"Can you imagine a giraffe with a sore throat?" "Or a hippo with ear infection..."
"I go to work every day but I also cook, clean, iron, do the household and cut the trees" "Wow, you are a perfect Maasai woman"
"This is my T-shirt" "Yes! Men recognise their T-shirts from the sweat stains"

Local lady on the beach: "Come on, you got two man and I got none. Give me one!"

People from Kenya

Colourful pictures of Kenya also come from its people. Not just the Maasai guys performing the traditional jumps to deserve the highest number of women, but also the other people who contributed to make this trip unique.

John, the driver-guide from Lake Victoria, drove incessantly on dirt roads and slippery mud, through the parks and across the whole country, from the Maasai Mara to Watamu. He showed the Kenya/Tanzania border, went off-roads when no rangers were in sight, chased a cheetah, yet failed to see a leopard hanging over the head of the happily unaware tourist.

Justin from Malindi, could have been from Milan: born in the country of "pole pole", he got no time to lose. If you don't serve him within 2 minutes, he is gone.

Luigi, italian expat who abandoned his previous life for some undisclosed reason and now lives on the Kenyan coast with his (new?) wife and 6 or 7 servants. He started his own business, built his own villa with a huge veranda and a pool, hired a cook preparing pasta with lobster for dinner, and all is patrolled by a guard armed with a bow.

Aissam, cute and smart kid who gets hypnotised at the view of a kite, plays with a tire through the narrow streets of Watamu. He knows well how to lead lost tourists along the New Bla Bla Bla Road and how to gratify them into to buy him icecreams at the local Italian Gelateria.

Jay, captain of a boat, who took me by hand to discover the beauties of the Indian Ocean's clear waters - and who would not have minded a European wife. As the unnamed seller of CDs in Narok: "If this guy mistreats you, come back and I'll take care of you". But not as explicit as Lydia: "I like white meat" (but after all she was targeting a man: no romance needed, she must have thought).

Surely, three European tourists, simple walk-ons in the big show, did not leave the same mark in all these people's lives.

Watamu

"We are not evil, we are just poor".

Welcome to Watamu, small town 20km south of Malindi: white beaches, secluded all-inclusive resorts, beach boys and a poor village of labyrinth streets.

Watamu is also 35 Italian residents, a very good Italian ice cream place, old white men hanging around with young girls and curious Kenyan kids running around you.

Watamu is my first (and mostly unjustified) shot of insecurity in Africa, is my first snorkeling in deep waters, my first mosquito bite in Kenya.

In Watamu someone found an old friend - but left again, someone found love - but didn't last, someone found a treasury - but did not recognise it.

Memories of Watamu will remain.

Oloitokitok

Around Oloitokitok you have beautiful views of mount Kilimanjaro. And a souvenir shop and parking for tours heading towards Tsavo park.
A few locals hang around, including some Maasai.

We learnt a bit of their culture visiting one village. For example that women build the house, have kids and then take care of everything, while men "patrol the village" and "solve problems" (created by themselves, I suppose, as women are quite busy doing everything else). A Maasai who wants a wife has to pay for her - with cows.

In Oloitokitok we practiced Maasai culture.

European tourist: do you want her? I can sell it for 100 cows.
Maasai: you should ask much more for her.
Maasai 1, European tourist 0

European tourist: but you know, she won't allow you to have any more women.
Maasai: a woman like her is worth 5 women, I don't need anyone else. When you have a woman like this, you should do everything to make her happy.
Maasai 2, European tourist 0

European tourist: I'm from Italy.
Maasai: ahi ahi ahi, Berlusconi, bunga bunga. Not good, too many scandals.
Maasai 3, European tourist 0

Sunday in the bush

In the bush everybody wakes early. We are no exception and we are rewarded by the beauty of Africa and its shining sun, blue sky, red soil and the endless plains of the Masai land.

It has been raining and our Land Rover skates in the mud, crosses creeks, climbs up and down the Mara trails. Great driver, John.

Lions and hyenas are not difficult to spot today, but the highlights are the very close encounters with a leopard hanging down a tree just above our heads and with a sleepy hippo during the walk along the Mara river. Following a cheetah during hunting was not bad either. As were the endless herds of placid gnus, tail-shaking Thomson gazelles and hi-definition zebras (their stripes, at least).

And stunning landscapes and excellent food. What else can we ask for?

As the red sun sets on the Mara and, totally exhausted, we go to sleep accompanied by the sounds of wildlife around the tent, we still feel in our mouth the taste of this perfect day, maybe one of the most beautiful in our lives.

This time a bit less rough

Compared to Tanzania, luxury stay.
I could do also without the pool in the bush.

Let the trip begin again

On the go again. Time to expand the sky above and the horizon ahead. Time to disconnect from many things - especially the Internet. Time to go mobile blogging.

One full day travelling to get to Nairobi and be escorted to a hotel guarded by armed men at all corners. A new type of holiday feeling.

Friendly Joyce welcomes us and takes care of us until we confess that we would really get some sleep.
So, here I am again at the edge of the cradle of human kind, the edge of the Rift Valley and the edge of the territory of Somali unrest.

And, coincidentally, Edge is the only mobile broadband technology available - with a bit of luck - in the Maasai Mara. Which also means no photos for now.

Out of mind

You think, you decide, then you take action. Or, at least, that is what we believe.

Scientists have tried telling us a different story, that is that you do not really decide what you do.

Then, tabloids tried to sell us that if you (a woman) take too many decisions for somebody else (your man), thou shalt suffer by means of sex deprivation (nonsense, it was just the usual mysoginist scam).

Station House Opera's play shows, instead, what happens if the decision to act is taken out of your mind.

What does it look like when someone else is spelling out loud the action you are going to perform (make a cup of tea)? What if that person is telling you not just what you are going to do or say but also what you are going to think? It becomes too slow, or too hectic and confused. Surely it becomes surreal (and therefore arrives in Brussels). Can you not like the rules of the game? Of course you can. Just like the lady-in-red-dress in the play: some external voice is telling you to be happy ever after with the blue prince you just found, what if somehow this does not look right? Not a problem: let the voice talk about love and family life but you push the guy into a jute sack bag, tying the knot (literally) around his ankles and disappear from sight.

Sunday glow

I love the wind.
It's blowing through my hair, when I'm on a boat in the middle of the Mediterranean heading towards the next beautiful island, or we are riding in an open jeep in an African park to reach the top of the crater to watch the dramatic sunset from above.

I hate the wind.
It's blowing through my hair when I am crossing the big boulevard to get to work, it's making us freeze on a wide grey beach on the North Sea, it's passing through several layers of warm clothes making me curse the day I went north of the 42nd parallel.

I love the rain.
It's pouring on a Sunday morning and I'm in bed, warmth and softness around, listening to the melody of its hitting the roofs, or it's washing up a muggy summer day and making the air fresh of oxigen again.

I hate the rain.
It's pouring incessantly from a sky of lead, it's soaking my feet, ankles and legs, all the way up to my soul, feeding rather than washing up pain.

I love the sun.
It wakes up my day, my house, my grandma. It wakes me up. Me, my spirit, my body, my memories and my imagination. My glow.

I do not think I'll ever hate the sun.

Parole parole parole

An old Italian song has a woman fed up by the soft, sweet and empty words of a man.

"I can always talk my way out" someone said to me once.

"Talk is cheap because supply exceeds demand" was written in a footnote of my microeconomics textbook.

What's in a word?
I use words to entertain people with stories. I use words to make my point through logic. I use words to share my feelings with people who care about me (well, even if this is supposed to be a woman thing, so what?).
But I (try to) choose words carefully. After they have been spoken, words get a life of their own, they have consequences.

"If you did not exist, one should invent you", "Moonlight and violins I hear with you" said the man in the Italian song. "I love you" is a very easy thing to say if words do not weigh much.
And lies are not lies anymore, perhaps, and they won't hurt anymore.

"When I use a word,' Humpty Dumpty said in rather a scornful tone, 'it means just what I choose it to mean — neither more nor less". Was Lewis Carroll describing not an absurd but the reality? 

But the woman in the song is fed up by now: "Your moonlight and violins just keep me awake when I want to sleep". Empty words do not weigh much indeed. Cheap talk just became too cheap.
And lies will always be lies and will always hurt someone.

Land of surrealism

After a while you live here, maybe you think to have seen enough not to be so easy to impress any more.

You have seen shop attendants expecting you to be grateful for their being so kind to pay attention and serve you - instead of minding their own business. And of course you have been given appointments: "we'll come to fix your problem in 4 weeks, any time between 8 am and 5 pm".

Perhaps you have have been to a café, ordered a pancake with jam and have been told that before 4 o'clock you can have it only with sugar. And you may have tried again, asking for an omelette instead, and been told that you cannot order it before noon (never mind it's 11:45).

But then, one day, you put 1 € in an automatic vending machine in a lonely metro station and when it doesn't work, you get your 1 € back. Transferred directly to your bank account.

That day, you know that the question has become: when will the next paradox hit you again in this Neverland of our imagination?

The same, but different

There are days when you don't really have travelling plans but you end up somewhere new nevertheless. This weekend was the turn of Matongé and St.Gills. In fact, I was just meant to go for coffee but ended up in a discovery. 

Blessed by the sun, my descent into little Yaoundé took me among not very well kept buildings and small shops selling cheap stuff but everywhere the colours of African dresses and the cheerful atmosphere of the "locals" was overwhelming. For some reason, Africa never makes me feel unsafe. Not even in Europe.

St.Gilles was another game. You go buy fruit at the market, turn right into a small street where a man is loading his olive-green Peugeot 404 and a lady is taking pictures with a Polaroid, walk up to a white party-house for elderly-only use, ending up in a small park where people outside time and space are reading, laying on the (wet) grass, and a girl is sitting on a bench with an iPod in her hears and tap-tap-tapping on a 70s typewriter.

It will be hard, going back to ordinary Brussels, the same, but different.

To the East and back

Went on a trip on Saturday. A trip into the pleasures of the middle east - and of relaxation.

It didn't take long to get there: pleasures - and surprises - are closer than one would expect. Just off the Canal, basically.

Sweating was never so enjoyable as in a Calidarium smelling of spices and quasi-blind of vapour. When the Algerian lady appears to take you to the next stage of regeneration, it feels like coming from a dream. True, the subsequent scrubbing experience could never be mistaken for a dream, but it's the outcome that matters, isn't it?

Relaxation with mint tea and dried fruits, massage with jasmin oil and a second descent into the secrets of the hammam to let the essential oil penetrate the regenerated skin. Where am I? Where was I going?

But here I am, back on earth, long nights, long drinks, and - most of all - a long way to go to reach my destination. Or to fail.

Bits and pieces

What does it take to make someone happier?

A surprisingly warm night, no wind, no chill, no winter feeling. A clear sky with full moon and such a light air transporting the music seamlessly from the stage to your hears and to your heart.

A lighthearted chat with friends, while sipping a fresh drink. A slow walk downtown, with the music fading away in the back and the lights and views of a (usually not so charming) city surprising your imagination.

Sharing that feeling with someone you love, wherever they are.

And then another day comes, out of space and time, and we are watching through the window the hypnotic pouring rain hitting the familiar, yet stranger, roofs. What are we doing here?

Back to reality

Blue. When holidays are over, when a dream is over, when love is over.

The thoughts land, the heartbeat gets slower, the eyes open and you go back to reality. And suddenly the light is gone, the smile disappeared, the sweetness is just a memory, it's cold around and maybe you are shivering a bit.

It is not the end of the world, sure. It is the beginning of new opportunities, new plans and new adventures in even better places - soon again. Yet before all the new stuff, gotta get yourself together, gotta try to adapt to the darkness of the world and the triviality of all that keeps you busy. Perhaps, gotta resist in the face of lies, betrayal and disappointments.

One day, sure, there'll be holidays again, there'll be dreams again and there'll be love again.

Summer skies

From the veranda few days ago, I could see a boat anchored in a peaceful bay, blue waters blessed by the sunset or coloured by the reflex of the city lights at night.

From a different balcony today, I can see a beautifully starred sky. A few years ago this same sky offered me a falling star to which I was quick enough to make a wish: I wanted to get a chance.

A couple of summers down the road, it seems that my wish may come true.

Could it be that's it's too late to matter? Could it be that things have changed too much? Why am I not looking for a new falling star to ask for a new chance?

Malta

A flight on a Diamond DA40 over the east coast via Gozo and the west coast, a long drive along San Ġiljan towards Valletta, a walk along Marsascala bay and Mdina, a swim in St. Peter's Pool and Paradise bay.

More relaxing, yet no less fulfilling my second time on this little rock in the Mediterranean, after a first hectic and emotional visit a year ago.

Malta has many colours, many tastes and many sounds.

Honey is the colour of Malta: in the stone of its houses, sweet, warm and relaxing. Shining in the unforgiving heat, glorious against the deep blue of the sea.

Salt is the taste of Malta: like the sea, like the sweat, like the Gozitan ravjul, the pastizzi, the ġbejniet cheeses and all the other intensely savoury specialties.

The sound of Malta is the sound of sunshine.

Night at the sea

Night, I'm exhausted, can't wait to be in bed. Yet I'm still here, on the veranda with the beautiful view.

Admiring the lights reflecting in the water of the bay, listening to the quiet voice of the sea, investigating the light on the top of the sail of a boat just in front of me.

The day is for fighting, exploring, achieving. Now it's night and it's the time for this beautiful salty peace.

Summertime

Filling the days with sun, sea, boat tours, beautiful caves, Greek temples, trying to make people happy while at the southern tip of Campania. Then quiet days with green hills, morning clouds, chilly nights and family time, in the middle of Campania's countryside.

Summer here is not so bad - except it lasts just 2 weeks, before the town falls again into its winter lethargy. Open air concerts everywhere, food festivals all over. And people coming back to their roots from the four corners of the world.

I am not one of those. In a way, I never left. I'm not one of those who settled somewhere else in the world, I'm just temporarily away. Am I?

Travelling by my-efficient-self

Some trips start with a long oft-interrupted nap, others are more like time for yourself, time when you learn about yourself and the world. Like a journey in the journey.
This summer trip home is one of those. No sleeping, no screaming babies, no stress. Time to shop, sit, read, rest and smile.
How come after days of weakness and illness, here I am on top of everything I have to do, ticking off one organisational task after the other, pleasantly chatting with airport employees or taxi drivers, reading work-related papers I had been postponing for weeks and even the manual of instruction of the new camera?
And learning. Learning that fat is a feminist issue, that taking a decision is best done before going to the loo, that the best coffee is served down-under (hey, who wrote this?).
And I know exactly where to recharge my battery after landing and while waiting for the luggage.
So far, a promising day. And a promising trip.
Wishing for a promising life.

A bridge too far

My last night in NYC, all attractions closed, not in the mood for shopping, time for the metaphysical experience of heading out of Manhattan.
To the place where you can walk - literally - in the middle of the street, going from Cranberries to Pineapple, enjoy the sunset and skyline views from the Promenade.
That's Brooklyn and here you have peace, jogging against the Manhattan skyline, streets where you can park only on Tuesday between 6 and 8, and organic burgers at a very cosy and cute, probably Jewish owned, café "Siggy's Good Food" - café owner Siggy is a very nice lady, fun to chat with. Aliens eat free here.
Best pick: Wolavers, organic honey-flavoured ale from Vermont.
Did I mention already that I love New York?

Tiny Italy

Little Italy in nyc is basically 1 street, Mulberry St. Around the corner of some Chinese souvenir shop, a strip of restaurants with Italian - even EU! - flags and that's more or less it.
Of course, inevitable like death, soundtrack by Eros Ramazzotti and old Napoletan songs.
At the last flag-raising gathering of Italian-americans, they asked the Consul if he could bring a flag and sing the anthem: no cd available here with Fratelli d'Italia on it.
Also tried icecream at Ferrara (since 1892), not memorable. American customer after me said 'grazie' to the - African-American - girl at the counter. She replied 'pregow', of course.
A quick shopping at the young designers markets somewhere north close to Houston st. reveals another secret: about 10% off if you want to pay cash. Thank you.

Gute zeiten

So much to do and so little time.
Fantastic Friday night cruise on the Hudson river, kindly offered by the university. Spectacular, breathtaking views of the city skyline and of the Statue of Liberty.
You stand there, staring and thinking about beauty. And taking millions of photos.
And there comes the sun again. Nice to feel that a sunny day in summer is the rule, not the lucky exception - sorry, Brussels expat blues.
And nice to go for a bike ride around Central Park, shopping for electronics in Midtown, watching the Magic Flute at the Lincoln Center. A little less jetlag and the day could have been concluded with rooftop drinks.
Maybe tomorrow.

NY nights

New York nights are great.
Out walking in Chinatown and SoHo with two American guys. Their dialogues, the exchanges with people in the street, their looks: all hilarious.
A walk on the High Line at sunset, dinner in the Meatpacking district, drinks in a jazz bar in Greenwich with a concerts of a massive singer. Impressive.
I Feel good here, breath well, walk well, enjoy everything and it's so big it doesn't seem to end.
It's like being in love.

Off Broadway

The Fantasticks, the longest running show in the world. And I went to see it.
That's what happens when you ask a random stranger in the street what she thinks about the random shows on offer at Tkts.
The theatre was fairly small and we had to ask people to stand to let us go to our seats, promising we'd not get out. "I promise you the same" replied the old man at the beginning of the row.
I love NY :)
If only they lowered this bloody air conditioning.

Upper West Side

In Central Park, everybody jogs. 70+ white-haired lady with iPod in her hears, young mom pushing the stroller (with twins), fully muscled bare-chest African-American, overweight French-speaking couple carrying their backpacks. And squirrels.
Maybe I should go too. Mò vediamo...
In the meantime, and waiting for conference dinner, let's do the Museum of natural history, where dinosaurs are huge and where a simple display of fossils becomes a political statement in favour of evolution theory. And where you get free internet and a plug point  to recharge battery - at least until the guard notices what you're doing.
Also got hotdog, oversized coke, Starbucks tall-something, flip-flops and gave directions to tourists on my first day here.

Mingling

Saturday afternoon of people-watching and window screening on 5th Avenue done. Dress code: noone be afraid of mini-shorts or mini-miniskirts and don't forget your A&F T-shirt. Who said dresses went out of fashion in NYC? They just got shorter (so actually for some people they *should* be out of fashion).
Flip-flops rule the city.
No Saturday night live, since jet-lag took its toll and delivered me to Morpheus at 9:30.
And so, here I am, in a lazy Sunday morning before 8 AM, having breakfast in a white and red café in upper west side Manhattan, with jazz music and a huge cappuccino.
Let's go!

Love, loops and lysine

A long day ahead of me started with a bunch of language issues in Zaventem airport.
My T-shirt with the Union Jack and the statement " I love Londres", made the security attendant totally confused about which language to use with me - thank goodness I'm not wearing my 'f*ck Google, ask me' T-shirt.
Half an hour later, trying to be cooperative with the personnel at boarding gate, I offered French and there panic started: noone there really knew French - hey, am I still in Brussels?
Get onboard reaching for my window sit - why on earth did I pick window? - ask my neighbours in English if they could let me in, no success, spot their Italian passport and try speaking Italian, no way - why on earth do we give Italian passports and voting rights to great-grandchildren of some half-Italian who fled the country a century ago?
But finally here I am, on a plane taking me to my antitrust refreshment course, choosing the first film to watch - how could I hesitate? - picked The Informant :-)

Sun beach

I can stand winter in the North. I don't mind its being cold, rainy, snowy, whatever. It's winter, let it be so.
It's summer the hard part.
When the only colour you get during a late June day is a uniform shade of grey, when you still need a scarf and can profitably use a pair of boots, when you decide to turn back on the heater, well, then it's too much to handle. Someone used to call me "my southerner" and knew very well what it means for my mood.

But sometimes, out of nowhere, when you are not waiting for it anymore, and not hoping either, it suddenly happens. The grey sky opens up and the (slightly pale) northern sun comes to pierce the unexpected blue above you.
And suddenly it's too hot for your jacket, it's too bright for your eyes, it's too nice for staying in a city who doesn't even know what to do with it.
And so, off you go. Huge empty beaches, boats at the horizon and a promenade of cafés and blondish, pale-gone-pink people. Not "my" sea, not "my" people, not "my" cafés, yet Nieuwpoort was a very nice surprise. And the ice-cream with fruit salade was on the menus.

Dreams or reality?

There is a fine line between sleep and wakefulness. A vanishing but rich place populated by ghosts and by great intuitions. It's the place where the best ideas are born. 

In that tiny place, I saw success to achieve, tasks to complete and novels to write.  

Maybe I saw the truth but did not recognise her. She was disguised as sorrow.

I saw myself there and I saw you. You were walking away. I let you go and slowly slid into the darkness.

A ticket to heaven please

When your thoughts travel quicker than your actions. When your body betrays you and prevents you from flying away. Sometimes you cannot travel with your body, but you can still fly away with your mind.

I have no ticket, but a smell or a picture can take you a long way.

A jasmin smell threw me back in Tunis, good time of hot sun, new friends and wound healing.

A beautiful photo on a website and I'm back in Malta, when it was time for hopes - or perhaps illusions.

What will come next? What word will be pronounced to make me jump back a few years into good memories? Or maybe make me want to get another ticket and run away.

E il pensiero va

The end

A un certo punto il film finisce e le luci si riaccendono.
I titoli di coda elencano i personaggi e interpreti:
Daniela, nel ruolo della guida turistica sorridente, semi-astemia e piena di energia che molla tutto e si trasferisce in un'isola greca.
Lisos, nel ruolo dell'imprenditore turistico che arruola ragazze mai viste per fare da fotografa o da guida.
Yorgo, nel ruolo dell'amico del ristorante, silenzioso e timido che mentre serve ai tavoli colpisce il cuore delle turiste.
Alessandro, nel ruolo del macho del bar, abbronzato dagli occhi verdi e dalla parlantina abbondante di avventure, probabilmente inventate.
Tasos, nel ruolo dell'albergatore un po' imbranato, che ha appena scoperto booking.com e con la mamma che prepara da mangiare per un reggimento.
E mentre il sole, il blu e il bianco restano lì dove sono nati, i titoli di coda finiscono, le luci del cinema si accendono definitivamente e io torno alla realtà.
L'aereo atterra, io sto bene e penso che a volte ci costruiamo da soli le nostre prigioni, per poi passare giorni, mesi e anni a cercare di scappare. Solo che alla fine la prigione ce la portiamo dietro dovunque andiamo.
This is the end.

The photographer

Meet the Greeks.

Studios owner's mama brings you lunch and flowers.
Tavern owner gives you Ouzos every time you pass by.
Tour agency owner offers you a free boat trip if you take photos for them. And offers a job to your friend.

Meet the Americans.

Go for the boat trip as 'professional' photographer and explain to the American family your life as free lance.
Give them tourist tips.
Get tipped.

Sweet and spicy, as good life

Streets with no signs, but I drove them.
Stones under my feet, but I kept walking.
Wrong shoes on the cliff, but I climbed.
Little and big drops of egoism, but I smiled.

I'm almost perfect. I only need a tattoo.

Beach discovery

By car today, trying to discover hidden beauties while coping with the local efficiency and with the street indications.

First conclusion of the day: here distances are measured differently and 1km can be anything between 2 and 5 of the km you are used to.

So, 1 or 2 local km away, we reached Vlychada, with its white cliffs and 1-2 more km took us to the beautiful red beach: the spectacular view was worth the flip-flop climbing experience.

Perfect end of the day can be only sunset and cocktail on the caldera. Besides, by now I know my way around even without signs.

Touring the south

Day starts at Profitis Ilias monastery, on a hill about 500 mt high, with nice views, 2 small churches, priests aged between 24 and 44 and thousands of lady bugs (shall I believe in so much good luck?).

Next stop: Megalochori. Very cute and quiet traditional village, land of wineries, where grapes are grown in baskets to protect them from wind and volcanic sand. At some point we gotta taste it!

Beautiful Emporio comes next with ancient castle, a labyrinth of small streets, and cute white round buildings. Nicest village so far.

Off to the beach finally.

Fira and Oia

"You can't compare it to Venice" was the first thoughtful insight collected in Fira, courtesy of some unknown French girl.
What to say? She is certainly right.

A long stroll along the caldera gives plenty of satisfaction to the beauty seeking eyes, as the warm sun helps healing some winter wounds.

Absolutely impressed by the views, though not impressed by the attitude in those posh pretentious cafés and hotels occupying much of the town.

Yet, definitely pleased by the breeze and by the peaceful breaks between the international hordes crowding the white streets whenever a bus or a ship stops by this tiny port.

Next comes Oia, home to more stunning views and to the most romantic sunset. And sunset is the main theme here: no restaurant or bar will fail to promise the 360 degree view every visitor deserves. Unfortunately, having arrived a little too early, this waiting for the sunset is starting to make me a little anxious. I'm getting a bit afraid of the moment when the sun goes down and hordes of lovers - or of photo fanatics - arrive to take control of the whole town.

Trying a glass of white on one of those sunset view terraces to recover my Zen.

Well, u know what? This Oia sunset is overrated.

Going to Greece

Even after so many flights, taking off never fails to make me smile. A smile of pleasure and of expectations, of joy and of wish. That superb feeling of conquering the sky.

Then comes the landing, in a strip of land half sunk by an earthquake, black of lava and blue of cobalt. Can't wait to start taking pictures.

But the kiss of the southern sun on my skin is too tempting to ignore. A gentle touch, a light caress is all I need for today. Discoveries, adventure, pictures, maybe tomorrow. Sorry world, today is for me.

Are we strangers?

There are times when the Bible saying "aliens and strangers in this world" comes to my mind.

Sometimes it is a political statement. If we (cristians) are aliens and strangers, simple pilgrims in this world, why should we impose our laws into the codes of a country? If you believe and divorce, you will go to hell, but not to jail.

Sometimes, it is about life. A twist of logic makes someone's mistake become your fault.

Sometimes it is about Belgium.
In my home town, we say "little blond heads" and we mean a bunch of children from some remote north- or east- European country.
In my country of adoption, they say "little blond heads" and they mean their own children playing in the backyard.

Calessi

A beautiful day, shining of light, smelling of summer.
A breathtaking sunset, red of desire, or of deep pain.
And then the moonless night came. Invincible darkness swallowed summer, desire and pain.

Was it real or was it a dream?
Was it life or was it a tale?
Was it true or was it a lie?

Was it love or was it a hackney cab?

Athens, here we come

Landing in the south starts always with a nice feeling: skies are higher, the sun is shining, the air just smells differently. Or it's the spring, maybe. But actually it's the same: for a Brussels expat springtime and south Europe are synonyms.

A walk through Monastiraki and Plaka, a visit of the Acropolis and of the new Acropolis museum (where the basis of "my" statue - ancient Filoumeni - is on display), souvlaki at Thanasis, a day-long intense meeting on Greek Broadband.

A good dinner in a restaurant with a view of the Acropolis is certainly for tourist, but who cares, we are tourists. More for locals, drinks in the posh Kolonaki area. There my friend asked "so, where is the crisis"? Young, well dressed people enjoying themselves with a cigarette and a drink. In fact, one of the Greeks we met remarked that Briatore's Billionaire in Porto Cervo is nothing special once you've seen Athens' clubs.

Definitely a very nice trip. That said, I don't think I would like living in Athens. And here I am, back to Brussels.

Good night and goodluck

Buona notte a te che parti, che scappi e che sfuggi.
Buona notte a te che non hai paura di niente, che puoi fare a meno di tutti, che sorridi a tutti e poi ti lasci tutti alle spalle.

Buon viaggio in Inghilterra, buon viaggio in Danimarca, buon viaggio in Africa.
E buon viaggio dentro di te.

Buona notte e buon viaggio nella tua storia, quella che stai scrivendo, quella in cui tutto va come tu vuoi e tutti fanno quello che tu decidi.
E buon viaggio nell'altra tua storia, quella in cui i personaggi non fanno mai quello che vuoi tu, quella in cui tutto va storto, quella che hai rinunciato a scrivere.

Buona notte

La porti un bacione a Firenze

There you go, I'm in Rome again, after 2,5 days in Florence.
Firenze, a very cute city, absolutely nice for a visit, it did not speak to my heart. Not in the way Rome does and did since the first day many years ago.

Wandering through the narrow streets in the centre without a destination in the sweet sunlight of the late afternoon.

But what is it exactly that Rome has and Florence doesn't?

Rome is bigger, more chaotic, dirtier perhaps, more tiring for sure. Noisy as hell.

I guess it's like being in love, you know it, you feel it and yet you can't point at the single thing which makes a difference. Not that love alone would suffice, yet with no love nothing can even start. Not even picking your residence.

Inshallah

Finito.

At Casablanca airport waiting to board for a 'comfortable' night flight in economy class to Rome via Frankfurt, no power is left for stock-taking. Tomorrow maybe.

Departure was celebrated by a walk on avenue Hassan II and by an authentic Moroccan pizza cooked in feu de bois. Yes, I know: silly Italians going for pizza in north-Africa. But try 8 days of tajine and couscous and anything short of Pizza Hut would do.

At the end, a great trip. Marrakesh will see me soon again, inshallah.

Last Moroccan lunch

Maybe

Last day

Free day in Marrakesh and Ourika valley.

After a walk on a not-extremely reassuring bridge, Moroccan-way green tea at a Berber home is in order.

The strenuous resistance to the sale of all sort of stuff could not survive the sundown walk through the Marrakesh Suq. Wonder if Lufthansa will let me onboard.

Perhaps we should just have stayed a bit longer lying in the sun on the side of the swimming pool. Life can be tough.

Gorgeous restaurant for dinner, with excellent food, dancers and trendy club à l'etage. We left the Pacha for another time.

By the way, we also ate some stuff from the stand of an old man in Jamâ el-fna. Message to my friends: was great too meet you ;)

The last day starts. Back to Europe tonight but a doubt still stays: is that the real colour of the bergamots or have we been fooled during the whole trip?

Marrakesh

Marrakesh day today. Never-ending bus ride and NYE party left us quite exhausted but the visit to the medina was well worth the effort.

Jemâ el-Fna and its colours, perfumes, sounds and people left us dizzy and amazed - not quite like the local beer.

Got my name tattooed in Arabic on my arm, got enough Argan oil to prevent wrinkles for a few more years, got something also for my friends with back problems - you know who you are.

Also learned - from our endless source of local information - that a sure way to tell an Arab from a Berber is by their nose.

Happy new year

Buon 2011 da Marrakesh!