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Life at thirty can look just so excepcionally intense or equally depressingly empty; all depends from the perspective one assumes to observe it. At the moment I see mine a bit groovy, full of X’s and hence -in a way- fascinating. Others, in these past months dedicated to prepare the upcoming, long, solo journey around the world, have assumed a totally different point of view, the If I were you one. Quoting Fabrizio De Andrè, a famous italian songwriter passed away a few years ago, “Si sa che la gente da buoni consigli se non puo’ dare il cattivo esempio” (“It’s well known that people gives good advices when unable to set the bad exemple”).

Beeing this the first episode (episode “zero”, actually) of my travelblog, I take the chance to give a bit of autobiographical informations. Born and raised Italian, twenty years lived in Raiano, a small town liyin in a valley in the Appennini Abruzzesi, then two spent in Pisa studying contemporary history at the local university. During the second academic year -far yet from graduating- applied for an Erasmus grant to study one year abroad, request accepted, a one-way ticket for Universidad de Salamanca, Spain and the beginning of the end. Of my short, embryonic career as historiographer, at least. But, again, everything must be seen in perspective, and the death of a potential Seneca corresponded to the birth of a new Marco Polo. From then on, I lived in several european countries earning my bred out of my forefront’s sweat. One day, tired of the grey northern european winters and finally dismissed from a not less dreary 10 months complusory civil service in Italy, decided to try my luck in the Canary islands and there I spent my last three years working on my tan while piling up the euros I needed to finance this long dreamed slow motion round the world tour. I’d like to sound here a bit more epic, Jack London alike, let’s say, maybe declaring that my right to roam the world have been earned spitting blood out in a coal mine or freezing my guts on an oil-platform offshore the North Sea, but truly enough, my late job consisted in seving drinks to blond babes in bikini in a pool bar.

The travel plan is both easy and audacious: travelling across the six continents during two or three years trying not to use the plane. And why am I so adverse to planes? Well, I’d have a very long list of reasons, but let’s stick to the main ones: 1)It’s an extremely polluting way of transportation; 2)Sitting during hours in a sardine tin can with our knees stubbing in the kidneys the passenger who sits in front of us (and -far worse- beein stubbed in ours by the one sitting behind) with the complementary fat old lady who-loves-to-sit-on-the-window-side-regardless-of-beein-extremely-inclined-to-visit-the-ladyroom-four-times-per-hour is not my dreamlike idea of comfort; 3)Covering in a few hours several thousands kilometers is not travelling. It’s just like reading the first and the last page of a book bypassing the whole lot coming in between.

After september 11th then, with airport security measures tighten up everywhere, flying has really become a pain in the ass. “Leave that lighter, that swiss army knife, that fountain pen, that water bottle, that corkscrew (notoriously, it can be used as weapon: it just needs to be stuck in the pilot’s skull from the top and then easily unscrew the whole head off just as it happens with corks), take off your boots…” The boots too? Yeap, once I’ve been forced to get barefoot while my trekking boots underwent an attentive inspection. Brave man that guard, I tell you; putting his face so close to my walking boots! In fact, I must confess that at the time I suspected the guy wanted to check exactly that: how bad my feet transpiration was. I was afraid he was going to glue a sticker on my front sayin “not allowed to take his shoes off during the flight due to heavy stench”.

Beeing this a site mainly read by english speaker users, I want to take the chance to give some infos on my country, as seen from the inside. On what the If I were you club argues is not worth to be left behind. I guess most of you, oversea travellers, have visited Italy in some occasion, due to several reasons it’s one of the most craved for destinations in Europe and it’s not my goal here to play the architectural beauties of Florence, Rome or Venice on my violin. These beauties, at the eyes of whom in a given place must live his/her everyday life counts less (really far less) than the poor quality in infrastructures and social behaviours.

When foreigners joke about “mafia”, using as basic reference the “Godfather” saga, they don’t know how close to the truth -even if only on a metaphorical level- they actually are. I mean, no one wakes up with his own beheaded’s horse head in bed, everything is far more subtle and therefore absolutely natural in the eyes of the If I were you clan. Just as a basic exemple, in all the countries where I’ve lived, people usually search for (and normally find) jobs in the classified pages of the newspapers, in Italy people search for (and sometimes find) jobs through raccomandazione. Let’s translate this word with something like “I know that person who knows somebody very high up in the political ladder…”.

Politics in Italy. Nobody ever lose an election. Politicians are omnipresent fossils that, Americans in Vietnam alike, don’t lose… they just reach agreements with the counterpart. In the early 90’s a wave of “justice” brushed away the old corrupt political class. Big words were used: The end of the First Repubblic and the beginning of the Second CLEAN one. Elsewhere probably it would have really happened. A Swedish politician caught in something similar would have at least apologized and silently retired, In Japan, something like that would have probably caused the largest series of harakiri ever, but not in Italy. In Italy the word shame is out of fashion and -all to be said- katana swords are very expensive and so, instead, our beloved 40 thieves are all back -15 years later- in the parliament with all our humblest apologizes for daring asking for explanations. Alì Baba has in the meantime passed away and became something like a martyr. If he was still alive I’m pretty sure it would have been re-elected Prime Minister, President of the Republic or even Holy Father. I haven’t voted for ages and many keep reminding me that with the ubiquitous If I were you…

Last but not least, a suggestion for a possible, future trip to Italy. Forget about Venice, Florence and Cinque Terre and, instead, go visiting those places not listed by Lonely Planet. Expecially in the south. For any town count the number of factories you come across, then enter a random bar and ask the barman about their fate. Ask how many of those factories are working or even how many have been ever working. You’ll be shocked to discover how limpin an apparently healthy country can be, to discover how absurd and self-denying the mentality of the above mentioned If I were you guys is.

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