Thursday, 11 July 2013


Every time it's the same old story.
Tell an Italian you don't go on holiday on August and there's a good 7 out of 10 chance to get some look of pity. It's less than in the past, when I used to reach a 10/10 pity ratio: crisis after crisis, people are getting used to people not taking traditional vacation in August.
So, Saturday last week I packed my stuff (last minute, as usual) and the following morning I was off to Trentino.
Last year I discovered I'm a bit of a spa junkie and last year I enjoyed my time off in Trentino, so I thought it'd be a nice thing to do to go back.
There were many other reason that helped the choice.
I needed a break and some time off to deal with the next months at work.
Plus given the big fiasco that had been my birthday celebration last year I decided that not celebrating could be the safest option: not expecting anything means no disappointment.
I didn't say that out loud and clear but later on I realized I made my choice at least on subconscious level, based on this fact.
But a thought materialized just like that, out of the blue, during my week in Trentino.
I was sitting at a table, outside the bar of Pejo Fonti. Silvano, the barman, had just got me a glass generously filled with spritz and I was checking some pictures I had taken that day when I stopped and looked around: my brain was not taking in anything around me, but kept on thinking about how in the past year I cut a lot of ties and lost touch with so many people.

When I was abroad I felt heavily that the responsibility of keeping in touch was almost solely on myself: I was the one that moved out, I had to make sure I was still talking to people. It's a stupid notion. Quite possibly one of the dumbest thing that I ever thought true, still it conditioned me for a lot of years.

After last year birthday fiasco, I simply stopped writing and texting. Retreat back and the result is that not a lot of people is left. It's kind of sad in a way, because I look back and wonder if I could have spend my time better back in the UK. All that time writing mails and letters, I could have spent them in a pub, or at the Korean restaurant off Tottenham Court, or strolling on Southbank up to Tate Modern. I resent people because of this: I hate the feeling of regretting something, and I think they're as guilty as my own stupidity.

Happy birthday to me...

So nothing special this year: no aperitif, no dinner out.
No mails, no rejection.
And I had a great time: I had one of the best strudel for breakfast (the place is called "Pasticceria della nonna", Grandma's patisserie: I'm not saying that the patisserie itself is worth a trip to Pejo, but almost!), got a text from both my parents, which gives me hope in their technology evolution and a nice lady, Lilliana, "pulled my ear", as tradition ask on birthday. Plus an amazing picture from my sister as birthday card and the same old trusted texting me.
I'm not sure I'd appreciate this so much if it weren't for last year, so maybe I can stop being resentful to people about it; maybe... maybe just a a little.

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