premise: I do not like provincialism and the Genoese, a bit 'as perhaps all, are its victims. I do not want to be labeled by the reader, like one of those ...
last Sunday before Christmas, around gifts, the mid-town ... the atmosphere is not that neurotic last day but it is already hot. I enjoy the magic of lights, red bows and kindness - perhaps inspired by the evil Christmas - made of Genoa (I know them and I know that for many is a great difficulty). I'm in the old town, a live nativity scene always very multi-ethnic. Tour of the most popular streets and when I take, I "dip" in those strangers and I let myself be guided only by my sense of direction and a Genoese law: If you go down go to the port if salts come downtown. It 'a case in which I am glad of my ignorance that always gives me the magic of new roads unknown. At times I savor the authentic feeling of being in a city I do not know, then walk again and I will reveal a well-known corner of the Superba and from there I start my ride aware. A taste of an old town that never ends, the warm heart of the city, one made of doors with the frescoes in the vaulted ceilings of the halls, paving the damp smell of life, the clothes hanging from the meter of air separating two buildings, the red lights in the ghetto, but Christmas just behind which lie the stories of life and those of the luminaries: the more poetic but for me, less evocative. Genoa
This is Christmas, this is his magic ...
