mercoledì 1 febbraio 2012

Via dei Matti

Boyfriend had already stressed and stretched his muscles with all kind of exercises (an odd way to start the weekend, if you ask me), whilst I was still struggling to get into a pair of jeans I had bought in the last sales, possessed by the typical shopaholic mood. You dye your white hair and you think you have the legs of a teenager. Boyfriend felt the obligation to let me know I have serious problems avec le matériel. Live and learn.
Via dei Matti could not have welcomed us in a better way, with the green grass and the flowers that could not believe how sunny it was, and the cocks and the hens serenading us. Nu babbà.
Via dei Matti is situated in the heart of a très bourgeois neighborhood, cos crazy people love to surprise you and spread everywhere. Just like "when the first baby laughed for the first time, and the laugh broke into a thousand pieces and they all went skipping about, and that was the beginning of fairies"( to quote James Matthew Barrie, cos I am an adult like that). That Via dei Matti (which is not really called like that, it is just the name of a silly song), I was saying, is full of tiny little white houses surrounded by big gardens. There are also horses, foxes and apple trees, but I feel I am being a bit cheeky, so pretend I said nothing. There are just a couple of cats, that's it. I promise.
It is not a street packed with crazy people, far from that. It is just that yesterday we spent the day with them. That have been living there for a long time, so long that it becomes difficult to recall when it all started, and that have no intention of living anywhere else.
One of them has the same name of a bee that had her 15 minutes of fame in the '80. She cannot feel any sort of pain, so she goes to the doctor every day to ask if she is feeling any. There's another one who is an heir, and every morning he wakes up, has a shower (less likely) and walks down the hill to the newsagent, and spends 50 euros on magazines. He's no mtv diva, but like his colleague Paris he has a few bff, in his case it's a bunch of ladies who like la bella vita. Who doesn't. Ah, the sad fate of heirs. Then there's the gardener, who hid an apple in the hood of my daughter's coat, and the stable man, who gave her a wooden rabbit, that in her own not yet codified language is better known as Pesh.
Then there are the the ones who have left, cos their families decided that they were too old or too crazy. They live in homes, and are taken care of. And locked up. The others make fun of them, or are a bit jealous of their clean ironed shirts. Yes, but they walk up the hill as much as they can and have lunch with the others, even with those ironed shirts, and then stare at the garden for a while (but I must admit that seeing a clean shirt feels nice).
And then there are the lovers, who are just as crazy as all the other lovers.
I am moving in that street. With the sufi boyfriend and the daughter, in a tiny little white house with a garden built by them for them. In a community of people who live life in their own "normal" way, in a world that is more and more indignado, or sad.
I am moving there, and I am gonna eat with them 4 days a week. And I am gonna bring some glamour. And I am gonna leave the jeans behind.

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