It’s time.

Soon I’ll close the door of my apartment. I’ll wave my neighbor goodbye. I’ll go down the stairs. I’ll load the trunk of my car. I’ll start driving. I will look in the rear view mirror.

And I’ll see everything.

I’ll see the panic I had the night before, the tears in my eyes waving my parents goodbye, and all the thoughts I had on the airplane.

I’ll see the train station in Frankfurt, the thermometer at -3° at 4PM, and the skyscrapers glowing in the dark, making all “New Yorkdorf”.

I’ll see my first day here, sniffing the city with every step, and remaining with my mouth wide open at the sight of all those bicycles at the train station, or for the beauty of the Christmas Market.

I’ll see all the joy I had when walking, for the first time in my life, in my apartment.

I’ll see my curiosity of working in an office where us Europeans where not the majority.

I’ll see my comatose face after the first non-asleep night because of a WG-Party at my neighbors’.

I’ll see all the happiness of flying, that December day, above Alps in the Sun, and how it felt right to hug my family again (yes, it’s true. We italians love our mamas and papas. And we’re proud, of this love.)

I’ll see the despair and the tears for a new apartment, which had nothing of new, except for the dust on the furniture. And I will see it changing, every day, with my hand, in every detail.

I’ll see the chinese new year’s eve, the dumplings we prepared, and how it was nice to be “part of our so-far-away-from-home family”.

I’ll see my smile when, for the first time in my life, I went to work by bicycle. Even if there was frost in the ground.

I’ll see myself bashing my head on a door for having thrown in the toilet four months of work, even if it wasn’t my fault.

I’ll see how my old friends turned their backs on me, leaving just one or two real friends, the one you can count on for the rest of your life.

I’ll see the first spring sunrays on Holtensen’s hills, and the yellow of the fields shining.

I’ll see how Germany felt different, that night at the Gänseliesel, when the world cup was over.

I’ll see Kassel’s castle, and its monumental “Wilhelmshöhe” writing. I’ll see Leipzig and the first sip of Gose I made. I’ll see Berlin, the Sun on the Reichstag’s dome, and the look on my mother’s face looking at the East Side Gallery. I’ll see Hamburg, its wind, its habour, and my father with some tears in his eyes, finding the store where thirty years ago he bought an amber necklace for my mother. I’ll see Lübeck, its high spires and its marzipan. I’ll see my brother at Real, saying “Christ, Italian markets do not have any sense anymore”. I’ll see the cold I felt in Goslar, wondering about all those kids running with just a t-shirt. I’ll see Eisenach’s forests, Erfurt’s cathedrals and the Wolfsburg’s beautiful cars. I’ll see the three rivers crashing into themselves in Hannoversch Münden, and a small baby in his cradle in Hannover.

I’ll see all these eight months I spent here, and I’ll understand that I will miss every corner of this place, even though I’m happy to be on my way to the place I belong.

I’ll see each and every one of you. The ones I shared pieces of life with, and those I only said “Hi”. I’ll see who I loved and who I hated, and no matter who you were you’ll stay forever in my mind and in my heart, for all the pieces of life or “Hi”s I shared with you.

And I’ll smile. Wide open.

Thank you for everything, folks. From the bottom of my heart.

Thank you. Danke. Obrigado. Gracias. תודה. 謝謝. धन्यवाद. ありがとう.



Informazioni su brux

Ho 32 anni, ho studiato ingegneria e vivo in uno schifo di città (Roma) invidiata da tante persone. Per tanti anni ho cercato di capire il perchè di questa invidia, e dopo otto mesi vissuti in Germania credo di averlo capito, questo perchè. Adoro i gatti, la montagna, i paesi scandinavi. Ogni tanto strimpello la chitarra, solo ogni tanto e per poco, perchè poi i vicini si incazzano. Sono paranoico e rompicoglioni, ma probabilmente sta riga non l'avete letta perchè siete passati già ad un altro sito...
Questa voce è stata pubblicata in Bel paese, Delirio, Estero, Immigrazione, Roma. Contrassegna il permalink.


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