That time of the day
The soul-saving moment that sends you on
Portello, Milan.
Suburban, multi-ethnic and colourful neighbourhood, with no shortage of races, religions and sexual orientations, plus a few assholes common to all the above categories.
End of the day and soul-saving moment, which for me, when I am alone, means a beer and a cigar.
I find a bench in the shade and park my Gary Fisher bike, which on this side of the city means ten turns of the chain if that’s enough.
I sit hunched over as if I had unloaded a truck, I open the beer and gulp down the first iced sip, which with this sweltering heat, it does the same for me as spinach does for Popeye.
I light up my cigar and start making other people’s affairs.
Normal hustle and bustle of colours, smells and varied humanity, no big deal.
Then I notice them, or rather I hear them.
Three women loaded with bags walk in my direction.
One of them is pointing at the bench in front of me and, cartwheeling, accelerates to gain shade and well-deserved rest. The others arrive, sit down loud and satisfied, and in two minutes the bench is turned into a picnic.
They notice that I am watching them and reciprocate with a nod of greeting to which I respond by raising my beer, and since they do not seem at all bothered by the maniac in front, I continue watching.
Three nationalities and two different continents, portly and around fifty.
It’s Thursday, probably carers.
One of them seems to be of Creole origin, one Asian and the runner is definitely of Slavic origin.
In my life I have travelled a lot, I have always appreciated the mix of cultures and I always find a certain fascination in observing how different we can be but how in the end we are all the same.
I listened to them speak in our language with the funny cadences that each nationality has.
They talked about everything, told each other stories, made fun of each other and laughed. A lot.
They ate and shared as much as they had, continuing to talk and laugh.
I watched them, listened to them and admired the harmony of that moment.
It’s because of these things that I don’t understand where we find a thousand reasons to be at each other’s throats all the time.
Epilogue.
I drain the last, no longer frozen sip and noisily release the Gary, while the Slav, from whom I expected no less, pulls out a beer, uncorks it and takes one of those sips that make you make peace with the world.
I put on my best smile and greet them, earning two full-mouthed smiles and a gentleman’s hello with a raise of beer.
Who knows if next Thursday, after having carefully chosen a bench without a maniac, they will remember or, why not, they will laugh at me.
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