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Esco perhaps because spring has arrived. I go out because I can not bear to remain locked in the house. I go out because I want to be alone with myself, and I'm good. I go out because I want to. And the way to inertia. I put my hands in his pockets. Although no longer officially winter, I still chilly hands. Inevitably, I look for blue and white package. I can not find it. Neither in his pants, or in the lifejacket. That there are almost mathematical when needed. Distance between the tall houses, all identical. Built on an elevated level compared to that of the city. Walk around gives a strange feeling that I know by heart. I'm going to the center, perhaps. It begins to raise a breeze. For a split second I can imagine the smell of summer. Then replaced, however, by another unexpected scent. I raise my head instinctively. Someone is cooking the sauce. Tomato, onion, basil. For a little while I can hear every single flavor. I stop. But it's too late. The wind has already taken away from them. Surplus not for long with the music in my ears. I mind the local distances. Soon I will be in the busy boulevard that divides the old from the suburb. Instinctively, I take a cap, right. The music does not monopolize more than my hearing. Keep walking, just as before. There is no other noise except that of my footsteps. I want to listen to my shoes to beat on hard asphalt. And it happens again. Another gust of fragrance of red sauce. Tens of meters below. This takes even less time than before. A few seconds and has already dissolved in the air. I can not help but be hungry. I look forward to my i-Pod. 17:47. For a second it seems strange that at this time there may already be someone who prepares food. Then my mind turns inevitably to another thought. Food. I'm hungry. Maybe that's why I'm going right to the center, there will find something. I'm about to fall into temptation again, rummaging in his pockets, looking for a poor cigarette. Help me to turn off hunger and keep walking without the heavy feet. I curse a woman in the street, turn back. Does not move and I have to radically change course to avoid it. Smoking. I stop as commanded by a superior force. I take a deep breath. I take everything I can. Passive, but better than nothing. Not quite what I needed here, but I was still hungry. I have no idea where to go and I do not want to search. The clock of a store marks the six and a quarter past. Yet the sky is almost clear again. Turn towards the avenue of the station. Many bus stops, know them by heart. In particular, a. His. And there, for the third time, I smell a kidnapping. It is not gravy, and not from the upper floors, but an open door to my height. The sign on the wall says Doner Kebap. It 'just what I need. While going towards the entrance, I remember the winter. When my dinner was often a sandwich of them. I miss the darkness of the six, the smell of gas in the cold bus. But decided to settle for this kebab, although spring.

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X Chronicles of an Italian mad - II

THANK YOU FOR S. .. TUDYING? A school
more alive to teach kids how not to fear the future

"Ah yes, yes, you're home from school. Beautiful day! ": This is one of the likely responses that could give any young Italian if he were asked what is celebrated on April 25. The thought seems impossible and even a bit 'scary to think that there are teenagers who surf in ignorance of the meaning of such an important occasion for our country. And this is just an example of the emptiness that are falling gradually many of the historically fundamental holidays. Why? A matter of generations. Young people today do not know the past, and is therefore not surprising that they do not know the future. Needless to blame them, they do what they can to get into the adult world and, in a nutshell, to understand how the toy. Lodoli Mark writes about: "Sometimes at school the teachers are amazed at the arrogance of this, the only active time in the minds of many boys. A thousand stories and the many people that we should be grateful for what they still make us understand, are finally dead and buried. There is no hope that they can speak again and tell. " Well, those who criticize it for this? Parents of adolescents who have not submitted a sufficient love for the culture to their children? Not entirely. The boys themselves, filled with notions memorized by guides of dubious quality, who do not know the real life outside of school? Absolutely not. The main culprit of this massacre is the modern school, unable to provide models of behavior-based culture. It is understood easily by saying that education is the responsibility of the family, but if it comes to history, culture, and discourses of pages that should help them for life, then the balance of power lies with the school establishment. What is taught students the dates of certain events and the names of some historical figures, though not really know what you're talking about? I remember a lesson on Henry VIII held by a professor in London. He asked us, after making us read a dozen papers written by contemporaries of the sovereign and that concerned his person, idea that we had made on him. I thought, amazed as my traveling companions, my peers, "This is the way it should be made history." Even in Italy. Live witnesses, although we are talking about centuries ago to draw useful lessons for life. Learn by heart the words of the user as if they were gospel? No thanks, I prefer to get an idea of \u200b\u200blife knowing the history through the documents and information on current, rather than having the satisfaction of lean holding in his hands a piece of paper with the words "Secondary School Diploma."

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Touche me, rugby player! IX

Copying an excerpt from my diary Comix, to break a lance in favor of rugby players and, more generally, of that great game of rugby =)



Guys, the hours of physical education, I would recommend: betting on the rugby! I also say to all girls who love football: rugby union are the best! They are beautiful and unconscious. Have not yet been ruined by the letters, the coupons, the sculettine, those of Rai blinding the stars! I do not
rugby union agendas, calendars, clothing, but only their hair: the marble statues with muscle chops, and an oval ball in hand to hide the other two. The rugby team is divided in two. The beautiful and those that are of types: bad. The game of rugby was born
universities and is an intelligent game: in fact big and bad types must all be folded under, rolled against the other big and ugly. Who works with the cervical.
The heads of the bad should not be veed and so beautiful to leave the TV screen running, with their hair, with beads of sweat that bleak, that g aloppano beautiful in these green fields like the Valhalla. Hence the cry of women, 'Go there! Go' way! That stuff "
Maria Pia Timo



from top left: Ronan O'Gara, Ireland
Jonny Wilkinson, England
Dan Carter, New Zealand

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winter ... the dawning of a southern beach, he walks on the shore, looking toward the horizon. Last memories of the dream. I get up almost shooting. I go downstairs. Into the kitchen. I open the fridge. All doing the least possible noise. I take the first thing that I find. Must be the cold. Too cold. I move the window curtains. I look through the cracks of the shutter. It 's still dark. But the kitchen clock marked a quarter to six. I no longer sleep. I'll be back in the room just to put on a pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt. I take the car keys, I want to leave. My parents are asleep, my sisters as well. I can not wake them up. I can close the door without making too much mess. Now they are quiet. I go down the stairs of my apartment building, always colder than the outside temperature. It takes me a little 'remember where my father leaves the car back from work. Found. I put the key in the door, sit down. A smell of tobacco mixed with lemon Arbre Magique pervades the interior. The old leather seats are impregnated. Cigars of my father on the seat to my right, along with some old sheet. I open the window manually, the smell was killing me. Whether the urge to smoke, and for the risky combination with lemon. Enter a breezy spring, almost the sweatshirt is not enough. I close the half and put in motion. I realize that I have no idea where he wants to go. I have not thought of a destination. And the gas tank is by no means full. I think all my friends will stay asleep. Maybe some will even out. And who knows in what conditions. I decide to leave and take the streets at random. I do not want to think about an itinerary and even I need. I just wanted to leave home to do something, I lack sleep. Certainly I would not asleep again. Pop my head out the window and puddles. The night before it rained. A shower, I suppose, while I was sleeping. The morning air still knew a bit 'of rain. I hold the steering wheel as if he were to guide me. Do not touch too much speed or the accelerator at a speed the same. The minutes before dawn are lit by a moon of the street lamps in the gardens. Everyone is asleep, except a man with a cigarette. Goes in the opposite direction to mine. I have a direction? Unconscious. Bring a dog on a leash. A half-breed, for what little I see. It should be calmer, slower than me. The excess and turn on the radio. Turn down the volume, so the music is just for me. A guitar breaks the silence of the clouds that watch the walls of this forgotten suburb. A song about fifteen years ago. I know it well. The car takes me all over the place as anyone. I do not know. And I do not want to know. These agreements contribute noise to take me away from this deserted road in the province. A look at the horizon, he walks on the shore. And behind the winter dawn of a southern beach ...