out today from the workshop where use 8 hours of my life, I stopped at the grocery store.
I was standing on my legs uncertain, leaning with his left hand to my proverbial Zanetti (trans. walking stick for the elderly) and I was going to commit my euro for half an hour of happiness to rent a cart. What is the greatest happiness of a cart, but to be driven from thousands of euro of biscuits, chocolates, snacks, fruit juice drinks and many dances, meat and fish carefully packed in aseptic plastic bags.
you know ... I Hygiene del pesce fà un po' schifo. Il miscelarsi dell'odore della varechina con il sano profumo del pesce fresco mi mette un po' di nausea e di ansia. E' l'apoteosi dell'innaturale. Supero tutte queste sensazioni e passo davanti a copiose e festose composizioni di pane, ma non riesco a fare a meno di pensare al profumo del pane nero, fatto col lievito madre e senza fermentazione alcolica. Io non lo ho mai sentito ma deve essere per forza diverso, altrimenti non mi spiego l'adagio popolare "buono come il pane".
Infilo le mie poco delicate manone (25 cm dalla punta del mignolo alla punta del pollice) negli scaffali avendo cura di scegliere ciò che secondo me, fa meno male alla mia salute, rendendomi però conto che è una missione quasi impossible. Shooting down a packet of biscuits, a cereal, and my conscience prevents my being animal to fill the truck (a bit 'sad given the dietary content of my purchases) of nutella and its derivatives.
moves toward the chest with an uncertain step, not because of intent but as for my continued support to the handle of the cart can not stand me now more, like the white horse of the bandolero Vecchioni.
An elderly lady fuck me the place in line and try to move them a sense of "compassion" with cynical skill but I can not. Relentless giant dwarf with cotton candy for hair bitter.
finally earned the cash I pay my account ... On the other not too salty. The diet does more good for the wallet to me.
Esco ... And I'm back on my feet flicker.
What I saw before I had only materializes in the distance behind the sliding glass doors of that sad and beautiful world called super market, which has only super sizes.
A gypsy ...
Brown skin, mustache and black hair with some silver thread. One for each year of age I suppose ...
fifties. China's head and hands him a green plastic pot.
invites him to follow and deposit my shopping cart that instantly returns to his life and dark gray under a canopy of plexiglass.
pull out the euro with whom I hired her the happiness and put it in the saucer of the gypsy, he mentions a move with the head (the British and Americans would say, "Nods") but the corners of his mouth do not move, remain motionless, I remain perplexed.
memory emerge from a little 'memories. I've never seen a gypsy smile.
rudely laugh out loud ... Sound and physical but I've never seen a smile on their faces with light-heartedness. Faces marked by life. Deep wrinkles. And those eyes always halfway between heaven and earth, but someone must still be able to convince me that look at the horizon of freedom they say they live. But other than us, not them. Make us sad and prevent them from living la felicità che cercano nel loro vagare.
