E 'then, is the first thing that happened to me last week, a few moments after my plane had finally landed in Buenos Aires. The journey was long, but I was more than happy. I had just set foot in what for so many years is a country that now I feel my, my second home, so to speak.
I got into a taxi and they hardly have time to disclose my destination. It 'was the driver to open his mouth immediately after that I was recognized as an Italian. It took me and asked, with a half smile:
"So how are you in Italy? How's the nephew of Mubarak? ".
few times I've heard so clearly that my country not belong to nowhere. E 'was difficult something for me to tell the driver of a country is mine and which also has a history that is now permanently suspended in an atmosphere of ridicule and vulgarity.
E 'was certainly easier and more enjoyable, watching the city that ran under my eyes. That city now I begin to tell all of you and perhaps you might help us better understand the life in our Arezzo.
Buenos Aires was founded on the banks of a huge river of brown water. The color of the desert, according to Jorge Luis Borges.
In the mid-twentieth century, the splendor of Buenos Aires breathtaking in every traveler.
Part of that beauty is still preserved. As soon as the traveler looks up to the downtown streets, buildings and domes discover beautiful friezes.
The city is still impressive from the second and third floors of buildings, but the height of the road you can see the ruins, as if the splendor of the past were suspended from above by refusing to go down or disappear.
E 'in the streets the history of this country. The tango, which had fallen into decay over the years of dictatorship, is back in fashion among young people. There are milongas all day in the great cultural areas of the city. From Ideal to Confiteria Torquato Tasso.
Often you hear that sound for the trios amateur street or in the tunnels of the galleries that open to the obelisk in the delta of the Republic Plaza at the intersection of Avenida July and de Nueve de la calle Corrientes.
entrance to one of these galleries There is a row of seats with foot rests for the few passers-by who do you polish your shoes .
Tourists go to see the majestic Teatro Colon, recently restored, or the National Museum. Here there is the finest collection of a great painter of the Buenos Aires of the great Italian migration of the late nineteenth century.
are particularly extraordinary portraits of prostitutes and beggars.
But there are those who visit the Centro Cultural Recoleta and beside the beautiful cemetery with the grave of Evita.
Personally, after days spent in libraries and archives in search of my missionary De Agostini, I make the rounds of the cafes of Avenida de Mayo and the Calle Corrientes, where no one withdraws the cup until the customer got up from the table as opposed to what happens in Italy. Also comes with coffee and soda water and a small cake shaped like a media luna.
In few other places I can write pages of my book with so much concentration as here. Not that anyone will ever stop.
Everything around seems what's real, maybe too much, and when you sit in this coffee is not hard to understand why the Argentines had Borges and, I add, also Osvaldo Soriano.
fantastic and improbable stories that tell of something so vital.
Arezzo seems so far away. Yet I know that I will continue to grow it in my dreams of a man who once had the good fortune to travel to the other side of the planet.
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