In my many trips around Asia, I never prioritised travelling to Vietnam. I was always searching for more ‘remote’ locations, and I admit that my very first impressions of Ho Chi Minh City and Hanoi had not been that remarkable. I visited Ho Chi Minh City with my family (when the kids were still young) about ten years ago, and the fumes from the deluge of motorbikes – added to the difficulty of crossing the roads – didn’t contribute to appreciating what the city offered. I had a better feeling about Hanoi, but I was just spending a couple of days there, and this short passage was not enough to leave a lasting impact.

Therefore, this time, I gave Hanoi a second chance. My 8-day trip to Vietnam, with my travel companions Nunzia and Kathia, was quite ambitious, as we travelled from North to Centre to South, starting from Hanoi.

Strategically well-located, our hotel was in the heart of Hanoi Old Quarter. From there, we could walk to Hoàn Kiếm Lake and around the lanes, characterised by the typical ‘tube houses’ – tall, colourful, and as narrow as two metres wide. These houses are not only residential apartments, but host quaint cafés, restaurants, and shops, making each enterprise look unique, also thanks to banana plants and palm trees growing next to them and bougainvillea, orchids, and creepers crawling out of the walls.

In Hanoi, we visited the Guangdong Assembly Hall, founded by the Cantonese community about 400 years ago during the settlement and trade in the nearby streets. The beautiful hall is now called 22 Hàng Buồm Culture and Art Center and hosts various exhibitions.

From there, we walked to Ma May Ancient House. As soon as we stepped through the wooden door and into this heritage house, we had the impression that time had stopped. It’s a quiet space secluded from the hustle and bustle of Hanoi. On two stories, with an internal courtyard that lets the light flow in, and divided into different living spaces, this house is a well-preserved example of late XIX-century Hanoi architecture.

The Temple of Literature is, instead, a sprawling area of mature gardens developing around five courtyards, with temples dedicated to Confucius, local sages, and scholars. It was very inspiring to see students of different ages posing for pictures. Here they light up incense, asking for good blessings for their exams, during their school or university years.

When we reached the Imperial Citadel of Thǎng Long, we admired the main gate, an excellent example of Vietnamese architectural style, with a two-story tower, curved roofs, and intricate carvings. This Unesco site has its relevance as its history stretches over centuries of domination and wars, being the core of the earlier Đại La Citadel, when the region was ruled directly by China (7th to 9th centuries), but also the headquarters of the North Vietnamese government and army during the Resistance War against the Americans between 1954 and 1975.

After an intense day, we decided to enjoy a beer on Hanoi Train Street, where small tables and chairs are set up by the bartenders one step from the rail tracks several times daily, and quickly removed the moment the train approached fast. It was quite a hair-raising experience, not to be missed.

The next day, we took a 2-day 1-night cruise along quiet Lan Ha Bay, located off the touristy Hạ Long Bay and full of mystical charm. Despite the cool and cloudy weather, this scenic landscape of dramatic karsts rising from the waters was an opportunity to unwind and prepare for the next destination.

After bustling Hanoi, Huế and its surroundings exuded a sense of quiet. The ancient Thiên Mụ Temple, by the banks of the Perfume River, dates to the 17th century and it’s an important place of worship for the Buddhists. It was the first Buddhist pagoda we visited, in a country where the three main religions are Buddhism, Taoism, and Confucianism, sometimes, grouped as one only religion called ‘the three teachings’.

We couldn’t miss a visit to the tomb and monument of Minh Mạng (palace, shrine, towers, etc), and the tomb and monument of King Tự Đức, kings of the Nguyễn Dynasty. Both places are vast and boast lakes and spectacular landscapes that complement the decorative architecture. Still full of energy despite the long walks, our next stop was the Huế Citadel, which is in itself a real city within the city and even includes a reconstruction of a XIX century French palace-style building.

The highlight of our trip was Hội An. Hội An Ancient Town is a Unesco World Heritage site near the mouth of the Thu Bồn River. It was a trading port active in the 15th to 19th centuries and is exceptionally well-preserved. The timber-frame buildings reflect a fusion of indigenous and foreign cultures (principally Chinese and Japanese with later European influences).

Combined, these residential and commercial houses, the open market, and the religious buildings, contribute to Hội An's unique charm. We ambled around the roads visiting traditional shops and admiring the beauty of the typical houses. Even here, lush trees, plants, and flowers flourish in every corner.

Hội An acquires a magical atmosphere at night when the boats that carry colourful lanterns slowly move along the river.

The countryside around this city has its treasures to offer too: we had been invited to the refined rēu restaurant, where we enjoyed a fine Vietnamese meal; we took a bike ride; we toured the river on a "Thung chai”, or “basket boat”, followed by a cooking class and an herbal foot massage.

No trip to Indochina is for me complete without exploring the Mekong River. So, after flying from Da Nang to Ho Chi Minh City, we travelled to Mỹ Tho, located by the Mekong River Delta. We didn’t have great expectations, fearing that the place could be overcrowded with tourists, being only a 2-hour drive from Ho Chi Minh City. Luckily it was not.

We first took a boat trip around four islets – Dragon, Unicorn, Phoenix, and Tortoise – visiting two of them and walking around tropical fruit trees. As we sat on a rowboat and went through the Vam Chua small canal, we were surrounded by lush vegetation. In complete silence, accompanied only by the sound of the birds, we took in the green landscape of mangroves, palms and Vietnamese water coconut fruits that looked like wooden sculptures hanging from lower branches. We finally sat in a restaurant by the banks of the river to enjoy our last Vietnamese meal.

This packed itinerary gave us the possibility to travel from North to South, from the cool and cloudy weather of Ha Noi to warm and sunny central and southern Vietnam while discovering the cultural differences between the regions, in people’s character, food, language, and traditions. The country had been divided for too long. It went through different colonial rulers and dynasties, underwent horrible conflicts, and was finally struck by a bloody civil war that contributed to widening the gap between the North and the South.

Regardless of the differences, Vietnam's economy is thriving. Its people are hardworking, the country is fast developing and it’s a treasure trove of natural and cultural wonders, from its northern mountainous area – that I’ll surely explore in my next trip – to the fertile Mekong river delta.

Photo credits:

In the cover:
Hoàn Kiếm Lake © Thể Phạm Khắc

other photos by the author.

This article has originally been published on Ciao Magazine.

The Hong Kong Museum of Art (MOA) has been recently renovated and it was very much worth my second recent visit. Due to its enviable location, facing the beautiful bay, as I moved from one exhibition hall to the next, from one floor to another, I could experience some astonishing views of Hong Kong island through the full-length windows. It was a particularly clear day. The Star Ferry was crossing the harbour, while a Chinese junk with red sails moved slowly on the waters, which glimmered under the sun rays. I sat down and quietly took in the landscape through the perfect frame as if I were admiring another work of art. This was my first ‘zen’ moment, to which another one would soon follow.

There is quite a lot to view in the MOA, but a particular exhibition caught my eye: When Form Matters: Following the Path of Lui Shou-kwan to Zen Painting, inaugurated in August 2021 and currently ongoing.

Lui, Shou-Kwan (1919-1975) is recognised as Hong Kong’s pioneer in the New Ink Movement and an artist who had a far-reaching influence on contemporary Chinese art. The New Ink Movement of the 1960s and 1970s aimed at revolutionising Chinese ink painting through the appropriation of elements associated with Western Abstract Expressionism.

It was fascinating to explore the breadth of Lui’s artistic expressions as showcased in the MOA. In the earlier phases of his painting career, the artist learned from – and imitated the styles of – the old masters and some western painters, while also featuring Hong Kong’s scenery in his art pieces. He worked as an inspector at the Yau Ma Tei Ferry Company, so he had the chance to view Hong Kong’s mountains and harbour from the pier. In 1966, he eventually quit his job to work full time as a painter and devoted all his energy to creating and teaching Art.

As I get closer to Waves (1956, image above), I notice that it looks familiar: the painting is an attempt to reproduce William Turner’s Snow storm - Steam boat off a harbour's mouth (1842, image below).

In Lui’s work, the big dark waves are one with the gloomy sky and envelope an orange Chinese junk, the only bright spot of colour in the painting. Movement and dynamism are not characteristic of typical Chinese ink paintings. So, the artist was already experimenting in this early work, already changing the rules.

His desire for ‘experimenting’ also applied to those creations that most resemble the traditional Chinese ink paintings. Among many, one of my favourites was Huts in Hong Kong (1961, image below), where the realistic shapes of the huts evolve into cubes, abstract forms. I could distinguish roofs, lines, strokes creating the cluster of huts, with the charm of the traditional landscape paintings and yet revealing a very modern and fresh interpretation.

In other paintings, Lui Shou-Kwan tried to reproduce the works of painters from the Yuan dynasty (1261-1378), like for instance in After Ni Zan’s Riverside pavilion by mountains (1967, image below), where the landscape compositions recall the old Ni Zan and Wu Zhen masters, even if here it is enriched by ink strokes and hues.

The landscape has depth, the rocks gain tridimensionality, the trees are lush. It feels like a lively, summer riverside. In a corner stands a thatched-roof, simple pavilion. I enjoyed observing the rounded rocks of different sizes, covered in moss, the detailed leaves of the trees, the calm ripples on the water, and all the small elements that took shape as I moved my eyes around the painting.

I found myself in a very comfortable place, in a quiet corner surrounded by nature. This desire for more refined details will characterise Lui’s later abstract paintings.

What captivated me most, though, were Lui Shou-Kwan’s Zen-inspired paintings, which are so different from his other works, as if created by another artist. His making of Zen paintings reached its peak in the 1970s. They are completely abstract and reminiscent of similar forms of art from the West but the atmosphere that the artist was able to create through free calligraphic brushstrokes and ink washes is rich in oriental philosophical connotations. The final result is a very particular style, his own.

I appreciated all the paintings of this series, inspired by Zen Buddhism and by the lotus flower. While observing them, I tried to catch the feeling of harmony and peace that they transmit, the unity between nature, the painter, and the observer. Often, a splash of red, blue or yellow raises above black brushstrokes.

In Zen (1974, image below), one of his most famous paintings, the very oriental theme of circularity is modified and rendered by black strokes around a white, irregular circle. In its midst, are two red strokes, partly joined, but with a white centre between them. What do they represent?

Although Zen Buddhism eventually developed traditions of study and ritual, its emphasis on personal experience has always made it a very practice-oriented tradition. The practice is meditation, and I can imagine that, for Lui, the creation of this and other paintings of this series, was a profound act of meditation. There are a few numbered Zen paintings, all of them expressing his path to the meditative form of art.

In Zhuangzi (1974, image on the cover), the artist takes inspiration from a classic tale, Zhuang Zhu dreams of being a butterfly, in which one becomes free of preconceptions and turns into one with nature. The pink butterfly, in its stylisation, raises above the black strokes and, in its lightness, takes flight on the white rice paper.

Lui Shou-Kwan’s bold and abstract strokes are a deconstruction of lotus flowers, leaves, stems. But they are also a way to create a visual language for deeper thoughts.

These brave and revolutionary works of art became the starting point for the New Ink Art. To me, during my visit, they expressed creative force, strength, and at the same time the delicate feeling of ‘being present’, with illumination and intensity, following the predicament of the Zen doctrine.

While looking at them and studying their details, I felt an incredible inner peace, as if I were in a meditation hall, and I continued my visit to the museum walking through the other exhibitions with the lightness of a butterfly.

images:
Hong Kong Art Museum of Modern Art

(Article originally published on Ciao Magazine)

Hong Kong's southernmost area, past the refined Repulse Bay and the quaint Stanley Village, is a fascinating sequence of bays, beaches, and unspoiled nature. Heading towards Big Wave Bay, a surfing destination, there is a roundabout where a road sign points east, to “Cape d'Aguilar”.

For years, I have been charmed by this name, which made me imagine a lonely and mysterious place, even more so as it is a restricted area, accessible by taxis only or walking 4 kilometres on a pleasant road that runs alongside the sea, not particularly busy, especially on weekdays.

Each time, however, I continued on to Big Wave Bay, inevitably attracted to the village atmosphere with its typical small restaurants, surfboards, fine white sand, and long waves.

After all, what is a 'cape'? A very large piece of land that sticks out into the sea; the end of peninsulas or continents: the limit. One goes there when the right moment comes.

Major-General Sir George Charles D'Aguilar, commander of the British troops in China, was appointed Lieutenant-Governor of Hong Kong from 1943 to 1948. The beautiful Flagstaff House, located inside Hong Kong Park, was built for him, and it now houses the Tea Museum. D'Aguilar is remembered in two city locations that are the antithesis of each other: D'Aguilar Street, the central and busy street leading to Lan Kwai Fong (the famous nightlife area), and the remote Cape d'Aguilar.

Finally, a couple of weeks ago, on a warm and sunny Sunday of this particularly mild subtropical winter, I decided to explore this ‘almost off-limits’ place.

The curious toponymy of the city is characterised by the use of English names, especially of Governors of the former British colony or of people who were well-known during those times. However, these names are very often translated, in Cantonese, into something that has nothing to do with the specific person, but which turns out to be very creative. Thus, Cape D'Aguilar, in Cantonese, is Hok Tsui, which means 'crane’s beak'. And indeed, the area is also populated by these birds.

As well as housing the lighthouse with the same name, Cape d'Aguilar is a Marine Reserve. Because of its interesting geology, this area has seen the development, since the 1990s, of the Swire Institute of Marine Science (SWIMS), a division of the School of Biological Sciences of the University of Hong Kong, located not far away.

After walking along the scenic route, I made my way to the lighthouse. These structures, so often talked about in literature (think about Virginia Woolf) and in films (as in the 2016 film ‘The Light Between Oceans’, based on the novel by L.M. Stedman), have always had a great effect on people’s imagination.

Who does live in a lighthouse? Who would want to spend their lives spotting possible enemies, guiding fog-shrouded ships, listening to the eternal rage of the sea - its waves doomed to crash on the highest rock? 

In the words of Mrs. Ramsey, in Virginia Woolf's The Lighthouse:

For how would you like to be shut up for a whole month at a time, and possibly more in stormy weather, upon a rock the size of a tennis lawn? she would ask and to have no letters or newspapers, and to see nobody; if you were married, not to see your wife, not to know how your children were,—if they were ill, if they had fallen down and broken their legs or arms; to see the same dreary waves breaking week after week, and then a dreadful storm coming, and the windows covered with spray, and birds dashed against the lamp, and the whole place rocking, and not be able to put your nose out of doors for fear of being swept into the sea? How would you like that?

And yet, this too was a noble profession. In the case of Hong Kong, lighthouses had a very specific purpose: to defend Victoria Harbour from pirates and invaders. However, the priority only emerged when Hong Kong went from being a barren rock, as it was called in 1841 by Lord Palmerston – Foreign Secretary of the British Empire and a key figure in the cession of Hong Kong to the British Crown at the end of the First Opium War – to a global maritime centre, thanks to the opening of the Suez Canal.

From a distance, the Cape d'Aguilar lighthouse doesn't look like anything special, although the nearby landscape has its charm: an endless blue sea extending through an open horizon that is rarely seen in Hong Kong, surrounded by islands and islets; a sailing boat slowly approaching; nature growing wild and untamed, and this white structure standing out, shy, against the majesty of the rock that hosts it. The lighthouse, which is the oldest in Hong Kong and has been declared a 'protected monument', was in operation from 1875 to 1896, before returning to automatic lighting in 1975.

I walk along a short path and when I get there, the whiteness of the lime glowing and covering the tall granite structure, together with the scent of shrubs and trees, reminds me of my beloved Mediterranean. The base of the tower and the arched entrance feature some beige stone blocks. The wrought iron door has geometric decorations. On top of it, the number 158.

Next to the lighthouse, nestled on top of the cliff, are some small white houses with red roofs: probably the residences of the staff who manages the area.

I head down to the sea, which splashes against the long, flat shoreline. A black heron lands between the grey polished rock and the fluorescent green sea moss: it’s a precious occasion for several photoshoots. A little further on, I venture into the Thunder Cave: a narrow crevice in the rocks that opens to the sea, sending out puffs of salty steam. This too is a destination for aspiring photographers and young people looking for the perfect Instagram shots.

From where I sit, contemplating the landscape, I can see one of the two military batteries dating back to the Second World War: the Cape D'Aguilar Battery, built in 1939 and equipped with two cannons supplied by the Royal Navy, ammunition bunkers, observation posts, and pillboxes.

As I head back towards the road, I take a last look at the lighthouse, thinking about its keepers. I remember reading that the last keeper of a Hong Kong lighthouse did not live on Cape d'Aguilar, but on Waglan Island, a real barren rock in the South China Sea. He left it on a cold November day in 1989. Since then, all the lights in the area have been automated.

One wonders what role a lighthouse can still play in an age of satellite navigation, other than to inspire nostalgic and poetic thoughts. In reality, in an emergency, the lighthouse still offers guiding assistance to sea captains.

By some strange coincidence, it seems that all lighthouse keepers in the former British colony were Eurasian, typically sons of British servicemen and local Chinese mothers, and that they proudly developed specific skills in this field. Perhaps the fact that they did not fully belong to either Western or Eastern culture made them feel in synergy with the lighthouse: a light indispensable to all, but on the edge of a territory, of space and time.

And so, as I leave Cape d'Aguilar, its waves, and the insistent wind that carries the scent of the sea elsewhere, I feel as if I were taken right there, into the infinite blue, cradled by the waves. And like the protagonist of ‘The Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner’ by Samuel T. Coleridge, I am about to sight the coast, wondering if this, too, is now my country.

Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship,

Yet she sailed softly too:

Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze—

On me alone it blew.

Oh! dream of joy! is this indeed

The light-house top I see?

Is this the hill? is this the kirk?

Is this mine own countree?

 Link to the article in Italian, published in ‘Ciao Magazine’ here

With the arrival of the winter solstice on 21 December, we entered the Age of Aquarius. Not being interested in astrology, this revelation didn't particularly affect me, but ever since that day, the song ‘Age of Aquarius’, masterfully performed by the powerful voice of Marilyn McCoo of ‘Fifth Dimensions’ and part of the memorable opening of the film Hair, directed by Miloš Forman, has been ringing in my ears:

When the moon is in the Seventh House

and Jupiter aligns with Mars

then peace will guide the planets

and love will steer the stars.

Curious, I read from astrology experts that, as Saturn entered Aquarius on 16 December, followed closely by Jupiter on 19 December, this double planetary transition into the sign of Aquarius ushered in the Age of Aquarius, or rather the dawn of this age, because the alignment will still be repeated for centuries to come. In addition, Saturn and Jupiter were joined on 21 December, forming a grand astral conjunction that only occurs once every 20 years. It seems that all the conditions are in place to welcome an annus mirabilis, in contrast to the nefarious year we are leaving behind.

I thought I would comply with this widespread desire for serenity by watching again the film ‘Hair’, a remake of the Broadway musical of the same name. And, in it, I found the positivity and hope that we need now. Although it was produced more than forty years ago (and the musical eleven years before that), Hair is ahead of its time in dealing with issues such as war, drugs, bisexuality, interracial relationships, and the rejection of monogamy (issues that were considered taboo at the time), as well as feminism, racism, the power of youth as it gains its own voice. The Age of Aquarius represented, in 1968, the individual's desire for emancipation, freedom, creativity, peace, and – in this case – rebellion against the war in Vietnam, in addition to the already mentioned positivity and hope (at the end of the film, the appeal is to 'Let the sunshine in', as the song says).

In Hair, the two main protagonists initially seem at odds with each other. Claude Hooper Bukowski (played by a very young John Savage) is a boy from Oklahoma – who may well be a descendant of the Joad family from Steinbeck's novel ‘The Grapes of Wrath’. He arrives in New York to visit the city briefly before being drafted into the US Army and leaving for Vietnam. George Berger (played by Treat Williams), is on the other hand a hippy for whom nothing in life seems to be an obstacle. He hangs around Central Park with his group of friends, living in the everyday dimension of ‘getting by’ as well as the unreal dimension of psychedelic drugs and maintaining a positivity that sustains him in every situation.

Claude and George meet, clash, share drugs with the group in pursuit of a girl bored with her life of privileged wealth. They even end up all in jail and get out thanks to a ruse by George. Then, for Claude, the dream ends, and it's time to enlist and go on his 'mission', one that George and his group of hippies don't support at all. From the military base in Nevada, Claude sends a letter to the rich girl he has fallen in love with. She tracks George down and, as a group, they set off on a 2000-mile journey from New York across America. The ending is a game of missed coincidences, and it reminds us how our fate can be reversed in a matter of moments.

2020, in its uniqueness, conveyed precisely this message of unpredictability. Despite the repetition of 20 and 20, in this year we have learned not to believe in repetitions, in doubles. Everything is always changing, everything is evolving, and expectations are not helpful, because they can easily be dashed.  This concept has been well known to Buddhists for 2563 years and to all of us since we were born, but we still struggle to accept it.

This new virus has spread quickly, following us in our intercontinental, interregional, urban movements. To too many of us, it has taken family members, loved ones, friends. It has extinguished any hope of getting rid of it quickly, as it did with the SARS epidemic in 2002. It has put us to the test, unable to find a remedy for our fragility. Above all, it has given the word 'travel' a new meaning. No longer the physical journey, only the inner one.

As I prepare to welcome the new year, stranded in Hong Kong, I think about what a trip to my country would mean: a two-week quarantine on arrival in Italy, followed by a regional lockdown, and a 21-day mega-quarantine on return to Hong Kong, which must be spent in a hotel, plus three Covid-19 tests to be repeated over the 21 days. It’s quite unthinkable to travel now.

We are all 'in a cage', subject to more or less rational restrictive measures, all aimed at containing the virus. Hong Kong is still teeming with life, but after 6 p.m. the restaurants close – the bars have been completely closed for some time – and any opportunity for social contact has been suspended. The first machines distributing free do-it-yourself Covid tests (giving the result in two days) appear in the MTR, and people prepare for the vaccination campaign, placing their hopes and expectations once again on this miracle that science has produced in a very short time. It is a disconcerting semblance of normality, and one has to adapt to that too.

In the meantime, here it is hot, too hot in this cursed winter, and I enviously admire the photographs of the snowy landscape sent to me by my Italian friends, who are also mostly shut in, unable to enjoy it fully, but nevertheless gratified by such beauty. Many of us think that, under normal circumstances, we would have welcomed this tender white miracle that makes everything more beautiful and silent, on the top of an Alpine mountain, waiting for the New Year. Now we are 'happy' to at least be able to see the snow, even if only on photographs.

We try, despite the pain, the losses, financial troubles, and the depression that has affected many during these dark months, to keep our feet on the ground (or in the snow) and we thank - in addition to science - technology, because despite everything, it has allowed us to communicate with our loved ones, to not remain in total solitude, to resist, to study and learn, to take online courses, to become creative, to think in an unconventional way. In a word, it has allowed us to reinvent ourselves.

Is this, then, a sign of the Age of Aquarius? Resilience, moral and spiritual strength, creativity, the need to maintain optimism, self-confidence, and above all, the willingness to get involved? We find ourselves leaving our comfort zone and accepting alternative occupations and ways of living that we would never have considered before. What we used to take for granted no longer has any value now, it has lost its rituality. Just getting on a plane to fly over the city and land in exactly the same place has become exciting for many. Only a year ago, the plane was a bus that would travel the highways of the sky and, overnight, dropped us off on enchanted islands where winter was summer, or on snowy slopes of fairy-tale landscapes.

At the moment, it is still rare for us to go out (wearing our masks) to meet family members and a few friends, and in our forced solitude, we find ourselves making inner 'journeys' that should give us balance and optimism. Journeys that allow us to appreciate what we have, and the important ties we were 'accustomed' to. Each of us makes these journeys in our own way: meditating, writing, reading, playing music, studying, pursuing a variety of hobbies. Hopefully - as in the movie's case - the Age of Aquarius will bring us a new sense of community, acceptance, and appreciation of each other as well as greater respect for our mistreated Mother Nature.

Let's wish each other a "Happy New Year" without too many expectations, but with the desire to welcome each day as a harbinger of new possibilities and unexplored opportunities.

A beautiful quote from the book 'When Things Fall Apart' by Pema Chödrön, teacher, author, Buddhist nun, and mother, reads: ‘Life is a good teacher and a good friend. Things are always in transition, if we could only realize it. Nothing ever sums itself up in the way that we like to dream about. The off-center, in-between state is an ideal situation, a situation in which we don't get caught and we can open our hearts and minds beyond limit. It's a very tender, nonaggressive, open-ended state of affairs.’

Link to the article in Italian language, published in ‘Ciao Magazine’ here

It has been some time since my second visit to Cambodia, but I still have vivid memories of my walks in the sun among the ruins of the temples, or of their silhouettes as they slowly took shape at dawn, half hidden by a sky veiled by thin clouds.

To visit the famous Angkor Wat temple complex, Siem Reap is the starting point. It’s a town that still maintains the legacy of French colonial and Chinese-style architecture around the Old Market. I remember Siem Reap as constantly swarming with tourists, bars, night markets, restaurants offering all kinds of cuisine, as well as tasty Khmer food, even excellent pizza cooked in a wood-fired oven.

The Meriden Hotel in Siem Reap was built on the site of an old cemetery.

"No one here is afraid of ghosts. Not anymore," says our tour guide, John (not his real name), as we pass the hotel on our way to the temples. It is not difficult to understand why, when you think of Cambodia's tragic history.

And yet, admiring the breath-taking beauty of the temples, one realises that there was a period of splendour, when one million inhabitants lived in Angkor alone (during the Khmer Rouge regime, from 1975 to 1979, the entire population of Cambodia was reduced to six million people), and a widespread system of irrigation canals ensured abundant harvests of rice throughout the year. The beauty of the elaborate temple structures built by the various kings, who succeeded one another in Angkor from the 9th century onwards, transforming them into a tribute to the Buddhist or Hindu religion respectively – are a testament to the magnificence of the Khmer empire (also known as Kambuja). In its heyday, this empire also spread to parts of Thailand, Myanmar, Malaysia, Vietnam and Laos. The decline began in the 14th century, when the Thais of the Kingdom of Ayutthaya invaded Cambodia, drove out the Khmer people and founded a new capital, Longveck.

This glorious past, the transition from ruler to ruler, from one religion to another, and the subsequent periods of colonization of the country, define the resilience of the Cambodian people.  It is therefore almost impossible not to be attracted by the artistic expression of this long and endless struggle between good and evil – ever present in the history of this country. The dichotomy of life, the possibility of redemption and balance, appear in one of the most impressive bas-reliefs of the Angkor Wat temple, the largest structure of all Angkor temples and once the largest religious complex in the world. This bas-relief occupies the wall of the eastern gallery and symbolises a well-known episode of Hindu mythology: "Samudra Manthan", "The Churning of the Ocean of Milk". Here, the gods Shiva, Vishnu and Brahma are represented respectively on the left, centre and right of a long five-headed snake, the naga, the king of snakes. When the world was created, gods and demons were engaged in a battle to secure the amrita, an elixir that would make them immortal and incorruptible. Vishnu ordered them to work together by mixing the Ocean of Milk, using Mount Mandara as a pivot and the snake as a rope. When the mountain, once placed in the ocean, began to sink, Vishnu incarnated himself in one of his avatars, the turtle Kurma, and supported the mountain on his back. But the rotation of Mount Mandara created a vortex so violent that all the creatures around it were torn to pieces. The Ocean of Milk was churned for another thousand years before producing the much-desired elixir, and during this process, it also released some treasures, including the goddess Lakshmi (Vishnu's bride), a wishing tree, and the apsaras, ethereal creatures that appeared in flight.

It’s the apsaras, who capture my attention as I listen to John talking about the episodes of Hindu philosophy, and I start to move from one temple to another trying to find them among the bas-reliefs.

The apsaras are celestial creatures, divine nymphs, and the greatest balancing force in the struggle between good and evil. They assume various poses, smiling gently (there is one called "Mona Lisa of Angkor", and another showing her teeth), standing, or floating, flying, moving. The apsara were once the temple dancers, and probably also the king's concubines, although we cannot say with certainty whether their exquisite carved faces belonged to women who really existed. The virginal innocence of these spiritual figures is in stark contrast with their almost naked bodies.

In the temples of Angkor, feminine beauty not only represents fertility, but is a manifestation of the universal rhythm. Thus, in the external structure of the temples, apsaras appear as the dominant feminine force, while in the centre of the temple we often find a 'lingam', the phallic symbol of Shiva. This is how the place of worship represents the balance between male and female, between opposing forces. The apsaras had not only a decorative role: their dances were offered to ancestral spirits, able to influence cosmic interaction. The apsara dance is still the most traditional form of dance in Cambodia today, dating back to the Angkorean era and re-established after the tragic interlude of the Khmer Rouge regime.

The Angkor Wat complex takes its name from the Angkor Wat temple, partly built by King Suryavarman II, designed by 5,000 architects and astronomers and erected by 50,000 workers. It is certainly the apotheosis of Khmer art. But there are many other structures worth a visit, each with its own characteristics.

The Bayon, in the ancient city of Angkor Thom, was designed by what our tour guide called "J7" (King Jayavarman VII). It contrasts with Angkor Wat as it is a Buddhist temple, and is distinguished by its 54 towers representing various faces (each tower is enriched with four or eight faces), images probably not of the Buddha, but of the king himself.

Banteay Srei is a unique temple because it was built in pink sandstone and has intricate carvings. Beng Mealea, located 40 km from Angkor, has never been restored and its structure has been completely submerged by the jungle. Only some foliage has been cut.

Here, surrounded by majestic trees, I climb one of the many stone blocks scattered around the area, abandoned like the remains of an earthquake, and try to imagine what the temples of Angkor looked like before – at the end of the 19th century – French archaeologists set to work to restore the dilapidated buildings. I close my eyes inhaling the smell of this ancient land, before being catapulted back into modern-day Cambodia.

John is quite critical of the way Cambodia is run today. He talks about deforestation, the mines along the border between Thailand and Cambodia (which also threaten the survival of Cambodian tigers, he says), the emigration of Cambodians in search of better opportunities in Thailand or elsewhere, the rice harvest that could be obtained all year round if only there were better irrigation systems. John would also like to see improved infrastructures and more cautious investments, coming from the temple entrance fee, to be used in temple-restoration work (Chinese, Japanese, American, European teams, just to name a few – even an Italian team has constantly supported restoration work in several temples).

Before becoming an expert tour guide, John was a teacher. “I study at night and attend part-time courses at the university to get my degree in English,” he tells me. Despite his anger at the recent painful past and disillusionment with the current political system, he still manages to smile and think positive.

Like many in his country, John firmly believes in the ultimate harmony of the universe, brought about by the beautiful apsara, which gently sway around the ancient temple halls, now deserted. 

Link to the article in Italian, published in ‘Ciao Magazine’ here

Kennst du das Land, wo die Citronen blühn?

Know’st thou the land where lemon-trees do bloom?

 (“Wilhelm Meister’s Apprenticeship”, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe)

Ours is the land of lemons, and not only. 

Lemons, of which Sicily abounds, because, according to the German writer, you have not really seen Italy if you have not seen Sicily. 

Lemons as on Lake Garda, with its famous lemon groves that so much struck J.W. Goethe on September 13, 1786, while he was sailing from Torbole to Malcesine.  

Lemons, above all, as an idealized representation of Southern Europe, of the much-coveted Italy, where the German writer's father had already been when he was young, inspiring Johann Wolfgang von Goethe to visit it too, also to the rediscovery of Greco-Roman classicism. 

The famous opening verse comes from ‘Mignon's song’, which is part of the coming-of-age novel ‘Wilhelm Meister's Apprenticeship’ (1796), and it is pronounced by the little girl that Wilhelm meets in a group of street dancers. Mignon, of Italian origin, remembers with nostalgia her country, personifying the desire for the South. 

And perhaps, however, beyond Rome, Naples and Sicily, there was a South that was not far from the German land, and that Goethe certainly helped to publicize. A ‘Mediterraneo’ at the foot of the Gardesane Pre-Alps, in the shadow of Mount Baldo or the near Dolomites, where one could find all the Sehnsucht (a term that we could render in Italian with "yearning") of the German romantic spirit.  

When, at the beginning of August, I arrived with my friend Laura in Malcesine, a picturesque town on Lake Garda – populated by a great number of Germans despite the anomaly of this summer marked by Covid-19 – I thought about Goethe and how the yearning for the corner of Mediterranean land that Lake Garda represented in the XVIII century was now, considering its accessibility, something belonging to a remote past. 

Apart from lemons, on Lake Garda there is another plant that evokes the Mediterranean: the olive tree.  On the evening of our arrival, we went to the charming town of Arco, not far away, for a concert of ethnic music that was held in the gardens of the castle, which dominates the entire valley of Lake Garda gifting the visitors with a fairy-tale view. To reach the top, we walked among the many olive trees, set with disarming regularity at the edges of the road, as if we were in Liguria. Arco is well protected from the mountains, and the proximity of Lake Garda allows it to maintain a particularly mild climate. The olive trees are native, and this is one of the northernmost areas where these plants grow naturally.  

The musical performance took place under the austere gaze of the castle tower, surrounded by imposing cypress trees and illuminated with lights in alternating colours that created a magical atmosphere, even more emphasized by a summer storm with a big thunderstorm that brought rain and strong winds shaking the cypress and the olive trees, and making the notes of the didjeridoo fly in the valley below. That evening, musical evocations of distant lands contrasted with emotions worthy of romantic Sturm und Drang. 

The next morning, we were promptly on the lakeshore. Our vacation was very short, and our main wish was to spend it in total relaxation. So, for our three days, we sunbathed in a comfortable lido with a view of the charming castle of Malcesine, which lies gracefully on the rock and then descends with its turrets to the water that here is turquoise, crystal clear, lapping beaches of fine white gravel. 

And there, my thoughts flew back to Goethe. 

In Italienische Reise (‘Journey to Italy’), published in 1826, Goethe tells about his famous trip to Italy. It was September 13, 1786, when a very strong wind rose over Lake Garda and forced him to stop for a short stay in Malcesine. The experience is told by the writer with these words: 

“Rowing was of little use against this superior power, and, therefore, we were forced to land in the harbour of Malsesine. This is the first Venetian spot on the eastern side of the lake. When one has to do with water we cannot say, “I will be at this or that particular place to day." I will make my stay here as useful as I can, especially by making a drawing of the castle, which lies close to the water, and is a beautiful object. As I passed along I took a sketch of it.” 

But shortly afterward, while Goethe is enjoying the tranquillity of the place and drawing the castle, he is mistaken for a German spy sketching who knows what topographical surveys for military purposes. Only by sheer luck Goethe escapes the arrest, saving himself thanks to his dialectic and an elaborate speech on the 'ruins'. According to the writer, even medieval ruins, such as the Castle of Malcesine, constitute a heritage, and therefore must be considered of value, exactly like the Greek-Roman remains. His presence attracts a small group of onlookers, as well as city representatives. Goethe entertains everyone, and converse in particular with Mr. Gregorio, who has travelled a lot and knows Frankfurt am Main. Gregorio intervenes in favour of the writer, as Goethe reports: 

“ ‘Podesta, I am convinced that this is a good, accomplished, and well-educated gentleman, who is travelling about to acquire instruction. Let him depart in a friendly manner, that he may speak well of us to his fellow countrymen, and induce them to visit Malsesine, the beautiful situation of which is well worthy the admiration of foreigners.’ I gave additional force to these friendly words by praising the country, the situation, and the inhabitants, not forgetting to mention the magistrates as wise and prudent personages.” 

 And so, little by little, the fame of Malcesine and of the whole Lake Garda, ‘magnificent product of nature’, develops. 

The ‘Germanic route’ was trodden by all foreign tourists, and through the Brenner Pass it led to Trento, Verona, Bologna, and finally to Rome. But to get to Lake Garda, people had to make a detour, and it was precisely Goethe, thanks to his curiosity for the area, who 'opened the way' and allowed most visitors to enjoy this wonderful part of Italy, which was – as I early mentioned – a concentration of what our country represented: superb landscape, history, art, literature, mild climate, warm colours, olives, lemons and even figs.  

With a short walk from the lido, one late afternoon we arrived in the centre of Malcesine. In this small medieval village, we found a corner of great charm and tranquillity. We admired the frescoes on the vault of the Palazzo dei Capitani, which opens onto a spectacular view of the lake; we dined in a typical tavern; chatted about art and beauty in a photo studio, and explored the small stores that sell Garda olive oil and many typical products of the area. We arrived at the Scaliger Castle unfortunately too late for a visit, but we had already enjoyed its view, from not far away, at all hours of the day. After all, every now and then, it is good to take a break, allowing ourselves to naturally enjoy where we are, thinking about the casual circumstances that have made that place famous.  

I admit that these reflections have inevitably brought to the surface the Sehnsucht that I feel – like many Italians abroad – while living far from home and not being able to fully benefit from my country’s beauty, just as it had happened to Mignon: 

Know’st thou the land where lemon-trees do bloom,

And oranges like gold in leafy gloom;

A gentle wind from deep blue heaven blows,

The myrtle thick, and high the laurel grows?

Know’st thou it, then?

        ’Tis there! ’tis there,

O my belov’d one, I with thee would go!

  Know’st thou the house, its porch with pillars tall?

The rooms do glitter, glitters bright the hall,

And marble statues stand, and look me on:

What’s this, poor child, to thee they’ve done?

Know’st thou it, then?

        ’Tis there! ’tis there,

O my protector, I with thee would go!

Know’st thou the mountain bridge that hangs on cloud?

The mules in mist grope o’er the torrent loud,

In caves lie coil’d the dragon’s ancient brood,

The crag leaps down and over it the flood:

Know’st thou it, then?

        ’Tis there! ’tis there

Our way runs; O my father, wilt thou go?

(Mignon’s Song, in “Wilhelm Meister’s Apprenticeship”, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe)

 Link to the article in Italian, published in ‘Ciao Magazine’ here

Giuseppe Ungaretti died on the night of June 2, 1970, after spending an intense life between Alexandria, France, the Karst front line, Brazil and Italy. He was first Catholic, then atheist and then Catholic again while, politically, he sympathised with and later moved away from Fascism. Ungaretti’s literary education was based on French literature. He read the poets of Decadentism and Symbolism, including Rimbaud, Mallarmé, Baudelaire and then Apollinaire, and later came into contact with the Italian Futurists and Dadaists. Ungaretti should be credited with formally and profoundly renewing the traditional Italian verse. For this ability, he was considered by the poets of Hermeticism as one of their forerunners, and by many poets of the second half of the 20th century he was seen, together with Umberto Saba and Eugenio Montale, as a reference point.

Whether it is while reading his verses inspired by his experience at the front – where he constantly witnessed war and death – or his reflections expressing a desire for harmony within the cosmos, the reader is left breathless, as Ungaretti’s poetry embodies the "essential". Ungaretti has the ability to express himself briefly and with strength, creating snapshots of timeless moments. Behind the brevity and incredible incisiveness of many of his lyrics, however, there is great stylistic attention to the value of the word and of the poetic verses, which must be able to save man from despair and ‘universal shipwreck’.

What is most striking about his rich poetic tradition, considering that Ungaretti was a leading figure in the 1930s both as a writer and as an intellectual and prominent literary figure, it is the scarcity of the English translations of his works. Perhaps we should not be surprised. His most famous poem,

Mattina

Santa Maria la Longa 26 gennaio 1917

M’illumino

d’immenso

is almost impossible to render in English, despite the various translations (from "I flood myself //with the light of the immense" to "I grow radiant//in the immensity of it all"). We find again, in the two ternary verses with alliteration (illumino/ immenso) and in the repetition of the two geminate consonants (ll-mm), Ungaretti’s care for words. This musical effect, evocative and symbolic, is masterfully rendered by the Italian language and loses power and charm in any translation. ‘Mattina’ takes on an even more prophetic meaning if we think of the circumstances during which it was written, in the trenches. The discovery of a morning radiating light transports the poet – and the reader – into another dimension, which transcends the horror of war and death and offers what each new day brings: the brightness of the morning as a continuity of life, hope.

This aspect of writing is reminiscent of the immediacy of Japanese haiku (a poetic form of three verses with a 5/7/5 syllabic pattern), which indeed influenced Ungaretti’s earlier works, and we find it, in part, also in the poetry of William Carlos Williams who, like Ungaretti, wanted to purge the rhetorical essence of his immediate predecessors, removing from poetry what was unnecessary and created ‘disorder’.

The ability of Ungaretti's instantaneous description appears not only through short poems but also in the images the poet creates and disseminates in his work. Let us think of these verses taken from “Dormiveglia” (“Half Asleep”)

concealed

in trenches

like snails in their shells

In Ungaretti we don't find struggle, disgust, scenes of horror and blood, characteristic of the British World War I poetry (think about Owen, Graves, Sassoon), but rather restraint, avoidance of details (that are, indeed, more reminiscent of Pound’s earlier poems), and the discovery of something unexpected, of men, the universe and one's own soul.

Death does not appear to mow down souls and soldiers but takes on naturalistic traits, which convey the poet's message —the desire for a life that has a meaning, despite the daily challenges.

Agony

To die like the thirsty skylarks

upon mirage

Or like the quail

crossed the sea

in the first shrubs

having lost

the will to fly

But not to live bewailing

like a blinded goldfinch.

We can, therefore, define his poems as 'lyrics of a man at war', of a soldier able to note down what is happening around him and to search his soul through observation. This allows him to cling to beauty and love, to appreciate life, and therefore to turn to the deepest sense of existence and Creation, as happens in the 1933 collection “Sentimento del tempo” (“The feeling of Time”), to which this poem belongs

Vigil

Peak Four, December 23, 1915

A whole night long

thrown near

the body

of a slain comrade

his mouth snarling

at the full moon

his clawed fingers

ripping

into my silence

I wrote

letters

full of love

Never did I

so

cling to life

From a portrait of war and death, we move on to love letters, the only anchors for survival, the only lights in a night of desperation.

The short verses belonging to the collection "L'allegria" (“Joy”), published in 1931, evolve in subsequent works. The verse lengthens and the landscape changes. In the collection "Il Dolore" (“Pain”), published in 1947, the poet adopts traditional metrics and uses punctuation. Ungaretti has witnessed the collapse of the Fascist State, in which he had believed, and the horrors of Nazism. He takes refuge in the personal tragedy of the loss of his son and in the ordeal of the Italian people. But even here, despite the suffering, something remains: it is the timid shadow of a presence that comes alive, also thanks to his regained Christian faith, as expressed in these verses, taken from "Day by Day" and dedicated to his son, prematurely deceased:

How can I stand such night?...

The years will bring me

Who knows what other horrors,

But I felt you next to me,

You would have consoled me...

Never, you will never know how

The shadow that stands beside me, shy,

Brightens me

When I no longer hope...

Ungaretti does not give in to suffering, but he transfigures it, transforming it into an occasion for a bright and redeeming encounter.

Let us not forget that the poet is the one who lives the pain of the world through his own pain. He is the one who explores and descends towards the unknown with the desire, however, to ascend towards the light, as so well expressed in one of his first lyrics,

The Buried Harbour

Mariano, June 29, 1916

The poet docks there

and then to the light rises with his songs

and scatters them

Of this poetry

I'm left with the emptiness

of an endless secret

 Link to the article in Italian, published in ‘Ciao Magazine’ here

I visited Laos in 2018, and I would like to bring out the memories as they are, letting them flow like a river, a waterfall. Like the water that has so much marked this experience.

I remember that while reading 'Lonely Planet - Laos' in preparation for departure, what struck me most was a statement about a characteristic of the Laotians, the 'móoan', translated into 'fun'. Theravada Buddhism, practiced by most people in Laos, emphasizes detachment from human passions, and karma - more than devotion, prayer or hard work - determines one's fate in life. Following this principle, Laotian people tend not to worry too much about the future and to feel sorry for those who "think too much". Avoiding any excessive psychological stress remains a cultural norm. Unless an activity contains an element of "móoan", or ‘fun’, it will probably lead to stress.

Once arrived in Laos with my travel companions, Nunzia and Patty, I prepared myself to witness how the concept of 'móoan' was put into practice.

Our first destination is Vientiane, the capital, where the most incongruous spectacle is the Patuxai monument. It is a replica of the Arc de Triomphe with typical Laotian features and commemorates the soldiers who died during the war of independence from France and the previous invaders, Siam and Japan. The peculiarities of this monument are the external decorations, which present both Buddhist religious symbols such as lotus leaves and stupa-shaped towers, and animist statues of kinnari (half-female, half-bird figures) and nāga (snakes with 'superpowers'). It was worth climbing to the top via a narrow staircase to enjoy the view and admire the city from there, the well-kept gardens, the fountains, the tourists posing for a photo.

In Vientiane, in addition to other Buddhist temples (known in Asia as wat) with sloping roofs and golden decorations, we visit Wat Si Saket, the oldest temple, characterized by a large veranda with heavy columns, an ornate and protruding roof, and carved wooden porches. While we examine its ancient and even somewhat decadent structure as we walk in the large courtyard, golden nāga observe us with threatening looks from the corners of the roof, reminding us that, thanks to magical powers, they can take on a human appearance. But we feel protected. The cloister and the central building of the temple, called ‘sim’ in Laotian, have been transformed into a museum that houses thousands of statues of Buddha, the oldest of which date back to the sixteenth century. They showcase various mudras or hand positions. We walk clockwise around the sim, under the silent shadow of the porch. This practice is a form of respect, besides the fact that for the Buddhist religion the circumambulation (from the Latin circumambulatio) of a stupa, temple or sacred place, purifies negative karma and promotes the realization of the path to enlightenment.

 We opted to arrive in Luang Prabang by car, traveling from south to north to enjoy the verdant landscape, explore the markets offering various local specialties (including a wide selection of fried insects), and make a day stop at Vang Vieng. For the impressive limestone mountains reflected in the river and rice paddies, this town reminds me of Yangshou, in the Guanxi region of China. But here, unlike Yangshou, tourism is not particularly developed, and walking through the deserted streets the general feeling is of calm and quiet.

Finally, we arrive in Luang Prabang (which a UNESCO World Heritage Site), for us the highlight of the holiday, especially for its being smaller and cosier compared to Bangkok or other Asian metropolises, and for its charm. You can feel something elegant and refined while walking through the pleasant streets and alleys of the city. Perhaps it is because, although the monarchy of Luang Prabang - over the centuries - had to bend to the will of the Siamese, Burmese and Vietnamese and later accept the French protectorate, the city managed to avoid the Japanese invasion and the American bombardments during the Indochinese wars, thus keeping its splendour intact.

And it is in the National Museum (also known as "Haw Kham" or "Golden Hall"), which was once the Royal Palace, where we get a glimpse of that time in history when this small nation was a monarchy. Many are the objects on display, including the elaborate and also odd gifts donated by the foreign statesmen. The gardens, which house various buildings and statues, are manicured. However, we remain open-mouthed in front of the beautiful and golden Haw Pha Bang temple, which we photograph from different angles, attracting the curiosity of a group of local students. With some courage, they ask us to practice English with them while we take part in a survey...and later we take several pictures with them.

Most of the city life takes place in the old part of the town, between the night market, colonial buildings, trendy restaurants and bars, beautiful local craft shops and temples. These are not always immediately visible but are hidden among palm, mango and frangipani trees, inside courtyards where young monks wander smiling, always intrigued by the presence of foreigners. Wat Xieng Tong, ("Golden City" or "Golden Tree Monastery") is the most significant and impressive of the many wats of Luang Prabang, for its rich interior and exterior decoration, and consists of more than twenty buildings. Walking through the chapels and pavilions in the gardens full of flowers, ornamental shrubs and trees, we get to the magnificent sim, of which the outer wall is decorated with a large and beautiful mosaic of the tree of life.

After slow navigation, we arrive at the Pak Ou Caves, which are dug into a steep rocky wall. Once we climb a ladder, we are in the semi-darkness, in front of thousands of Buddha statues of different sizes, shapes, and materials.

They are old, new, intact or chipped, but all offer comfort to the faithful pilgrims. The spirals of smoke rise from small pyramids made of banana leaves that contain incense sticks. They fill the cave, enveloping the yellow necklaces of calendula flowers that decorate the statues. The worshippers prostrate themselves in front of the Buddhas, indifferent to the noisy crackling of the little fishermen's boats gliding on the river. Meanwhile, in a religious silence, we spy this slow unfolding of life happening inside and outside the cave, dazed by the smoke of the incense and the heavy fog awaiting us.

To regenerate ourselves, we take a drive of about an hour from Luang Prabang and have the chance to appreciate a heavenly corner of Laotian nature. Entering a forest path, we arrive at the Kuang Si waterfalls, which fall from the dense jungle on perfectly sculpted limestone steps, ending up in pools of various sizes. The water is very clear, and thanks to its high mineral content, it has a turquoise-milky hue, which shimmers with a golden glow as soon as it is touched by the sunrays.

Despite the presence of tourists, it is not difficult to find a small pool where we can cool off quietly, have a swim, rest on a tree branch and enjoy the rhythmic sound of waterfalls accompanied by the chirping of cicadas before jumping in the water again. Proceeding later along the path, we find ourselves on a wooden walkway from which it is possible to enjoy the most impressive waterfalls, which have a fall of fifty meters. It’s a breath-taking view. It’s inevitable to take some souvenir pictures in this beautiful dream location.

When we return to Luang Prabang, we get back to reality. Water is thrown at us copiously: sprayed by water pistols, thrown in buckets, even from inflatable pools loaded on trucks. We are soaked but happy and rush into the car, proceeding at a walking pace along the riverside populated by the crowd. We pass by children, boys, men, and women of all ages, their faces painted red. They stand alone or in groups wearing the same T-shirts, all happy and smiling because they finally have the opportunity to celebrate Bun Pi Mai, the New Year's Eve in Laos, dancing, singing, playing, dressing up, getting soaked as much as they can.

The Bun Pi Mai marks the passage of the sun from the Pisces zodiac sign to Aries. The spirit of the old year leaves and a new one arrives. The celebrations don't stop with water balloons and buckets of water, as a good luck charm, but also include a parade and celebrations at the temples.

We waited a few days, but finally the "móoan", the spirit of fun and joy, permeates the whole city. It slips over our wet skin washing away the tiredness, the heavy fog, the ashes, the fragrance of incense that penetrated our hair, and everything we wish could leave together with the old year. I think that, given the situation in which the world is, the next Bun Pi Mai will be among the most memorable ones.

Link to the article in Italian, published in ‘Ciao Magazine’ here

As Hong Kong was moving from the intense activism of the anti-government protests to the anxiety about a possible coronavirus epidemic, with a couple of friends I headed for the first time to Tai O, a small village on the nearby Lantau Island, in search for some tranquillity.

Fishermen have been living in Tai O since the Ming Dynasty, and at one time its population peaked at thirty thousand. Now, due to the decline in salt and salted fish production, only about two thousand inhabitants are left.

 Some have defined Tai O as a small "Venice of the East". To me, it stirred other recollections. There are places that immediately bring back the memory of others, for which we feel a sense of longing. With them, we develop a special and sometimes inexplicable connection. To them, we reserve magical and personal moments of recollection. At times, we need to talk, write about these places because, as Joan Didion said, 'A place belongs forever to whoever claims it hardest, remembers it most obsessively...'

That's how, while we were taking a trip on the little boat that promised the sighting not only of the village seen from the sea, but also of rare white Chinese dolphins (that we could not spot), a first glimpse of Tai O brought me back to my beloved Myanmar, precisely to Inle Lake. I remembered sitting on the long, wobbly little boat as we made our way from the endless expanse of the lake into its small channels, rich in lush vegetable gardens – green floating islands of hydroponic fruits and vegetables – and navigated among water hyacinths, getting closer to the many picturesque buildings raised on piles over the surface of the water.

 Tai O looked now so familiar, so déjà vue, except maybe for the advertisement banners in Chinese. We passed by a white restaurant on stilts decorated with red lanterns. Colourful houses displayed mandarins and yellow chrysanthemums on their balconies, while vases of purple orchids dangled under green awnings. Fishermen’s boats lined near the shore.

In a 'split-second' (and I would really like to use this expression: a split second, divided into instants, imperceptible due to their brevity), I was once again navigating the Burmese lake among the spitting and croaking engines of the local boats.

The spell broke when our boat stopped, and I was back in Tai O. We did not get off where we had departed, but on the pier leading to the Tai O Heritage Hotel, a beautiful white, colonial-style two-storey building dating back to 1902, when it served as a maritime police station built to exercise control over the island of Lantau but also to repel pirates’ attacks. The police station eventually ceased operating, and it was restored in 2009 by the Hong Kong Heritage Conservation Foundation Ltd., which converted it into a nine-room boutique hotel.

But the ‘real’ Tai O lives in the streets of the village located a short distance away, following a pleasant walk along the bay. Mangroves are scattered in the middle of the still sea – like miniature trees accidentally abandoned in the water by a distracted Creator. The path passes through silver houses with shiny aluminium walls, vegetable gardens, a small hospital, a primary school, the post office, and the public toilets housed in a white structure that almost resembles a small Greek church.

 Once we reached the village centre, it became clear from the smell what mostly contributed to the island's economy: dried fish. It was impossible for me to guess the names of the many dry fish products or to imagine their original shapes. Some hung from the shops’ ceilings and gently swayed like sacred amulets meant to ward off troubles. There were also yellow, round cartilages of various shapes. It was almost as if we had entered an art gallery full of futuristic installations. Instead, everything on display was a rare delicacy, to be eaten in a soup or pan-fried with other ingredients. At lunchtime, we enjoyed a plate of fried noodles in a local store and could not miss the propitiatory ritual of the Lion Dance, typical of the Chinese New Year period and a good omen for business. The cunning lion, guided by two experts and with his 'tail' held by a child, stopped to visit every shop and restaurant, bringing good fortune to the business and receiving in exchange 'lai see', red paper envelopes containing money, and lettuce leaves, its staple food.

 We completed our outing by tasting 'taufu fa', or 'tofu flower', a warm dessert with the texture of a soft and velvety pudding to be taken with a sprinkle of red sugar on top.

The pace of life in Tai O is a far cry from the city. People here don’t run but take leisure walks instead and ride their bikes. Children play undisturbed in the main street as the island is pedestrian-only. The whiff of dried fish mixes with grilled squids and fish-ball skewers, Osmanthus-flower and red date jellies – typical street-food. One wonders if the inhabitants barely make ends meet by selling snacks or dried fish, or by running simple-style restaurants. Despite the undiscussed uniqueness of the place, there were very few tourists and even fewer buyers when we visited.

Perhaps the answer lies in what Tai O’s villagers want more from their life. Peace, a slow-paced routine and what that corner of the island naturally offers are already available to them. Not far away, on a piece of land that once was the sea, is one of the busiest airports in the world. How many people have been tempted to leave, become part of the city frenzy, fly to other destinations? Or, maybe, more simply, there is no other place than Tai O for them to love, to be claimed the hardest.

 Link to the article in Italian, published in ‘Ciao Magazine’ here

There has been no shortage of graffiti in Hong Kong during this period, where regular protests have been going on for the last six months. The discontent with the government and the police has been widely expressed with ideograms and writings in English on a variety of walls, footbridges and zebra crossings. Some are still visible, others have been badly erased, often leaving an aesthetically unattractive mark behind.

In the city, however, there are also artistic graffiti, as well as expressions of what we will call 'Street Art'. If graffiti is made by a name, of which the letters are deformed and stylized, Street Art is visual art created in public places – usually unauthorized artworks made outside the context of traditional art places – and it also involves artists with a more classical background.

In Hong Kong, thanks to the dense urban landscape, there are plenty of places where the artists can express themselves through graffiti or Street Art. Recently, with a group of friends, I spent an intense morning with Alexandra Unrein, an expert in the field, starting from the Central area and discovering this colourful and even transgressive side of the city, where ‘dirtying’ the walls is considered a crime punishable with penalties ranging from HKD 300 to a year in prison. In many cases, luckily, the police have turned a blind eye, allowing the fans of this form of art to follow the evolutions and additions to the urban landscape. Some 'murals' have been commissioned either by the owners of the premises, who wish to see the outer wall of their bars, restaurants or shops embellished, or even by real estate developers, to brighten the external fences of the construction sites. These are a frequent sight in a place where skyscrapers, as long and thin as chopsticks, are being continuously built. These fences, which hide a tiny piece of land transformed into a construction site, become thus white metal 'canvases' made available to street artists.

As we climbed along the open-air escalator, we found the first signs of art commissioned for a construction site along a narrow corridor. The artwork was done by Uncle, a local artist who moved from graffiti to street art, and in this case enjoyed painting, in two weeks, as many as eighty cartoon-style characters also portraying local and international celebrities.

Elsa Jean de Dieu, instead, is the French artist who painted, with spray and acrylic, the face of a handsome smiling man (her best friend), surrounded by soap bubbles, on the wall of the shop right beside, Lush, which sells handmade soaps. Elsa, a French artist, comes from a family of artists and we will find another of her creations, 'Uma Nota', a little further on: it is the profile of a laughing woman with colourful flowers in her hair, a large gold earring, and peacock feathers (and a toucan) to complete this peculiar Brazilian tropical 'note'.

Given the density of the buildings, many areas are perpetually in the shade of the skyscrapers, and these expressions of colour and joy undoubtedly enliven the city. But personally, I was also fascinated by the black and white artworks.

Inside the 'Parade Ground', the square of Tai Kwun, the former central police station, there is a wall created by the Berlin collective 'WENU', in collaboration with local artists,  representing a different vision of the Berlin Wall: from a massive and austere barrier, to a place of stratification of advertising posters and imaginative paintings. Black on white, this beautiful poster of the city of Berlin takes shape in all its details and political and social references that the attentive eye finds and tries to interpret.

After leaving Tai Kwun, we headed for one of the oldest and most fascinating neighbourhoods, as it still retains its 'old Hong Kong' charm, Sheung Wan. The street that connects Central to this area, Hollywood Road, leads to one of the most ancient Chinese temples (Man Mo Temple) along small coffee shops, antique shops, and beautiful Banyan trees with branches extended like the arms of a giant from which long aerial roots hang—lianas in the city jungle. The name Hollywood should not mislead us though: it has nothing to do with Los Angeles, but rather refers to the many holly trees that once characterized this area.

 Going down a staircase from Hollywood Road, we found a work that represents six snow leopard heads, at first glance indistinguishable due to the optical illusion deliberately created by Christopher H, who modulated the shape of the animal through waves of thin black lines made with the marker. Through these lines – paying enough attention – the six faces of the animals can finally be spotted. Christopher H is a local artist who studied at the prestigious Central St. Martins in London and decided to change career from graphic designer to street artist.

While from Hollywood Road we explored the little side streets, we came across various kinds of artworks: red taxis in the city night, completed in only a day and a half (Don Kitchener); sketches of Hollywood movie stars (Rob Sketcherman – who draws his urban sketches on the iPad); red goldfish popping up in the strangest corners of the wall (Szabotage) besides white and red Chinese koi fish drawn freehand in blocks of colour (Christian Storm); mosaics of ceramic tiles modelled on the pixel art of video games of the 70s and 80s (Invader).

 Finally, we were very impressed by the work of Vhils, aka Alexandre Farto, a Portuguese artist who carves faces into the walls, so that they take shape once part of the plaster has been removed. In this case, creation comes to life from destruction. His faces are those of ordinary people. As he himself said in an interview: “Instead of creating icons out of those who have changed history, like what Warhol was doing with Mao and others, I take an ordinary person and try and make people think about the commoners who struggle every day to make a living in contemporary society.”

This message of humility seems to perfectly summarize the mission of those who devote themselves to art while being on the street and ‘giving voice’ to the walls. Non only do they beautify the city, but they make this beauty available to all, and stimulate the viewers’ mind.

To those interested in discovering more about Hong Kong Street Art, we recommend HKwalls https://hkwalls.org/, an NGO that aims to create opportunities for local and international artists by showcasing their talent, in Hong Kong and internationally, through street art and culture. HKwalls organizes an annual street art festival 'Street Art and Mural Festival' in Hong Kong during the month dedicated to art, March, as well as an annual program that takes care of the development of the artists' careers and public awareness through the arts.

Link to the article in Italian, published in ‘Ciao Magazine’ here

My Apulian summer is as white as the lime that covers farms, bell towers and churches. It dazzles even at night and shines under the moon. It is as white as the houses of Old Gallipoli, Καλλίπολις, the "Beautiful City", an island surrounded by a wall in defence from the invaders.

The Apulian summer tastes of fish, octopus, Altamura bread, orecchiette pasta and aubergines. It speaks with the sound of cicadas accompanied by crickets, even when the night falls. If you touch it, it is as smooth as a stone polished by the waves, and rough as the paths of sand and brambles that lead to wild beaches. It smells of thyme and wild rosemary, dill and oleander flowers. It promises a green-blue view of the sea where arid expanses, sometimes dotted with bushes, centuries-old olive trees and oaks, end. And it never disappoints.

There are many sensations and colours that conquered me in this magical land, the 'heel of the boot' bathed by two seas. But this time I surrendered to white and turquoise. On the Ionian side, I wandered to visit places dear to me, to listen again to the instruments of the pizzica and the sound of the griko language spoken in the Grecía Salentina, to follow the fast steps of the tarantella, and then explore the other sea.

I gladly returned to Alberobello, with its white cylindrical houses, covered by a grey cone that in many cases bears symbols painted in white, and whose meaning is still a mystery: a bit 'pre-Christian, Jewish, pagan, they seem to have emerged from the spray-can of a writer eager to leave a mark. Although it is a well-known destination, Alberobello maintains an air of detached ancient beauty, and by comparing the photos taken half a century ago to mine, the only difference seems to be tin he number of tourists. I started my visit from the trullo church of S. Antonio and then I descended to the Trullo Sovrano, which consists of two floors and is larger than the others. I then climbed up again, passing this time through the side streets, observing the panorama of roofs, electrical wires and blue sky. This is the corner of a rural fairy tale invented by who-knows-which author from the year one thousand, when there was not yet Alberobello, but there were only trulli scattered in the countryside, then aggregated in this area (UNESCO heritage), where time stands still. The whole Itria Valley is dotted with these unique dwellings, many of which are located where they retained their primary function of country houses, and it is beautiful to find them while travelling elsewhere. 

The colour white shines majestically in all its purity and shades in Ostuni, the White City par excellence, which has prehistoric roots. From its square, I walk along the small streets that climb up and down and cross each other, enriched here and there by cacti and bougainvillea and leading who knows where, while I slide on smooth and shiny slabs consumed by the passage of men. I willingly get lost in the small lanes, I turn around, and the sea looks at me. My first thought, from that narrow view, goes to Greece, and for a moment it seems to me to have returned to Skyros, the southernmost of the Sporades Islands, an archipelago in the Aegean Sea.

After a few days, I am in Presicce, designated as one of the most beautiful villages in Italy. At 4:30 p.m. I am welcomed by an abandoned city, dominated by the Doge's Palace and the Mother Church of St. Andrew the Apostle with its white (and beige) baroque facade and the bell tower in Renaissance style. There are many court homes of the sixteenth century, but there’s nobody around. I would have liked to visit the underground oil mills, that hidden world of olive presses which is a testimony to the importance of the city's flourishing economy in the past centuries, linked to the production and trade of extra-virgin olive oil. But the tourist office, guardian of this other secret world, was closed. So I find refuge in a very nice café. I look around me. The furniture is an elegant alternation of white and turquoise wood, and it is a call to the sea.

So, I dedicate the remaining time to exploring the sea. On the only cloudy day of my stay, I visit the Natural Pools of Marina Serra, near Tricase. The name is enough to express the beauty and clarity of these seawater pools, set between high rocks and inhabited by multicoloured fish. The waters are enclosed in a cove made by an old quarry, protected by cliffs that give people the opportunity to find their own private corner of tranquility while listening to the waves of the sea crashing on the rocks, after a morning spent snorkeling.

Finally, during a boat trip, I discover some caves and their stories, as we go along the coast of the Ionian Sea up to finis terrae (the ‘boundary’ recognised by the Romans, or Santa Maria di Leuca). We then enter the Adriatic Sea before returning. The coast is rich in Neolithic finds, and many caves hid precious prehistoric relics, such as - in the case of the Grotta Montani - remains of elephant and rhinoceros dating back 70,000 years.

Others, like the Grotta del Soffio, invite me to dive and enter through a small passage while following the rhythm of the backwash. When the water flows through the narrow passage, puffs of white foam created by the current are released. It really seems that the cave breathes and it enjoys spraying water on my face. I dive in to enter and, as soon as I re-emerge, I find myself surrounded by the bright emerald of the sea sweetened by the infiltrations of fresh water that come from the walls behind me. It is as if there were a light under my feet, in this quiet cave where everything seems to bring me back to our origins, to the 'rebirth', to Mother Earth’s womb. And in this sacred dimension, I let the water envelop my body, protecting me and colouring the white of this (too short) holiday in Apulia of emerald and turquoise colours.

 Link to the article in Italian, published in ‘Ciao Magazine’ here

Chungking Mansion was my first ‘buen refugio’ in Hong Kong, when I arrived many years ago directly from the old Kai Tak Airport, well known for the thrilling landings, which foreshadowed that the plane would alight on the roofs of the houses, if not crash to the ground.

Actually, I happened to choose Chungking Mansion by chance, without being aware of the mystery surrounding this building, and with the only desire to find a cheap hotel, before I could afford to live in a small apartment or at least in a room in a shared apartment.

To those who have never set foot in this building, Chungking Mansion looks like a normal grey building, from the outside. Instead, it is a world apart and unique in its own kind. It houses 4,000 residents from 129 countries, hundreds of shops selling all the specialties of Southeast Asia, Middle East and Africa and more than 500 'guesthouses' – distributed over 17 floors and three blocks and with names that recall the United States, Canada, Australia, the accommodation of choice for tourists on a limited budget and backpackers in search of the cheapest bed in Hong Kong.

From the time I lived here, I remember my small but decent room at the guesthouse, the elevators constantly overcrowded and often out of service, and a small fire caused by an overloaded power grid - not designed in the 1950s, when the building came up, to handle air conditioning or televisions, not to mention the commercial kitchens. I now find those nostalgic thoughts again when I visit the Indian restaurant that I was so fond of, and that fortunately is still operating - a very rare occurrence in Hong Kong, where many small businesses in the catering industry have normally rather short lives.

I have always regretted not having been able to deepen my knowledge of the place, if not through readings, such as that of 'Ghetto at the Center of the World', by the anthropologist Gordon Mathews, who describes the building at the crossroads of a sort of alternative globalization, where trade takes place across continents without taking into account the implementation of law and copyright, because everything is managed through cash transactions. According to Mathews, Chungking Mansion is an active centre connected as much to the markets of Lagos and Karachi as to Nathan Road, the street from which people access making their way through moneychangers, tailors, electronics stores, stalls selling triangles of samosa and sweets of unlikely colours, sellers of copy-watches and other services in a setting where legal and illegal coexist.

Here people come and go, try their luck and search for temporary jobs in the many restaurants or inns. There are those who seek political asylum (‘Christian Action Refugees’, the largest and most active NGO that takes care of the refugees’ rights and assistance, has its office here) and sex workers, who already in the past welcomed Americans in transit in Hong Kong during the Vietnam War.

So, when I recently read that the founder of ‘Africa Centre’ (a newly-formed entity that aims at connecting the African and Chinese communities of the city), Innocent Mutanga, organised a tour of Chunking Mansion with a typical African lunch, I immediately joined the group. Innocent, an anthropology student at Chinese University in Hong Kong, assisted by his Somali friend Abdi – employed in a trading company – explained the story of Chungking Mansion and then sent us to discover foods, products, phrases in languages unknown to us.

During this tour, I moved cautiously, mostly not to get lost in the labyrinth of corridors, neon, spices, henna, and shops of all kinds but at first glance all similar. I even stumbled upon a space that housed a curious art installation made of colourful recycled plastic. With Abdi and Peter, originally from Nigeria, we also climbed onto the roof of the building from the seventeenth floor, enjoying a shard of Hong Kong bay between one skyscraper and another. We then explored the world of guesthouses, visiting a couple of these narrow but very clean spaces, where a bed in a tiny room without a window can cost over Euros 150 during the Chinese New Year period or when the city holds some important trade fairs.

The lunch served to us by Tess, a beautiful and nice lady from Ghana, revealed the culinary rivalries between Ghana and Nigeria. I tasted dishes that I had never tried before (Jollof Rice, Waakye, FuFu, etc), based on chicken, fish, beans, rice, semolina, and cassava. All seasoned with the stories of new nice friends that I will surely have the opportunity to see again since they have just launched the initiative of a monthly book club dedicated to African authors.

After lunch, before finding myself in Nathan Road, I passed through the long queues of tourists waiting for the elevators, the smell of curry, the turbans of the Sikhs and the trail of scent of an elegant old Chinese gentleman dressed all in white, with a beard and long hair of the same colour and who looked liked he had just walked out of a movie set. In those few minutes, I grasped the essence of Chungking Mansion.

And I was not surprised to learn that the new generations of Hongkongers find here something that does not belong or is not dedicated only to Chinese or white foreigners, but a place where to explore and get familiar with products, foods, customs and traditions, feeling immersed in South Asian, Middle Eastern and African culture. And Chungking Mansion becomes that corner of Hong Kong at the center of the world, a corner that cannot be found anywhere else in the city.

Link to the article in Italian, published in ‘Ciao Magazine’ here

Gordon Mathews' very interesting book 'Ghetto at the Center of the World' is available online at amazon.com and bookdepository.com

The Peel Street Poetry gatherings at the Social Room, as well as the Poetry Outloud nights at the Fringe, are very much part of a Wednesday evening routine I can hardly do without now. The fact that a group of people manages to find regular time to get together and read, recite and perform poetry in a city like Hong Kong, where everyone runs around, busy with long working hours, endless business meetings, appointments, lunches and dinners, is already in itself quite admirable. What impresses me most is the sense of community, of belonging, and the strong desire to share the same passion, elevating the spirit and enriching it through this noble form of literary art that is poetry.

I am always impressed by the quality of what is being performed at these gatherings. The majority of poems have been composed by the readers themselves, but others belong to famous or less famous authors. Some poems are read, others are recited, and others are spoken or performed. Every time – among the many stars of the galaxy – there are some that shine so bright that their light lingers and persist well beyond the darkest hours. I take them (the stars turned into poems) home with me, try to remember parts of them, and I ponder upon their meanings. If they had been written by some famous poets, I get lucky enough to be able to retrace them and read them again and again.

Last night, my attention was caught by a young lady from Madrid, who read in Spanish with great emphasis what seemed to be a poem but supposedly was not. It was not, I would say, only because not classified as such in terms of ‘form’, being part of a novel. But it was, in all due respects. The combination of words created a sensual music that, together with the vivid descriptions, draw us into an atmosphere of passionate love and intimacy. I searched on my phone for the prose-poem that sounded quite familiar, and finally, during the ‘open mic’ session, I read the English version of it, so that we could all connect with the Spanish one. It was part of something I read two years before, but never aloud, and now - while listening to their sounds - those words took a life on their own.

The piece of prose turned into poetry was ‘Toco tu boca’, ‘I touch your mouth’, Chapter 7 of the novel ‘Rayuela’ (‘Hopscotch’, in English) by Julio Cortázar. (If you’d like to get to know more, read my review here )

I am of the opinion that beauty should always be shared. Therefore – while thanking the Spanish young lady who went up on stage and reignited my memory of Rayuela giving us a moment of bliss – I complete this post with the original Spanish version of ‘Toco tu Boca’, followed by the English Translation ‘I touch your mouth’, and with the video of Cortazár’s own reading of this beautiful chapter.

Unexpected pleasant encounters, I call these special moments of reunion with written words that deserve remembrance.

I touch your mouth, with one finger I touch the border of your mouth, drawing it as if it came out of my hand, as if for the first time your mouth would half open, and it’s enough to close my eyes to undo it all and start over, I make the mouth I yearn reborn each time, the mouth my hand chooses and draws onto your face, a mouth chosen among all, chosen by me with sovereign liberty to draw it with my hand across your face, and by which any chance I do not seek to understand accurately matches with your mouth that smiles from under the one my hand draws onto you.

You look at me, you look at me from up close, closer each time and so we play cyclops, we look at each other closer each time and our eyes enlarge, come closer to each other, they overlap and the cyclops look at each other, breathing confused, the mouths find each other and struggle warmly, biting each other’s lips, merely leaning the tongue upon the teeth, playing in their premises where a heavy wind comes and goes with an old perfume and a silence. But then my hands seek to sink into your hair, to slowly caress the deepness of your hair while we kiss as if our mouths where full of flowers or fish, of lively movements, of dark fragrance. And if we bite the pain is sweet, and if we drown with a brief and terrible simultaneous breath gulp, that immediate death is beautiful. And there is one single saliva and one single taste of ripe fruit, and I feel you tremble against me like a moon in the water.

It is quite ironic that the Super Typhoon that is now battering Hong Kong bears the name of a tropical fruit. Mangkhut means ‘mangosteen’, in Thai. This fruit has a deep reddish-purple coloured rind that hides soft, sweet and juicy white vesicles. It’s a delightful promise sheltered by an inedible shell.

Typhoon Mangkhut, instead, did not promise anything good, being one of the strongest typhoons recorded in the territory. After wracking havoc in the Philippines (where thirty people died), it is discharging all its mighty force over our city.

On the web, the progress of Mangkhut is being recorded, filmed and is readily available to all, like all calamities and sensational news. Videos of high-rise buildings’ windows blowing up started circulating immediately. Papers and various objects flew around: lost possessions that will never be recovered.

Rivers of water flooded the streets in areas closer to the sea, and engulfed the piers. Cranes fell from roofs, pieces of old buildings collapsed, skyscrapers swayed. Some careless people, who adventured outdoors, got carried away by the mighty winds.

My windows overlook the greenery, and I see trees bent by the force of the winds, waves of a green ocean that move right to left, left to right, as they are battered by the rain. Suddenly, a white fog covers all, and the green patch disappears: it’s a curtain of strong gusts mixed with pelting rain, branches and leaves. It feels surreal. The noise of the whistling wind is amplified, the windows shake, and my cat hides under the coffee table. It lasts for only a few seconds but it’s quite scary. After a few moments of deceiving quiet, the fog comes back, covers everything once more and the wind starts blowing all over again with all its might.

I hear noises, not all of them easy to identify. Half of a tree fell and now rests on the grass of the back garden area, defeated. In the front garden, a lamppost subsided to the gusts of winds and lies on the ground. Metallic dins make me imagine TV antennas flying away or objects hitting the balcony rails.

I get closer to the window. Pearls of water deform my vision, but I do not really need to see. What I hear is enough.

Hopefully soon, the worst of Mangkhut should be over. It will.  And tomorrow we’ll be able to have a full picture of the aftermath. In the meantime, we are bewildered by Nature’s fury, and we (still) wonder if humans are to blame for the devastation caused by these natural disasters. We should know the answer.

Rain, rain, and rain again.

This is how Hong Kong has welcomed me in the past two days, ever since I landed.

Summer in Italy has been graceful, as usual, and very, very hot. Just as I like it: after all, it's summer!

My country has been gorgeous, in all its ever-changing landscapes: the emerald-azure sea of Sardinia; the greenery of Trentino's glacial lakes and the majesty of the Dolomites; the buzz of busy Milan. And everywhere, friends to greet and 'old' friends to finally meet again after a long time. But that was not all.

Ah, Sardinia! This time, your unspoiled beauty has left a bitter taste in my mouth. I am still fighting with the 'Maggiore' car rental company for a hefty additional charge of more than 300 Euro on top of the pre-paid car rental cost - completely unjustifiable and invoiced at Cagliari Airport. Obviously, I knew nothing about it until I received the invoice by email a few days after my departure. So, lesson learned: 1) Never choose Maggiore Rental ever again: non-existing customer service and a couple of nasty employees 2) Fight for your rights, always, especially when you feel cheated. Especially in Italy. I am in the midst of it and hopefully, something good will happen.

Despite this disappointing episode, I'd like to leave you with some thoughts about a perfectly red sunset that I miss so much especially now, when the sunset hour displays, instead, a sky heavy with dark and angry clouds that release showers of pelting rain. It's all because of a tropical storm, as they call it...

The original version has been written in Italian. English translation follows.

RICORDI DI UN TRAMONTO SARDO
Nelle lunghe serate estive sulla costa est
ci si sentiva come barche ancorate in uno specchio di mare piatto, 
temporaneamente in osservazione
di uno spettacolo di magia:
tutti i giorni lo stesso,
tutti i giorni diverso.
Allineate in ordine, silenziose e incantate
come bambini,
e come bambini deluse
perché incapaci di scoprirne il trucco.

MEMORIES OF A SARDINIAN SUNSET
In the long summer nights on the East coast
we felt like boats moored on a flat mirroring sea,
temporarily in observation
of a magician’s show:
every day the same
every day different.
Orderly lined up,
silent and enraptured like kids
and like kids disappointed
because unable to reveal the trick.