Nomadi che cercano gli angoli della tranquillità

nelle nebbie del nord e nei tumulti delle civiltà

Munich airport; quiet, today. International departures, gate 69, downstairs, the area where Dolomiti gathers up the passengers traveling to Italian cities. Verona, Milano, Bologna. Trieste. I remember it quieter than today only once, long time ago, in 1997. It was Sunday. New terminal not yet built. No use, to wait in front of the empty departure gate, so I take the stairs up, walking by, and my trolley gallantly follows me. As it always did, since the day we met in the shop in via Battisti.

I remember that day too; I was rushing between duties in my own company – enthusiasm, dreams, lost friendships, no more dreams and new dreams too – and other tasks to be done, but I stopped by that shop remembering that one week earlier, in Rome airport, while running to the boarding gate holding my three bags in my two hands and my coat under my arm, I had suddenly realized why smarter people, airport people, always used to bring trolleys and not bag or suitcases when traveling abroad. That grey and small Roncato trolley had seem both robust and elegant to me, without being the classic ‘black box for businessmen’ that I so much hated. It took me thirty second to decide, as usual; when I feel something, I just do it.


tra i chiari scuri e la monotonia

dei giorni che passano


I was right to choose it as companion. It’s now fifteen years it travels with me; it went with me on business trips from Vaasa to Jeddah, on vacation from Galway to Krakow, on special missions from Baku to Maia, carrying all that’s necessary for a five day trip. It’s worn now, full of scratches and old. I am a bit worn out too, and I have my scars too. But our wheels still roar and I think I will never throw it away; even when necessity will force me to look for a new travel companion, I will find a place for it. To remember, with him, Dublin, Tatti, Hamburg, and all the special places we have been together. Tigro was with us in that trolley the time we went to Germany; when we went to Spain, we didn’t bring Tigro with us, telling we’ll do it next time. When I left home I felt there will be no next time; I didn’t know why, I just felt it, as I felt it the day we didn’t go to Glendaloch. I simply knew.


camminatore che vai

cercando la pace al crepuscolo


Flight will leave at 9:15. Airport people is already there, on their seats, since long time; everyone looking for his or her own flight, for his or her destination, someone sleeping on the couches, someone drinking coffee at the Italian coffee shop, someone typying on his or her computer. A stewardess just coming, blue and white Lufthansa suit with the yellow scarf, black shoes, hairs tinted to blonde and gathered up. She is forty maybe; my age. Opens now the desk with her keys, switches the gate computer on. Light goes to yellow then blinking green, soon she will start to run throught the check-in procedures, and announcements will start. ‘Volo 1584 per Milano Malpensa è pronto per l’imbarco’. Going west.

I am going east.


ed i lamenti della solitudine

si prolungano

come uno straniero non sento legami di sentimento


Even if you are not one of ‘those of the Airport people’, you just realize that you are in the Italian fly-to zone when you are there, because there are at least four or five mannequins walking in circles. Talking. Normally loudly, to someone at the other imaginary end of their mobile phone connection. Italians like to talk at the phone. Well I like to talk too: in person if possible (always trying to make it possible), or at the phone too, but I’ve never been one that talks at the phone for long time. Such long time. If you listen to Italians talking at the phone in an airport or walking by, you realize that they talk. And talk. And talk. But actually, they do not say anything that has a real meaning or if they do it normally takes twenty words when one or two would be enough. It’s not a dialogue. I don’t even know if the pay attention to what the other person at the other end says, probably not – probably who’s on the other side, just do the same thing. It’s kind of, keeping in good company, getting assurance that someone will listen at you. I think that Southern Spanish and Greeks does the same. Culture. No wonder why Telecompanies are so rich in our Mediterranean.


E me ne andrò

dalle città

nell’attesa del risveglio


Leaving the Airport people, one more time. Leaving and flying back home, now; even if I feel I have no home. Cities are my home now, and people I don’t know and places I’ve never been. Desiring, a bit and a bit more every day, to leave that cities and see empty places, lakes of trees, a rocky landscape, oceans of grass. The land. Few dear friends with me, waiting at the place where I fly back; some wanting to go into the sea, some other just desire to settle down, a small house with a garden, and a dog. Younger boys and girls, full of joy and hope – making me thinking about how much I like their spirit, how much I’d like to see them happy. Rest is, mostly faces, transparent, grey, prisoners in their cages, comfortable in their captivity. And I run from that grey: it has a vague smell of death. Not time for that, yet.


I viandanti vanno in cerca di ospitalità

nei villaggi assolati

e nei bassifondi dell’immensità

e si addormentano sopra i guanciali della terra


There’s no home for me – in the place where I fly back to, but there’s home for me everywhere – now. I’ve been at home in the Acropolis – just coming back from there – I’ve been at home in Hemel, I’ve been at home in Kazimierz. And in Berlin, in Buzet, in Istanbul. I feel at home everywhere now; and for own part, I can say that this feeling, now that I do not have a true home anymore, fills up the emptiness. Sleeping alone has a taste of bitterness; it still has it. But it’s sweet at the same time. Pictures of people, pictures of place. Pictures of people in places. That’s it.


forestiero che cerchi la dimensione insondabile.

La troverai, fuori città

alla fine della strada.


Life it’s what you make it. It’s wonderful.

(text in Italic is from ‘Nomadi’, written by Juri Camisasca).


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Roberto Srelz

About Roberto Srelz

Editore e direttore responsabile, presidente del gruppo centoFoto , è nato a Trieste. Professionista presso una grande azienda internazionale, è scrittore biografico (ha pubblicato il romanzo breve ‘Per Due Volte’ con ‘Luglio Editore’ ) e fantastico (ama in particolare il Fantasy nordeuropeo e scrive racconti brevi sul Web). Nel 2010 e 2012, con ‘Esaedro’, è stato editore di ‘Lions & Saints’ (Guendal – Ramella) e di ‘Pin Up’ (‘Accademia di Fumetto’, Trieste), collaboratore di dotART, e dal 2009 al 2014 ha organizzato la manifestazione ‘Fumetti per Gioco‘ assieme ad altri collaboratori. Insegna fotografia ed ha partecipato a mostre fotografiche in Italia (l'ultima delle quali su Steve Kaufman con "American Pop Art") e all’estero (Croazia, Polonia e Ungheria).