20 seconds. Time for a coffee bar, and out of the car park, to come down from the eighth floor of a building, to turn a map, to wash their hands, a greeting and a "how are you? Everything is fine thanks and you? Everything ok. Hello "
20 seconds, maybe less, and fall 20 years of real estate speculation, and all of their content, vine.
The stretch of highway closed compels us to go to the Eagle, Aragno, pagans, and finally Assergi Camarda.
Just over 100 € of expenses that are essential and a smile will turn into a God's people that surround our car on arrival are the same ones with which I ate, drank, joked and shared the summers for 28 years, every year . Only my name is the pause between embracing and crying. A cry, their, full of content, including all the dignity, stuck to the belief that the little that remains from the rubble, not the end, not the end but the beginning from which to begin again, stone by stone.
packs of salt, sugar, long life milk, everything goes through a train of hands, until the stock (ex-bar) of the country. The first sensation that you take the neck è quella profonda convinzione che potresti fare di più, sempre di più, che loro capiscono all’istante e cercano di smorzare con un grazie, non ti preoccupare, noi stiamo bene, non dovevi, grazie, grazie.
Nel prato dove sono ora facevamo le “arrostate”, tanto vino, tanta pecora, tanti sorrisi. Ora è una tendopoli, una delle tante. La gente si aggira chiedendo chi ha un telo, chi ha dell’acqua, la protezione civile tarda ad arrivare ed è comprensibile, loro sono tra i più fortunati, molti hanno perso solo amici.
Altri non sanno dove andare, Chiara ti dice col sorriso che ha perso, tra l’altro, tutte e due le case, a l’Aquila e a Paganica, and now live in the camper, but she is lucky, its doing well.
Crying is not allowed, nor complain, thoughts have turned to L'Aquila, and they are the lucky ones, so it is sin.
We give a hand to fix something in the field, and as they prepare sandwiches for lunch arrives on time, the journalist who wants to see, with his camera, like the earthquake and what they eat, where they sleep the earthquake, what's inside tents of earthquake survivors as they go to the bathroom, earthquakes and, finally, why are so sad this earthquake. Some close to the old lady there, crying, sad turn of plan as the basis of music and will be sold to some special evening, but now we go to lunch autogrill, who came to me hungry.
we hear via a phone call that a piece of the highway was reopened to traffic, then we go to the Eagle will resume from where the highway.
As we approach the city with the increasing number of road blocks for us to announce that we are close to what we had until now only seen on television. The images of TG I thought I had prepared for the worst, it was not.
Christ's sake what happened. The roads that I used to take no longer recognize. The places I frequent are gone, and many of the people attending them there are no more. There are many memories that come to mind, life scenes, photographed and sculpted in the memory, and not matched by what you see, everything is changed, everything is different.
There's nothing personal, private, everything is public, pictures, clothes, furniture, books, games ... all on the street ... all the personal content surrounded by walls that once was a house is now open, raped, sexually assaulted by what looks like a bomb.
Too many heads will fall, but not falling.
Maybe our generation just missed it, the war. But here there is no front, the enemy did not flag, you can not withdraw, there are no strategies, no one to fight, there are moves to predict, there is a surrender to be signed.
The images run too fast the car window, and I do not know if I would stop or go away, to take that highway that takes me back home immediately, so fast to escape the feeling that you take as a stomach cramp that does not give up, that haunts you, as a sense of guilt. Guilty of what? You could have done more? You'd have to stay? I do not know, we all have our lives and move on, this is only one way, for us to go home. But when
you wake up and go to the bathroom to brush your teeth, stomach cramp that comes back to visit you, right where you left it at the bottom of the stomach, to remember how many times have you complained, poor bastard with a drawer full of ideals, because hit by unemployment and forced to seek work at home on infojobs, depressed and had to be sold on ebay the bike, struck by an earthquake with a roof to be redone in a renovated house with 10 years of the thirteenth and hard work, but that despite everything is still standing.
Hit, hit, hit. Three out of three.
But not sunk, my dear fate of the cock ... not sunk.
