All we can do is cry (with our fists in our pockets)
Frittole is a village nestled in the rolling, verdant hills of Tuscany, home to a warm and welcoming community. When I go there, I breathe in the atmosphere of times gone by; my heart rate slows, and I feel that the cut-throat competition of our society is far away and futile. The people of Frittole are always ready to help others: if, for example, your car breaks down at night and a downpour sets in, you can easily find a place to sleep even in the dead of night, without having to pay in advance. However, they are rather strict when it comes to following the rules and will not tolerate any form of rudeness. Take the case of a guest who, having just got up, decides to wee from the second-floor balcony: this triggers a rather tragic punishment. Black knights arrive, who strack!, drive a lance into the sternum of the undisciplined wee-er. And that’s not the only oddity: the oak trees shrink overnight, and the inhabitants—always dressed in traditional attire—are convinced they’re living in the 1400s, almost the 1500s—a prank that left two of my friends, Mario and Saverio, a teacher and a caretaker at a primary school, who happened to end up in Frittole by chance.
When I’m there, I often pop over to Rimini, where I always have a good time because there are some truly remarkable characters. There’s a tobacconist with such a large bust and bottom that all the lads go to buy cigarettes just to catch a glimpse of her cleavage. There’s the village madman, tall and lanky, who climbs trees and shouts at the top of his voice that he wants a woman. I love going to the Fulgor cinema there, though I can barely see the film because of the commotion of whistling and jeering, not to mention the shenanigans and forbidden goings-on. It’s a completely different story at the Grand Hotel, where kings and lords spend their holidays. Once, with some friends, we went there in winter, when it was closed; we peered through the keyhole at the sumptuous interiors and all started dancing an imaginary waltz in the mist. But the truly unforgettable evening was when we ventured out with dozens of other small boats into the open sea one night as the ocean liner Rex passed by the city. A mass of lights, clouds and smoke brushed past us, and for a moment we were part of its dream.
From Rimini, I take a painful detour into the Piacenza Apennines, to Bobbio. I pop in to visit a troubled, chaotic family: the mother, a widow, is blind, and her children let the cat eat from her plate. The four siblings are rather daft. The eldest, Augusto, leads a seemingly normal life; he’s a lawyer and has a girlfriend, though rumour has it he seeks love elsewhere. Sandro, Leone and Giulia are always at home, feeding on fantasies and ghosts. Leone is struggling badly, Giulia is morbid, and Sandro is always teetering on the edge. Sometimes, I fear something irreparable might happen to them.
In my aimless wanderings fuelled by nostalgia, I can find myself travelling quite far afield – for example, to a cabin in Oregon, surrounded by towering snow in winter, where I used to go every Christmas throughout my childhood. There, the seven Pontipee brothers – kind lumberjacks, though rather rough around the edges – swing logs about and have fistfights with lads from the neighbouring village to win the love of seven young women, who are none other than their own sisters. With their muscular arms, the lumberjacks with biblical names sing and dance, repeating time and again a courtship ritual for the girls whose surnames we never learn – since they’ll end up taking the Pontipee name anyway. How old-fashioned.
It’s a completely different story in LA, where there’s no shortage of places to go and have a bit of fun. I particularly like going to Jack Rabbit Slim’s, which is stuck in the 1950s, where wild dance competitions take place, such as twist contests. Last time, two blokes won who bent their knees in a flexible, artistic way, running their index and middle fingers apart in a scissor-like motion over their eyes to the tune of Chuck Berry. There was a peculiar, magnetic chemistry between the two of them. She had a black bob, falling to her shoulders, with short fringe, and an icy stare, just like his; he had long dark hair, tied back in a ponytail. As soon as she stepped onto the dance floor – in a white shirt and black trousers – she immediately kicked off her gold ballet flats and danced barefoot; he, in a black jacket, white shirt and a leather-and-metal cowboy bow tie, remained in his socks. She moved with charisma and perhaps a touch of flamboyance, whilst pretending to wade into the water whilst holding her nose; he, on the other hand, seemed to be radiating a glow, as if dancing came naturally to him. They took home the trophy, presented to them by a Marilyn Monroe lookalike. I still remember their names: Vincent Vega and Mia Wallace. Hearing the name Wallace sent a shiver down my spine – if her husband’s called Marcellus, poor Vincent. Sometimes, when I need company, I go to visit my friend Antoine Doinel in France. We love getting on a sort of enormous cylinder in Paris that starts spinning, and we’re pressed up against the walls whilst we laugh out loud, wishing it would never end. Once I even took him to Villers-sur-Mer, in Normandy. Neither he nor I had ever seen the sea before. We escaped from a place that held us captive and started running, until we found ourselves face to face with that strange and incomprehensible thing they call the sea. We climbed down from the embankments and ran across the sand – or rather, across a narrow, wet strip, mirrored by saltwater pools, where our footprints left almost no trace. I saw Antoine slow down, almost dazed by what he was seeing, with that unpredictable nature of his. He waded into the water, just like that, with his shoes and black trousers on, to feel the texture of the sea. And then he turned round, serious, pained – perhaps by its beauty.
