"So thinking, we came to the hill on the road Cisa, and Italian was here on Sunday afternoon in his splendor. Not only in paesi ma anche lungo la strada, nei tornanti che avviluppano i colli a guardia del Taro, il passeggio festivo era intenso, sbadato, animato di conversazioni e di giuochi, sicché sembrava che stessimo attraversando un’unica immensa città. Per buon tratto seguimmo a passo d’uomo una processione, anzi la nostra macchina che chiudeva il corteo dei fedeli, ne fu, a giudicare dagli sguardi delle Figlie di Maria, l’attrazione più vistosa.
Fermi davanti ai bar e alle osterie, gli uomini discutevano immobili come statue scese dai loro piedistalli, con quel peso che soltanto la gente di campagna riesce a far sentire nelle loro membra. Passavano i carabinieri di servizio, col sottogola e il moschetto, un cacciatore se ne andava Dog on a motorcycle with his paws on the handlebars too, the sudden seriousness of the dogs that make a man thing, or an ice cream man looked at us, chewing a blade of grass. In complete solitude
daring girls greeted us dressed up, walking laced telling their secrets of love, or talking about the new fashion, while young people followed the sly playing with a ball and pretending, as we passed, of losing ' balance and want to end up under the wheels of the machine. We came their merry laughter, the screams of aggressive more often admiration for the baroque architecture of the car. Stopping in the vast open spaces of curves to look at the distant city steeped in its blue haze heard the rustling of the trees, the cool breath of the valley that opened at our feet, with broad river gravel.
an Italy was so intimate in its rest to remove any wonder at all events that were to follow: the sudden rush of bicycles and announced that we passed towards Pontremoli, trudging in a festive color and shouts of encouragement, with those young eye off the effort of pedaling and the last who came without losing heart, but rather not to smile for their lag, or the carousel the outskirts of a village, four seats flying in the wind, a group of boys in waiting their turn, those guys on Sunday clothes and tidy as cairns, the hem of a handkerchief sticking out of his jacket pocket, or stop at a railroad crossing, where they continue coming and going, bowing under the bars, families are also dressed up, the girls with her purse, the mothers with a new coat, fathers taken by the just thought of a melancholy atmosphere.
Then, another unavoidable error quell'ormai lost day, pitting the road along the sea in Viareggio. "
's just a fragment from a story by Ennio Flaiano (introduction to" On Sunday the Italians' album Snapshot Lori Sammartino 1963, 2009 reissue )
One Sunday in April to late fifties and on the road to Pontremoli. In the same year Kerouac lived and wrote his "On the Road". I know it's just a coincidence and the comparison is rash. But this time, the landscape and now faded beyond recognition, that strange passion for travel, the desire to get out of intimate human mental borders leads to the same nostalgia. And to remove at least one night on television to concede to Flaiano.
0 comments:
Post a Comment