August

And so it finished. Dark and cold as it started. Belgian kids will go back to school in a couple of days, traffic is becoming heavy again, we are already back to work. The pouring rain did not change, whether it is July, August or January.

Not many complain about the end of the year, great expectations colour the new beginning. Instead, a lot of whining about the end of summer, although September does bring a new beginning too.

I used to like September better than August: that sparkling air bearing the promise of a new start, the riddance of that sticky feeling of the impending end of season. And, after all, there were more things to do, more people to see, more plans - and even a new TV season - in September.

I do not watch TV any longer. Probably that is the problem.

And "I am never gonna leave you" is what we need to hear.

Lithuania 2012

Nice time in Vilnius. After more than 7 years it is fun to be back, with the only sightseeing pressure coming from the sun shining on a Sunday afternoon and the curiosity to see whether I still remember the city  - I did not but it seems it is not entirely my fault: big renovations took place in recent times.

It was also an instructive trip. I learned a lot about Lithuanian energy concerns, dismissed nuclear power plants, Lithuanian pagan traditions, national heroes and famous painters - oh yes, and Sorainen superheroes.


Once again, the gastronomic part of the trip was a big success. Biggest achievement of the trip is fishing my own 1 kg trout and eat it, instead of going for the legendary zeppelini I tasted 7 years ago. Bistro 18, run by an Irish lady, has the "best breast in town" - duck breast, that is.  Excellent wine & cheese football night - and Italy won against England.


As a wise man put it: life is good but good life is even better.

Stop-over in Frankfurt - or: how years of Ryanair made me a better person

It started when I sat in my economy class seat and there was plenty of room for my legs and a hook for my jacket.

Then I got a glass of white wine without being asked to pay for it. It came with snacks in the shape of little airplanes and it gained my heart.

I wanna fly Lufthansa from now on. 

No non-sense, they gave me wine, a newspaper, legroom and a smile in Economy class. And they did not complain that my luggage was bigger than the free. They gave me 30 minutes free wifi at the airport and a free coffee - Ok, given the total price of my ticket I know there is really no free lunch, but anyway

I wanna live in Germany

Germans are normally bigger than me, so I do not have to struggle for the right size when I go shopping - Ok, I know that given my tastes, I will still have to buy Italian fashion, but anyway 

I wanna cheer for Germany tonight.

My dear fellow Greek PIIGS, I am sure you understand that this is better also for you - Ok, Greeks have shown passion and resolve, but anyway

I wanna marry a German.

Germans always respect the rules and do not cheat - Ok, I admit that after few years in the public administration I know this is not true, but anyway

The airport shop displaying packs of Sombrero-shaped pasta at the price of 12,95 Euros finally opened my eyes and broke the spell. 

Off to Vilnius.

Malaysian dialogues

"So, you are from Brussel. How is the weather in Brussels?"
"Oh, it is crap"
"Why, too hot?" - Cultural differences

"Where are you from: Germany, Holland?" - Guess all Europeans look the same
"Where are you from: Jordan?" - Getting harder to figure out


Foot reflexology masseur: "Foot hurts here? It is the brain. You think too much" - Who am I to contradict the experts


"Do you like this Batik cloth? It is an original copy of Italian design. By the way, where are you from? - Should I tell him? 

Flat lands

A beautiful sunrise welcoming me back from Asia, a small plane waiting to take me home, a clear morning offering a great view above the low lands and over the Maas flowing into the North Sea.

The airport security checks were also pretty successful: a dangerous half litre milk pack and a certainly evil facial moisturizer seized with gusto by the acute staff.

"Do not worry, you are back to Europe" said the guy at Amsterdam passport control looking at my broken passport. And I find myself wondering about how long this will still hold true. How long before an Italian will become a stranger needing admission to a EU country?

I remember you did not eat rice

How far can one go in Malaysia if she does not eat rice? Far, very far. And happily so.

Can you eat spicy food? Tom yam soup with sea food? Can, can.
Penang style Kway Teaw? Can, can.
Steamed pow? Chicken in Pandan leaves? Can, can.
Beef rendang? Can, can.
Red snapper or pomfret? Grilled please.

Hawker food? No hesitation!

"Shall we go eat at the American restaurant? Just to relax your stomach with western food." 

Oh, for Goodness sake, no!

My fruit chapter is quite long. Fruit whose existence I completely ignored popped up on the table, straight to my mouth: custard apple, dokong, longan, mangoustine, dragon fruit, guava. 

At the end, spoiled by superb fresh mango, coconut and water melon juice, I'm not sure I'll be able to drink anymore the stuff we sell back in Europe.


My roller coaster ride into new flavours had to stop somewhere and it did.

It stopped at the encounter with stinky Durian. The - ahem - "king of fruit" is big in Malaysia but I realised I better survive without it. And it stopped again with the Cengdol and a bunch of other gummy sweets involving the use of red beans. That far I could not go. 


Luckily, besides the Cengdol, Malacca has got unforgettable pineapple tarts. Yummi!

Pulau Langkawi

Read the guide and it tells you that it is all about booze and crowds. I will remember Langkawi for its superb mango juice and for the screaming waves.

Langkawi is big folks, writes the Lonely Planet. Well, it is true. half an hour taxi ride to go anywhere. At least you don't pay more than 6-7 euros each ride. Btw, for peace of mind, tariffs are regulated, in case you are wondering.

My perfect day in Langkawi started with a walk in the bat cave and a cruise on the mangroove river, where vegetation is thick, eagles go hunting and monkeys steal your pastic bags. The visit included first feeding the fish in the fish farm, then tasting the well-fed fish in the fish farm restaurant.

A stop at the cable car to witness the beauty of the island from above was complemented by a chat with the occasional Malays going up or down with you - short ride but long enough for them to chat you up, take a photo of you and ask for the email address of this exotic tourist from Europe.

Back to base, a little roasting in the afternoon sun, dinner cooked by some Malay mama at the port and listening to the sound of the waves splashing the golden sand: one of those days you wish could not end.

Air Asia

Special mention for the "best low cost carrier in the world" (Copyright: Asia-lover scuba diving friend).

Purchased for 1 ringit (25 Eurocents), inspired by Ryanair business model, so far it managed not to become the pain in the neck the Irish carrier has converted itself into.

Air Asia gives you an assigned seat - although probably the last you would have chosen. It does not oblige you to put your handbag, computer and sandwiches all in one cabine luggage. It sells real food on board and has the best flight attendants ever: not trying to sell you lottery tickets, not making noises or trumpeted announcements and wearing jeans and cute slim-fit shirts.

Perhaps, after you have tried Ryanair, you just get happy with small things.

Malacca

"Hot" has just acquired a new meaning in Malacca (or Melaka), due to the sun hitting like a  hammer the visitors exploring this ancient and cute town.

Malacca is a pure blend of many different cultures. Our beautiful hotel is a sumptuous traditional Baba-Nyonya house. The Baba-Nyonya themselves are a mixed culture of Chinese and Malay. The stroll in Jonker walk ends with a huge Chinese Dragon hanging over the main crossroad (the not-so-photogenic Rabbit year is over).

The streets of the old town are full of Chinese heritage (temples and shops) and lead to the main square sporting a Stadthuys and a church. Climb the Fort hill and find what remains of Malacca's Portuguese and Dutch glorious past in the old days of the spice trade.

The gastronomic and shopping expeditions were also pretty successful. I totally fell in love with Malacca's pineapple tarts and I bought my own kebaya and a couple of cheongsam (qipao).
While I have no doubt that my stock of pineapple tarts will soon be gone, I am still wondering if there will be any occasions to wear Malaysian traditional clothes back in my side of the world.

Feelomaysia

And then, there was the time I landed in Asia.

I had not been too attracted by this part of the world before. I think it is because I like drier lands, maybe. Or perhaps in my previous life as a RAF pilot I have been shot down in this area and now I am afraid of going back to the region. Who knows, speculations. Malaysia here I went.

Everything started off as a full immersion in Malaysian-Chinese culture, courtesy of my friends whose wedding I came for.

Hospitality is sacred and the guest gets fed, pampered, driven around, paid everything, all the time.

Breakfast means noodles, spicy chicken, rendang beef, dim sum and honey lime. Not that lunches and dinners are any different. A wedding meal has 8 courses, including rice and dessert, and has to be celebrated with loud toasts "iaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaam seng" - or something like that - by the 400 or so guests.

Interesting to discuss with the locals and to learn that in their view western women are too submissive (i.e. forget about your Malaysian wife if passivity and obedience is what you are after).

And then there was Kuala Lumpur, KL, with its highways, its heat, its mix of races, its traffic jams and its breathtaking skyline.

Eat, Pray, L...

What an experience is to visit the Holy Land. Quite apart from the most serious manifestations of the Jerusalem syndrome, it is sort of unavoidable to find oneself caught in the mystic atmosphere of the Old city and to feel the intense spirituality of the place - well, if one manages to abstract from the hords of tourists snapping pics and of pilgrims rubbing all sort of clothes on every holy stones around.

And this even after a few visits, when you think you know enough to play the tour guide for your friends.

Not much partying, but the gastronomic side of the Holy Land was, once again, no less mystic.

Despite a well deserved special mention for the superb crabs from Chakra, the discovery of this trip was much more low profile: the Yemenite Malawach.

Almost the only food available to us on Shabbath, a fried pancake filled with hummus, tahini, tomatoes, peppers, aubergines, onions, spicy mix and zaatar (but you could further use your creativity), roll up and eat.

Tel Aviv knows almost no Shabbath (except for hotel staff waking us up because checkout time on Friday is at 9 am) but knows all kind of gastronomic pleasures. Our pick: Nanuchka, good Georgian food and over-excited customers singing, dancing and screaming all night long.

Over to Nazareth, the palm goes to Al Reda, in an old Ottoman mansion, facing St.Joseph's Church. Excellent muhammar, very helpful host, great views from the rooftop terrace, and a romantic loft for future needs. Note taken. 

And the "L" part of this story? Well, some Listening will do.

Minus 50 outside

Sitting next to the window, looking out. Daydreaming a bit. And completely enjoying the excitement of departure, of taking off, of feeling skybound once again, despite those more than 3000 km to go.

I wish I was there already and at the same time not there yet. I wish the irresistible "I'm flying" smile would be enough to overcome the fatigue of the journey.

And while it suddenly comes back to my mind that in the cockpit of a 737 the pilot cannot stand straight, contrary to an A320, I know I will always be grateful to who showed me what it really was like to be airborne.

And I wish I could pay back, that when I arrive at destination you would be able to see the world through my eyes, feel the warmth through my skin and the peace through my soul. And like it as I do.

One year later in Florence

One year has gone by and I am back in tourists' dream city, only to find out that not much seems to have changed.

Hotel is the same, tourists are the same, my lecture is the same, the beautiful golden series "Calla" on Ponte Vecchio still for sale. Even my wallet empty and me in urgent need of an ATM, exactly like last year.

One again, easy to see why Florence has become the jewel so many people dream of. So much art everywhere, so easy to manage, so great that "typically Italian atmosphere" (whatever it is exactly).

And Florence obliged: everyone speaking English, filtered coffee at breakfast, cappuccino after lunch. And once again, like a year ago, beautiful but not my dream. Regardless my teenage memories of the endless queues at the Uffizi, of the shining green of the Boboli gardens and of the beautiful slurpy icecream, forever symbol of sweet abundance.


Nice for shopping though. And there you see that next summer will be quite colourful. Buy red or orange sandals today, never mind the pouring rain outside the shop.

Flying lessons

"A pilot does not merely execute, a pilot takes decisions."
I'm certainly not a pilot yet: I still need to learn quite a few things to be able to take decisions.
And to be able to execute commands correctly, for that matter (such as: get out of that sink - I'd like to but how do you do that exactly?)

"Up in the air, never too relaxed: flying is not natural for humans."
OK, point taken. But do you really have to tell me this while spiralling upwards to 2800 mt QNH?

"In aviation, we are all peers, no need to use the formal pronoun for pilots. And next time you go on a plane, don't hesitate to ask to sit in the cockpit."
Oh yes!

"Don't worry about that parachute, its purpose is just of a cushion for the glider seat".
Not sure whether I should feel reassured or not.

"Good to have girls at the training, so housekeeping is taken care of." 
Downwind, base, final approach. Landed. The slap on their face, that is.

Ten flights later

Ten flights after arriving in Auvergne, I've learned a lot.

Going straight, turning left and right, going up, circuits, radio announcements are achieved. Towing and landing not quite yet.

And French aviation jargon in my pocket.
Ça degueule a mort if I'm going down 3-4 mt/s. En vent arriere to start landing, all different meanings of the word "Pompe". And that aller aux vaches should be avoided, while s'envoyer en l'air is always a very good thing.

The training is almost over, wishing it could continue still.

Gliding

The first time is a big stress, the second is a big tension to do it right. The third time is just awesome, especially if you fly for over two hours in a perfect sky, you go up to 2800 metres, the instructor shows you a loop and a low pass but he lets you do all the rest.

Afterwards it's impossible to stay on the ground, you just have to go again ASAP. But the weather conditions may change and one may end up playing scrabble while waiting for the sky to clear up.

Funny to be caught absent minded while rewatching in your head the last landing, to figure out how to do it right next time. And thinking how it is when you fly solo. Well, i know, a bit early to say after just 6 flights and not really knowing how to use the airbrakes right.

Few days left. All hopes in good weather.

Will be back

Why on earth did you come up with this now?

Well, I don't know.

Maybe it was that poster hanging on the wall in some cafeteria, it was too much talking about going up in air, it was just an undefined thought in the realm of possibilities.

Yet, sometimes in the realm of possibilities, one of them materilises for lack of a better idea, or for lack of an excuse not to do it.
So, yes, I guess the answer is: why not?

Why are you going to the middle of France for a week to learn how fly a glider?
Well, why not?

Just an earth bound misfit.
See you soon again, my friends.

Staccando l'ombra da terra

Today we disconnected our shadow from the ground. Our hope being to take full control once in the cockpit, nose up and joystick in our hand.

A little Coavio DF 2000, an ULM according to Italian standards, lifted itself up in the sky as if that was the most natural thing to do. As if its place was never meant to be on the ground.

But windy weather converted us wannabe pilots back into simple tourists of the air.

Piloting would have been amazing. But sitting in the little plane, floating in the blue sky blessed by the sun is far from being a disappointment - even when hit time and again by a sudden wind blow.

Up to 2000 feet, our lady pilots-in-command headed south over the Lake of Bracciano, turning over the peaceful blue waters, then pointed at the background mountains covered by the recent and unexpectedly abundant snow and finally towards the brown woods, still incredulous of the outburst of a gorgeous March day.

Another of those days when you look down and wonder how you can possibly not have started yet your PPL - money, logistics, north European weather or just lack of resolve?


In any case, it won't be for today that we become pilots, so perhaps a check of the Bracciano lake from a little closer may be a good way of filling our spirits with yet more beauty - as well as our stomach with some tonnarelli alla ricotta and torta della nonna.

The world upside down

Another weekend out of Brussels and another change of perspective.

People boarding on a plane and regretting not having booked an Alitalia flight seems an interesting start.

Heading south Italy to ski also sounds interesting, if not a little funny. Even more so when friends complain that east to west in the Alps, from Aosta to the Dolomites there was no snow. But the Divine Providence rewards people who dare and allow them to ski some 1.000 km south of Mont Blanc, with temperatures of almost 20 degrees and a clear blue ski. The Divine Providence above even made me go down a slope on my own and with no panic. Wonders of Laceno.

And a little nightime earthquake, just to shake up things a bit. And to remind us that we are children of a terra ballerina and must learn to keep vigilant to survive.

Going nowhere

Yesterday the metro service was disrupted. People kept waiting for a train for quite a while.

Why were we waiting?
Probably for some of us there was no suitable alternative: they live far away and the taxi is too expensive.

But what about the rest of us? We could have walked, for example.
We did not know how long it would take before a train arrived, we were getting anxious and annoyed. Yet, we gave it more and more time to start functioning again.

Had they made a formal announcement, we would all reorganise ourselves - move on with our life, so to say. But, in the metro, as usually in life, there was no formal statement "hey you, stop waiting, it doesn't work".

Under uncertainty, why do we give it more and more chances when we see that things don't work and waiting is going to be a waste of time? Is it because we still like to hope? Or is it because of laziness?
Perhaps it's inertia: keeping a conduct we always had (although it has become pointless) requires less effort than facing a new challenge.

Until when? At which point do people realise that walking up and down the platform, making phone calls, reading a book, thinking about life may be a more or less nice way to kill the time but is not a way to arrive at destination? How long does it take until we finally take action?

Eating London away

That funny little rain which annoys you  but does not make you really wet. 

Those very nice services, such as free WiFi connections for starving foreign smartphones.

That people’s incessant hurrying everywhere, like those escalators in the underground, faster than everywhere else.

And that endless choice of food, from the four corners of the world.

Food, yes. Got the feeling that all was about food, this one and half day in London.

For example, my eating the greasiest possible food (fish and chips, in case you are wondering), in possibly one of the most famous Fish and Chips places in town, and sitting next to the occasional American tourist ordering to the amused waitress: “Do you have something which is NOT fried”?

Next stop, Italian ice cream place Scoop, just next door. Having a long chat about living in The City with the funny Italian waiter, totally bored (who would want an ice cream in a grey cold and humid London day?) and considering a life change: making money more quickly by working in some restaurant in Australia.

More food at Marks and Spencer, trying not to get discouraged by the long serpentine queue at check out. Highlight of the day, the season repackaging: your favourite comfort food now becomes your Valentine's eat-in ready made dinner for two. Runner up: among all sorts of impulse junk food next to the cashier, the "healthy" section: chocolate hearts.

And what recommendation for best dinner in town? Or the best option for lunch break? Same answer: Pan-Asian.

To finish off, coffee at Nero: what's wrong with ordering a single espresso ristretto and why should the waitress not believe that, yes, I want something this small?

Inversiones y competencia

Airport, subway, hotel, seminar venue, hotel.

Restaurant, hotel, subway, airport.

It was Madrid, it could have been anywhere. Too quick to even notice.

No, not everything.

The sky was very blue, despite temperatures below zero, and the full moon was beautiful to watch.
Jamon, queso and the steak with Jerez sauce were good - and the people in bars, hotel etc. were fairly impolite as the city reputation wants it.

And all those beggars in the street I did not expect, reminding of the difficult times just outside the shiny seminar room.

And I did exercise my Spanish, successfully understanding, less successfully being understood (as the fact that I paid my hotel room twice proves).
And I have given up looking for the reason why the Spanish word for investment is "inversion" and the one for competition is "competencia".

Ski lessons in Aosta

Young European officials having interesting conversations with their ski instructors while learning to make turns.

Stereotypes
Ski instructor: Where are you from?
Poland.
Ski instructor: Did you come here to work?
...

An excellent example
Ski instructor: Tell me, what's your job?
We enforce competition law.
Ski instructor: ... for example?
You know, we investigate companies fixing prices together instead of competing.
Ski instructor: Aha! Like our two ski schools charging you the same price

More about competition
Ski instructor: May I ask you something a bit embarrassing?
...
Ski instructor: You do competition. Could you inspect the competing ski school? They are cheating on taxes

Abul... quoi?

On a fast road, in the middle of a park, a stone's throw from some posh clubs, stands a little theatre. Low profile, old style, a bit uncared: Belgian style for coolness.

Invasion! is on as of today, telling the story - better, the stories - of Abulkasem.

Abulkasem is a character in a play, is a terrorist from the Middle East, is a word in youngsters' slang (a noun, a verb or even an adverb), is an illegal immigrant in Sweden.

It is a tale of identity and prejudice. A tale of points of view and of manipulation. And a tale of language and misunderstanding: we have expectations, we make assumptions, we think we get the point but maybe we are not even listening really. Then every person or every word can be Abulkasem, it won't matter.

Hey you, reading this, why do you abulkasem me like that?

Soundtrack

Back one year ago, in January, Martin Solveig's Hello was played endlessly on the slopes of Bardonecchia, soundtrack to abundant clumsiness and falls on the snow.

When February came, Skin's You saved me popped up quite a few times on the radio and in my email box.

In March I was dancing with the Black Eyed Peas for my birthday, so in April well-deserved rest and peace came with the beautiful soothing voice of Patrizia Laquidara.

May was a though month, from many sides. Music seemed to stop healing, me just longing for the summer to arrive and the Italian radio streaming from my computer Arriverà.

And summer finally came. With summer came rebirth of energy and hope. June was brightened by little trips, sun and a bit of rock. July was simply great: my New York moment of happiness and fulfillment. August misled me and served me a mix of bright sunshine and a little bitterness. As always, it was a matter of waves and winds.

In September I tried to change direction and Noel Gallagher accompanied me, while in October I had to get tougher on my resolutions and face the emptiness of words and promises.

Despite everything, November brought me in Africa once again, where the sun was hot again, animals were wild, villages were poor but dreaming was not only possible, it was real. Until December was back and, as we know, Thank God it's Christmas.

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?