My Summer in Rome continues.
I buried the sadness in a foreign land, and between photographs and uncertain steps on the ancient cobblestones, I enjoy the leave from the stresses of everyday life jamming and a new freedom that smells like coffee in a large cup of barley.
E 'evening in Trastevere. The few remaining Roman in the city to the streets with smiles and tan mixed voices of ice cream and cold beer. The kidnapped tourists wander by so much beauty, sip drops of wonder and express desires that they know sweet life and starlings screaming. A woman with white hair pushes air into the bellows of an accordion and two girls are told by bicycle tires deflated by rolling pieces of life with the happiness of young girls in the back of a first date. I
pizzeria to celebrate the birthday of a princess exotic.
The Remains of the town passes my shoulders, kneading the shuffling of sandals and sneakers to the fluttering of seagulls in flight. A feeling is spreading among the menu items and takes jovial man's grizzled face and chubby sits in front of me. He, by the Neapolitan comic actor and innate shoulder of one of the few men of the show I've ever really loved , is sitting at a table in the company of exuberant youth.
E 'Lello Arena.
The sad eyes of those who are too busy to heal the spirits of others and that gleam that shines on the faces of celebrities and draws stares and amazement of onlookers.
I watch him. He does not see me.
Who is it? What to do with my life? Basically I do not know, but I would like to talk to him.
not I never felt much enthusiasm for the famous. In Bologna, I have seen many. Cesare Cremonini Biagio Antonacci.
I met Gianni Morandi in the house, Franca Valeri bus. I walked alongside Samuele Bersani towards university classrooms. Ayrton Senna romped through the underpass at the Grand Prix in Imola. I turned down a dinner invitation from Nelson Piquet and was in the pub with Alberto Tomba. I spoke with Neffa and Luca Carboni, Claudio Santamaria and Katia Ricciarelli.
I met Roberto Benigni at the Thai Milano Marittima, Nicoletta Braschi in a popular restaurant in Bologna, Eros Ramazzotti early in his career and Vasco Rossi in a bar in the Via Emilia. I returned the wink of Alessandro Haber front of the theater, the greeting of Patrizio Roversi cycling. I risked investing Jean Alesi with a Samba red one April morning and danced with Mick Hucknall of Simply Red, with flared trousers and a long necklace of red stones.
Lello Arena is still at his table. Now look at him in the eye and smile. I'm excited to see him. Is it because he still lingers near the grimace Massimo Troisi. Or because it's about theater, music, actors. Or because I've never been to Naples, but tonight it's like Naples and its one thousand culure had come to me.
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