Travelling is exploring - your surroundings, and yourself, your relationship with things and people. What is difficult is to take home what you saw, and felt - the scent, the heat, the rain, the atmosphere, the emotions of seeing things for the first time, or again, when time has changed you, and them.

I write about travel to remember, and share. I never bring much with me: whoever I am when I arrive at my destination, is not the same person who left. I look for clothes, books, and art supplies when I'm there. Sometimes I hide them where I'm staying, to perhaps find them again the following time...

May 15, 2018

The posters of the Gianfranco Asveri exhibition at the Commenda were the first thing I noticed arriving in Genova a few days ago. I didn't know  who he was, I still don't, in a way, but his paintings seemed so fresh, colourful and innocent, in a grey town steeped in so much history that seems to almost break the back of its inhabitants. My own pilgrimage brought me to explore the Commenda, where I had never been before, and to...

November 21, 2017

The title of this blog post is a homage to Aulus Gellius's The Attic Nights, a book, or, more precisely, 20 books, that my father discouraged me to read, for reasons unknown. The story goes as follows: last year I went to the London Press Club Christmas drinks at the Corinthia Hotel, and won a voucher for a three-course dinner for two at Massimo Restaurant. It expired 21 November 2017. We went yesterday, 20 November - oh, don'...

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