Diario di una crisi

Mi chiedo ancora come si faccia a subire il fascino di Londra. Me lo chiedo dall'Italia, prima, dove i sorrisi e la cucina di casa vincono facile. Me lo domando poi sulla navetta che mi porta dalla fusoliera del mio volo alle dogane, per i controlli di rito. Stansted è una piccola località un po' fuori mano: se puntate al suo aeroporto per arrivare in città le prime case e strade che vedrete spuntare dalla nebbia della M1, dai finestrini del bus, dopo una buona quarantina di minuti, saranno quelle dell' east end e del suo squallore moderno. Le tangenziali fasciano i palazzi, i casermoni e gli isolati di Bromley, Bow Road, Stepney Green, stazioni della district line che segnano il passaggio metropolitano. Si attraversano queste zone per arrivare a Liverpool Street, uno dei tanti centri nevralgici ferroviari nonchè atrio della City finanziaria. La tratta per Victoria station, invece, dall'altra parte della città, nel quartiere di Belgravia, poco sopra il Tamigi, presuppone un tour più classico: Baker street, già cuore del centro vittoriano e "casa" di Sherlock Holmes, e poi Marble Arch, Hyde Park corner, a due passi da Grosvenor Square, manco a farlo apposta altra dimora letteraria: lì Oscar Wilde ambientò parte del suo "Marito ideale". Il "passaggio a nord est" finisce invece col tagliare la linea verde, la district, e il suo instancabile percorso che da Upton Park, covo del West Ham (e del suo temibile tifo organizzato) và a morire chilometri più in su, quasi a ridosso dell'Essex, ad Upminster, da dove partono le ultime coincidenze. I primi canali, figli bastardi del fiume acquattati tra i council estates, sono le oasi nel deserto di chi è in cerca di civiltà: manco a farlo apposta con loro spuntano anche le case che albergano in ogni immaginario inglese comune: mattoni rossi e stucchi bianchi, sporchi di fuliggine e nebbia, i due-tre scalini al portone principale, le finestre luride di polvere (perchè tanta ostinazione nel bandire tapparelle e imposte?), le foglie sui viali, la vita che scorre. Bethnal Green accoglie i bus come una madre il proprio figlio, sulla porta: una distesa di Landbroke, case da scommesse, pub un po' retorici (The Hart, O'Neill's, White Lion, Green Lion), Tesco, chioschi di pollo fritto, Burger King. Poi i grattacieli: Royal Bank of Scotland, HSBC, Lloyd's. Un milione di possibilità comunque, anche se disilluse dalla crisi e dal credit crunch. Ma la notte la luce degli uffici è ancora accesa. Meglio di niente, per continuare a crederci.

Mai a ovest di Paddington

Rientrare dalla porta dimenticata alle spalle, sbattuta in malo modo senza pensarci troppo, non è mai piacevole. Gli uscieri sulla soglia vestono ghigni beffardi. I modi sono aristocratici ma senza nobiltà. Fuori dal ristorante "Umiltà" ricevono gli ospiti, tutte facce note, assicurando che ci sia sempre posto per tutti.

Con l'età il peso degli errori si fa determinante, reclama spazio (che spesso ottiene), fino a ottenere il controllo quasi esclusivo su logica e ragione, cui è dato il compito di pianificare le scelte future. Parallelamente, la percezione della nostra esistenza si fa più pratica, ricordandosi di "quegli" errori un minuto prima degli scrutini: ecco allora che la ragazza lasciata la vigilia di Natale scorsa o quella cui si è risposto male una volta per tutte diventano occasioni perdute di vita. Il lavoro piantato lì su due piedi, opprimente tomba di aspirazioni, si fa d'un tratto una miniera di opportunità o, quantomeno, un sicuro porto d'approdo. Se è vero che il valore di certi uomini (se non tutti) si misura dalla consistenza delle loro azioni, o in termini più spicci dai risultati ottenuti, giunge il momento in cui la stessa disciplina ricade su noi stessi. Si chiama vecchiaia e fa schifo.

Les èmotions

I miss her. Her curves, her grace, her hips. Since I moved to London everything seems to remind me about her, the nights spent together, the dance, any sweet moment shared. Once I would walk into my room and barely drop my bags, my clothes or whatsoever and we'd be at once together in a sort od mystic legacy that would bound each other for hours, days also. Now I got a sort of replecement which doesn't work: I mean, folk guitars are good if you wanna strum some old Dylan stuff swaying under a tree, but they don't have anything of my sweet Les Paul, which apparently's being stuck and locked inside her case since my departure, two months ago. Now, everytime I hear some rhythm and shaky music I'd just wanna grab her and dance about with it. I need to get her. Oh yes, and to get a LIFE, also. Sure.

Songs for life

They are faithfull, loyal and tend to show up in the hardest moments of your life, always close to you just to remind you they're gonna stand by forever. Yes, for when they get old (but far from being old fashioned, though) they can be "moved" to a better place to join a brand new life. In a digital way. As times get tough and roads get rough you can always rely on your favourite songs: apart from real people and real fellings (as far as you can unequivocally define what's real and what's not) they're the best pals you can trust, especially when you're down. If it's true that "a friend in need is a friend indeed" it's just in the hard times you can find out if someone's a real friend or simply a "pub mate" to share ales with. Like for women and for sex, but that's another point. Take Bruce Springsteen's "Meeting across the river": it's a stunning and unfairly underrated chip from his 1975 masterpiece "Born to run". Its grace and innocence just vanish once put next to such immortal milestones as the title track or the heavenly "Thunder Road", but still "Meeting" tells something unheard all along the record, with its comforting and reassuring trumpet lines, sounding perfect on a lonely night. There again anytime you want it, cos, you know, it won't ever get busy, or married or have children, or whatever.

When it comes to feelings

I'm almost scared and frightened to write what I'm about to write. Because when it comes to feelings, you never know what the reader's gonna do, especially on a blog, where it can be anyone (your father, as well as the girl you had a crush on in 3rd grade).
"They call it mission statement. Not a memo. A mission statement", and unfortunately the only person whom ..ehm..I know to have put down such things in this way was the 1996 fiction sport agent Jerry Maguire, impersonated by Tom Cruise in the Cameron Crowe's movie. And everyone knows how it ended. Jerry was fired and had to start all over again.
Ok, here's my mission statement: probably, BILLY JOEL WAS NOT SO BAD. Or better: what about that Christopher Cross? He might've had just one good shot, back in 1980's, with the "Arthur's" theme, but why shouldn't I give him a chance? Just because I got a rucksack pretentiously named "The Libertines" after the graffiti on it? As I already mentioned, it's not easy living on your own, in a strange town such as London. Many tough times to be faced, and many dull moments. Struggling not to drown, not to collapse under the weight of responsibilities. You're alone, you're this, you're that..ok ok I think all you guys got the picture (hey! and by the way this ain't a Charles Dickens' bloody carol..cut it out!). Music can be a soundtrack for quite all your best and worst moments, and I shouldn't be afraid (or ashamed) to try something else. Something new, or something old and left behind which turns out new. Sorry Johnny, this is the party of misery and you, you're unasked.

Then it happened. Again.

Forget Woody Allen and quotes such as "He adored it, he idolized it all out of proportions". Blablabla. No "Manhattan" romance, nor 59th Street Bridge shootings have paved my way so far in this town. Firstly because I didn't decide to move to New York: I picked London instead. Besides, no need to say this city didn't welcome me in the best way. No job, loneliness, hard study. Oh yeah, and no girls, for sure. No time for them anyway. But the worst's still to come: I can still see myself wandering all across the town, dropping CV's (no one's gonna read them!!) from door to door, asking for a vacancy. And then, that on-going galling refrain..."Mmh....well, we don't have a vacancy at the moment, but we'll keep your CV with us. GOOD LUCK". Hideous. Teaasing, isn't it? But then it happens again. Here you are, all along one out 12(??) or 13(??) bridges binding the Thames to its bed. You're freezing, not for the weather, which is still quite warmy indeed, but because you're shocked by the the wind blows, sneaking underneath your hoodie. And you just see it. The sun in every fade of red, in its ever chaging overtones, minute by minute, seconds by seconds. You turn round, the London Eye on your right, St. Paul's yawning, set up to get to sleep, on your left. Life within. And a smile on your face, stretching those muscles you forgot you had.