Author Archives: valanzo

The starlight in the morning

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I have lots of boosting-up songs, ready-to-take-from-the-magic-hat-called-Ipod pearls, but this one is related to a big moment of my life.
I somewhere wrote about my teeny tiny passion for football; to be fair sports in general, but football is one of the fondest. This time I am going to talk about a song, football and me.
Whistle..let’s go.

I woke up, every muscle aching like hell. The side effect of sleeping on the backseat of a small car. I didn’t know what time it was but the first thing I did, bar the pain, was to smile.
You could see and count all the teeth, to be precise.
The car was parked in a parking lot next to a small playground, and you could see people starting going to work; I didn’t have a precise idea of what time it was, but the light was very bright that morning in July.
It was less than 24 hours from our decision. There are times you just have to let yourself in an adventure, moved by a firm perception, by a je-ne-sais-quoi that makes your idea crazy, hell yeah crazy, but convincing at the same time. The decision was to leave everything we were supposed to do that day, take the car and drive for a good 5 to 6 hours. Destination? Munich. Yes Germany.
So, football, Munich, Germany, July. I’ll add a year too: 2006.
Got it?
It was on early July 4th 2006 that we decided to drive to Germany and watch the semifinal Germany- Italy on German soil with German people. Thousands of them, to be precise…
We were absolutely convinced we were going to win. Absolutely, more convinced than the Pope about his faith. We also spent the afternoon in a Biergarten, me sweating over my dressing up in polyester like an Italian player, and drank and basically being mocked by anybody.
Well, we won. And we celebrate like hell, while around sad crying faces.
The next morning, ecstasy of glory. And so, with all the muscles aching and adrenaline still running, we had a change of clothes (ignoring hygienic civilised standards) and then breakfast, while screaming the song. Everything in the car on a parking lot in Munich center, very student budget.
Guys, we didn’t care, Italy was in the finals, but we had our final ourselves by betting in this adventure. The lyrics claimed:
“My life, you electrify my life”
The song was “Starlight” by Muse and this is the best memory I have of World Cup 2006, with my ‘hopes and expectations, black holes and revelations’.

 

A Fist of Yellow

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It was a lovely warm day, Summer was coming soon.

He was driving us home through the countryside, where you could spot pretty houses and farms, green fields, little rivers. I think I could hear insects buzzing at the sun. The air was so vibrant, I, after discussing the silly people hanging their shoes on the electric wires in Brooklyn, yep I, in an act of silliness, took off my trainers and hand on the wing mirror, excited like a kid to see if they would have fallen away.
There was a song by Coldplay that started in that moment, and he told me the story of when he recorded that specific one on tape, from the radio.
Are you the tape generation, you too? Do you remember the joy when your favourite song was on the afternoon radio program and you rush to tape it, so to listen to it over and over? Do you remember that pure sense of offence towards music you felt when the dj talked over the already started song or the sense of impotence when he put the commercials before the very end?
As every people of the tape generation, he was telling me that he recorded the song because it was one of the first song he really liked and that the dj ruined it by talking shit.
Same old story.
Now, I wouldn’t define myself a Coldplay fan, at that time I had no album, just a “Greatest Hits-The Best of their three Albums” a friend of mine made me, where I asked for “The Scientist” – that I find perfectly sad- and he put “Green Eyes”, never heard before that, never ever gonna leave this song, I think it’s my favourite with “Amsterdam”.
Anyway, back to the story. When he asked me if i knew it, I just answered it was in my personalized cd. I was distracted by the trainers swinging out of the window, keeping his words and the music on the background of my thoughts.
When he asked me to put an open hand between us, next to the hand brake, I turned and looked at him in silence, eyes puzzling. I did it. In that precise moment, without taking his eyes off the street, he gave a punch on my left hand, a fair good one. In a sec I was fuming with rage and absolutely perplexed by the action.
He laughed, a bit embarrassed and ashamed. He told me: “From now on you will have a strong memory of this song only related to me”.

And I have, and I will. The song was Yellow, by Coldplay.
Enjoy.

 

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Election 2013 – Italy

In the past few days I’ve been busy reading and preparing this table sheet with a comparison among the political programs promoted by the 6 largest parties in Italy. The election day is coming very soon and I in collaboration with a friend have felt the urge to fill the gap/lack of information with a simple and more intuitive summary. Let’s vote, Italy!

Una pratica tabella di comparazione con sintesi dei programmi elettorali di 6 coalizioni per le imminenti elezioni italiane, con l’invito a condividere e far circolare… andiamo a votare!!

Deep dark blue and red

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I was 17, in bed; in the darkness I reached the cd player after promising someone really special to listen to a musician I didn’t know.

Back to that time, I think I would have painted myself with an incredible amount of deep dark blue, and in the middle, a bit covered, thousands of red bursting drops.

When the music started I realised it was a live recorded concert somewhere in far away America; there was a lot of improvisation, you could tell that because the singer was stopping to laugh as desired. Laughing while playing, that was new to me.
After few seconds of the first track I got one of the most genuine moments of naive happiness never achieved before: a huge gigantic smile in the darkness. I could see the red colour. Yes, I could see it. I could see that everything would have gone in the right direction, if I laughed more often. And if I trusted that really special cd owner.
That night was the night I discovered Frank Zappa, the musician, the composer, the genius of merry notes. The album was “Cheap Thrills” and the first song was “Catholic Girls”.


Snap.

Le petit madeleine – Music version

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For those who love movies, the recurrent dream is to be the protagonist in an epic film. Eventually with happy endings and lots of great action involved.
A vital matter of this movie must be the music; have you ever watched something and enjoyed its climax, like a kiss, a celebration, a goodbye, without soundtrack? Nope.
A special scene would not appear the same without music, so life, my life, without music.
I’ve started inking memories with songs back to childhood when I used to consume my parents’ vinyls and my uncle’s tapes. I must admit I’ve always been a huge fan of tapes instead of vinyl, I guess due to my goofiness or my recent anti-hipstery, but there’s nothing better than the sound of the silence in a vinyl. It is really part of the binary code inside music. And I do miss silence with the new technology.
As you can feel, I speak about music and I let my melancholic side to write; I couldn’t help it, there’s no other way to enjoy music than make it mine, many times I connect it to episodes, feelings..history, my personal movie indeed.
Back to university I learnt the word “fruition”, the act of enjoying works of art. During the adventures of the following year, whenever inspiration will occur, I am going to talk about “petite madelaine de la musique”, old and new souvenirs/fruition moments coming from that treasure called “listen to music”. First story is coming pretty soon.
Too banal to end with a stay tuned? Yes, but bear with me. And stay tuned.

Leftovers ‘012: Copenhagen

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In a pure spirit of cleaning up my hardware I leave you a leftover of my travels; this happened in July and was entered in a writing competition few time ago… see its marked jeering/drama self tone.

Enjoy.

There’s a place I didn’t want to be, better, to end up to.
It all happened this Summer I still can’t figure out a concrete explanation: there’s no reason, guilt or moral sentence to understand what happened, so I am just going to put some words down and you will find your own meaning, ok?
Well, I’ve been having a crappy year so far: fired, dumped, disappointed by many. Travelling is my way to breathe, so in July, moved by another very sad I’m-not-going-to-tell-here episode, I decided to find the best way to visit a city that in the past year played a significant role in my life: Copenhagen.
Like in many movies this city leads to a love story, wait, maybe kind of modern love story: girl meets guy in Berlin, girl adores guy, guy likes girl, guy decides to look for a job in Copenhagen moving with another girl he likes more.
I let you imagine which one of the girls I am. And I reckon it’s a love story only in my imagination. I guess it was the best I could get from my travelling existence: a big heavy heart to carry along with my bones in a big hit-and-run city like Berlin.
So Copenhagen. It took me months to actually put in real a trip that in my mind I had organized almost every night. A part of me wanted to see and understand his choice, the other dreamy one was hoping to bump into each other: and here is the image of me, walking in a light rain along the city center, looking at the buildings and people and meeting his eyes. Again, I reckon I do work a bit too much with my imagination and the irony was I wasn’t even sure he was there at the time. Chance to meet him: 13 to 17%, bad luck included.
In the end this dream was urging enough: I guess sometimes we just have to chase a night dream to see it minimised in the daylight.
With the best disposition I bought a guide, look at the walking tours, booked the cheapest bus ticket, the lamest hostel bed, then organized my two days, like the famous brewery, the Castle, Christiania: I did everything a human being can possibly do to organise a trip, reading the guide so many times I thought I wrote it. That day I left my flat 2 hours in advance, despite the fact that the website of public transports stated the journey was less than 35 min, one metro then one bus. Easy peasy. But you never know with transports, right? Exactly. The bus didn’t show up, neither the following three ones. Something was wrong and so I tried my luck with the metro again, ending in a big station with all the screens saying: all the trains are momentary cancelled due to a central marathon (oh yes, the worldwide famous marathon in Berlin, known by… nevermind). I started saying to myself “Please wait for me, bus”. I really had to catch that bus so I run out looking for a taxi, bike, divine intervention, aliens, teleport. I wasn’t picky at all.
Long story short: I ended up late in Bismarckstraße, Berlin, less than 2 km away from the bus station, with my bag full of hopes and the damn tourist guide. I cried a river in Bismarckstrasse, and I hated everything of it: emptiness, lack of people, inexistence of taxis, just lots of trees and parked cars. This is the place I didn’t want to be, while I was looking for a little redemption or a huge explanation. I had to let my romantic dream leave without me, 2 km away from it, on the pavement of a big West-Berlin street, where the lights of a car shop enlightened my copious tears. I guess it was the wrong trip, even if I really deserved it.
This silly thing called destiny. Or called Kafka. I guess I’ll never try to visit Cop. Just kidding, give me the chance and I’ll do it again, bar the drama queen moment on that street. The place I didn’t want to be could be the starting line. You never know.

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The only picture I took documenting my Kafkaesque evening. Pretty weepy ugly.

December, end of the journey.

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The last month of the year was about going back to my roots.

It was an unexpected, lovely month, started with bad news, ended with good hopes. When I was there to write about a trip I programmed, I was blocked by snow. A December with snow sounds both magical than inspiring, and puts you on the right track for the holidays..

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Frankly, it has been a quite difficult year for me, as I experienced the hugest-for-humans amount of nos and disappointments, which put me poorly in a miserable state all the time; the snowflakes spinning and spinning over my thoughtful head could have been seen as another impossibility to move, to improve, to heal. Au contraire, I read it as a “take it slow, have a break” epiphany. That was the best choice, so to be able to enjoy the cold weather, take some quality time for photos, Christmas lights, markets and presents. Loads of presents for my family and friends (the secret is to wrap everything!).

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After several years I celebrated with my family, back from where I started with the dreams. I managed to clean up my old room, finding treasures from my teenage messy period.

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It was overall a feeling of tenderness, a sweet way to keep going and doing. Because. Because I’ve done a lot to get where I am now, because there are so many things to do and experience, so many words to find deep inside yourself.

Snow in Berlin, fog in North Italy. That cold Winter holidays time reminded me to find my own way to move, keeping my existence in action.

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Viktoriapark in the snow, Berlin

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Ponte degli Alpini in the fog, Bassano del Grappa

2013, I salute you with a smile, we’re going to do great things together. Onwards and upwards.

November: Padova

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I waited a bit before writing this chapter, in part because i was expected to travel more, but also because I didn’t want to tell about November in a very personal, quite cheesy way.
Since a blog is personal, alright I’ll spill the beans you about my trip back to Padova.

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I spent four years at University in Padova, enjoying almost every minute of it. The city is home of one of the oldest University in Europe and the centre is a lovely mosaic of squares, beautiful buildings, street markets and porches.

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God only knows how much I missed walking through the porches. A porch is protection from rain and sun, selection of sight, meeting with strangers: there’s more contact on a porch than on a normal pavement, you can feel the humanity and the history that the columns have been holding.

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The reason I went back was a special wedding/celebration. Imagine that:
A friend of mine, after 5 years at University left to find better luck in New Zealand; there he met a Japanese gal, they fell in love and lived together. For a cruel matter of visa, they both had to go back to the home countries. They stayed together almost 2 years, seeing each others when possible, here and there. I remember talking with my friend before one of his trip to Tokyo: he was working an average of 14 hours per day in order to save enough money to live there for a month. He wasn’t complaining at all about that, actually couldn’t hide his joy to hug soon her dream girl.
Eventually they managed to get visas for Canada and moved for good. They got married in June without many among family and friends and so this November they organised to travel and celebrate their love with the Italian side; next year they’ll do the same in Japan.
Love always finds its way, when determination holds on.

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Now, I could I miss this occasion? My friend and his beautiful bride reminded me how simple true feelings are even in the difficulties. I’ve always been touched by choices made with the heart and I felt like I wanted to be part of that party, so to convince myself that happy endings are still possible.
Yes they are.

Goodbye Italia, goodbye memories.

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P.S. Still, no room for my camera in the hand-luggage, forced to take pics with my decent not-so-much-brilliant camera. Apologies for the quality, feel free to insult me for the lack of professionalism.

P.P.S. I’ve come to the age that I travel to see people getting married and have child. What’s my age again?

October: Cambridgeshire

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To come home from a theatre after watching a pleasant romantic comedy and have the urge to put some thoughts down on paper, that may occur, but not so often.
Tonight it’s happening and so here I am, writing my October trip, mixing the feelings about it.
On one side, there is a sad story to tell; on the other one, there is love. The intense full-fitting one.
During the past month my life was put in an eternal soaking mode, like inside a huge washing machine. I kept turning and turning in vain, while watching the world from the viewing panel. That bloody machine was stuck in a cycle, when all I wanted was a rinsing and a bit of sun to dry up and feel the warm again on my skin.
I eventually had the chance to get out of it, but that meant to leave London, at least for a while. This is where the sad story ends, and the most compelling one begins.
I packed everything, hugged my friend, said goodbye and got on a train. Everything in the goofiest and less romantic idea you have in mind, since I was carrying something like 40 Kgs (or if you better prefer to think as a British 88.18342151675485 pounds – British is nothing but rational, right? Beg you pardon, you disagree? Would you enjoy someone to measure you with his (probably dirty) thumb, arm and foot? Yeah, neither do I).
From the big city to a village, passing by the countryside: sweet hills and brown ground, trees delimiting enclosures. From time to time, animals eating tons of green grass.
Destination? Cambridgeshire.

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There are many things I like in that specific village in the Cambridgeshire: I like the fact that there is somebody’s grandma not far away from where you are; I like the fact that at the center you find the intersection of the two main streets, both guiding you to the main cities at their end and one of four is always Cambridge, another one London; I like kids going home by foot and bikes, even if here they are absolutely less noisy than I remember I was (apologies, I was, erm, just “full of life” maybe? And easily appealed by screaming too).
Visually, the center is made by the church with cemetery, supermarket and shop. Then what? Nothing much, some other shops, hairdressers and few pubs.

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Then little cute houses, pretty gardens, cars parked outside, the school and in two minutes countryside.

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In few days there I became a great fan of walking from the school park to the railway: I met so many smiling people there, with dogs or without, that helped me to remind there are still people out there not afraid to say hi to a stranger. Faith in each others, one thing that you forget if you are a town girl in a big city.

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It is sometimes just a matter of places, other times of people. In this case it’s a fair combination between the two: I stayed in a house where I felt the sense of family that I’ve been quite missing lately: ball in the garden to play, a cuckoo clock at the entrance, family portraits, fresh bread, kettle ready, tv on. Details are little, reassuring part of living in a village, where houses are small temples of affection.

An old song says:

“But a room is not a house
and a house is not a home
When the two of us are far apart
and one of us has a broken heart”

(A house is not a home, B. Bacharach and Hal David)

Now, how can I write about a broken heart? There are no words. I simply can’t. What I can do is to write about that heart itself. It has witnessed love and hope, before experiencing the biggest sorrow.
You must be kinda lucky to find and mostly hold love as much as possible in your life. But I was lucky enough to spend time in a home that showed me love, the really full-fitting, long-term one, even if now rooms are pretty empty and hearts are really heavy to carry along. But I saw love and dedication and support in every detail of those four walls, maybe now in a bit more silent way.

I really hope silence won’t win this struggle.

Still, even in the middle of a silent broken heart transition, I did felt the love, and it was warm and bright, despite the dull British weather outside. Cheers.

P.S. Apologies, all the pictures this time were taken with my mobile, the low quality on screen disappoints.

September: Bristol

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Why on Earth has nobody ever told me that Bristol is a lovely city?
Actually, more than lovely, the epitaph I created after this September trip was: “Bristol is a very beautiful and, despite being on English soil, happy city.”
Well, after some weeks in London, a bit discouraged by the events not turning into luck, I chose a ‘tropical’ destination for a cheap 1 day holiday to clean my mind and find new motivations.
Well, that road trip really made the difference!
The past few days before leaving had been a bit colder and grey than usual, I was about to put my grumpy mode on, complaining that Fall was coming soon and it was not fair Summer was always too short and bla bla bla. Never been so wrong.

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Early bus, cappuccino to go on a hand and mobile with reservation on the other one (yes, I try to do my best entrance every time I approach a ticket inspector or driver, I just can’t help it, imagine with a smartphone now, so modern and posh) I spend the trip listening to boosting-up music (I admit I put on loop Jay-Z’s Encore for a good half an hour, no clue why) taking some pictures of the countryside in the best harvesting time, fantasising about my childhood, where one of big challenge was to climb those huge good smelling bales with friends, and to do it in the quickest time possible.
The ride was really short, and I particularly enjoyed passing by Staines, I mean Staines, wow, huge metropolis where the great, greatest Ali G. was born and raised and shone and basically rulez my heart. If you don’t know who Ali G is, change page immediately. I mean it.
Well, a bit of introduction about the trip; I personally know a bit England, been in many places but never South-Westbound; back to August, London was proudly hosting the Olympics and the city was a fervent place to be, full of collateral interesting exhibitions and activities to take part. From one of this I got to know about a buzzing street art festival in Bristol, and took the gamble to go and watch out in person. So glad now!

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Basically, the festival was hosted in one of the central street of the city, very close to the pedestrian shopping area, Nelson St., where the not very flattering buildings along this street, that happen being the way to get to the harbour, turned mainly grey by the time, were re-living again thanks to the passion, phantasy and genius street artist from all around the world put to re-qualify the area. Mission accomplished!

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Nelson Street now glows of light and energy, everything matching with the surrounds and the place was full of youngsters and street art lovers, really please to have been there.
You might wonder, why do they do a street art festival in Bristol? Easy peasy. A guy called Banksy is from there. Never heard of him? Well, time to change blog again, sorry mate.
1 + 1  makes two, so I walked along the city to find his previous works, and I was kinda playing hiding and seeks with him, while enjoying the city center.

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I liked many things in Bristol: the area along the river is brand new and well renewed, quiet but also vibrant, with bar boats and the walking path; the bars and restaurants offer at an affordable price the possibility to enjoy a meal outside, much appreciated; I saw coloured houses, a delicate difference from all the brick-over-brick mental idea I’ve made of England; street art is everywhere and loved; it’s  student city, and you can feel it, and this give a plus to everything because it generally means more open-minded people. And more bikes. Or boats.

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It might have been because it was sunny all day long, but I give a huge 10 to this trip, that really helped me finding new convictions and strenght to go on pursuing my dreams to move to England on a more long-term basis.
It’s like when you feel down, and your head spins and spins and you struggle to find a new point of stability: I think on this occasion the best thing to do is to stop looking for it, have a break and breathe a different air, even if for just one day.
Bristol was my fresh air, after that I felt ready to go back and fight. The result in October…

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