There are many Italies. Every destination — new or reiterated — occurs dazzlingly, suggestive through nuances of the same root.
Rome's chaos was my first approach. My chest still cherishes the emotion generated by the Pantheon's light, la passeggiata through Villa Borghese, the red wine at dusk, and that oily artichoke in a tiny trattoria with paper tablecloths.
Then it was him — an impassible–faced, warm–skinned boy who brought me to Turin, where I'm always welcomed by dialoguing gestures and abundant tables.
During that first visit to the North, I travelled with a book about Nietzsche's time in Turin. There, in that square, the great philosopher was silenced before the demonstration of the intrinsic cruelty of the human being. A story I knew but that suddenly became vivid.
Other books have accompanied me: Rilke writing to Lou Andreas-Salomé from Florence, Gustav's torment related by Thomas Mann in Venice, Natalia Ginzburg's writing tone and Nuccio Ordine's L'utilità dell'inutile Manifesto. Many are the words, the moments of light, the sounds fluctuating and the aromas in the air.
I remember a Risotto allo Zafferano on a rainy day in Milan, dancing in a small dark square in Venice, the virgins attached to the corners of Firenze and the echo of incandescently–conversing voices in Rome's bars.
The recurring still life of the espresso cup, bread crumbs and wine stains on white tablecloths; the invigorating aroma of ripe tomatoes, garlic, fresh finocchio, lemon zest and olive oil. The dark wood of furniture, frames, ceilings and porticoes. The stone of sculptures, fountains, cobblestones, bridges and porous walls.
All that light. Grayish days, blue skies, humid greens, terracotta hues and the Veneri’s pale beauty.
All those subtleties causing overflowing pleasure again and again.
