First day of school by car in Milan? Try queuing for the Amsa van – MOW.

FLuckily, although Marzano left the scene and was replaced, RTL 102.5 is truly weird in its programming: Have you ever seen rain Creedence Clearwater Revival was introduced, so to speak. Lightning rods Ernia, Bresch and Fabri Fibre. Besides, as soon as I reach the usual alley that I take home, well, there I see a garbage truck; so I decide to stay on this long dirty street, thinking about overcoming the obstacle by going to the next alley. That’s it, so to speak give Sala what belongs to Sala, over a kilometer long, which connects two metro stations, so that on the pass it was completely restored to its shine. For Sala, sprucing up the road means removing all the parking spaces on the sidewalk separating the two lanes of traffic in the direction of travel, replacing them with a huge and very long garden with benches, picnic tables and the like. He removed, I read, about eight hundred parking spaces, eight hundred parking spaces not created anywhere elseWith all due respect to the residents. Meanwhile, as you know, in zone B the parking ban on blue lines for more than two hours increases tickets first, and in zone C – after. I get to the next street, but ta-dan, Mr. Smith is waiting for me there; therefore, convinced that I am smarter than I am, I return and follow the old path, convinced that during this time he has become free. Yes, sure. I’m standing in line listening to two journalists talk about Pnrr on the radio. and finally I arrive at the square below my house, ready to go out onto the street where I live. Before leaving, at seven-thirty, I saw an empty place and, white as a lily, under the altar of Padre Pio, I said to myself: “Who knows if I will find it empty when I return.” Three-quarters of an hour has passed, the place is clearly busy, and just as I’m about to pull out onto the road, a garbage truck pulls in front of me. I stand in line, thinking that I could even write a book while I wait, something that makes me think of talking about a place that is not really a place, the interior of a car, even a seven-car on wheels. Seats, so spacious. I think about I’m traveling around my rooma 1794 novel by Xavier de Maistre, published anonymously and written while under house arrest, or Confessions of an opium lover Thomas de Quincey, this is instead of 1821, and in any case I think about Walter Benjamin’s thoughts about distractions and wanderings, about Guy Debord’s thoughts about being lost in the city streets, waiting to be discovered, and in the end I tell myself that Ian Sinclair, who has described the metropolis par excellence, London, from all points of view, although he deeply loves the motorist, understood as the car, but not only, like James Ballard, he has not yet written a book on how to barely get around London by car, who knows if he gets these offers. As I stand in front of my door, still locked inside my car, aware that I’ll probably walk in there in a few hours, bottled up like I’m behind a garbage truck, damn environmentalists, I look out at the construction site that just before… how August appeared, where there used to be a mechanic with an attached garage. They will build it there, I read, there is a residence here, very cool, with a gym, hanging gardens, co-working spaces, of course, and apartments of different sizes. One thing my wife and I told each other is that if necessary the street will be improved and that in any case this will increase the value of the area, already raised by the construction bubble in which Milan constantly lives. Sala sold us to investment funds, this is understandable. Motionless, like Ciro, who this evening will have to try to give the vain hope of Italy Spalletti, I also think that in the five years that I have lived on this street, a lot has passed since we moved here, our building has always been surrounded buildings under construction, 110% cursed or even under construction. This resulted in a constant, very loud background noise, this time accompanied by the need to keep the shutters closed all day, at least in the part where the new complex will be built, to avoid the penetration of dust, in They are now digging the foundation. I was in the car for about fifty minutes, only four kilometers. Today, we told ourselves, would be the only day I would go to school with the twins., and obviously, given the agony of the return trip, this issue will go to the Supreme Court. I turn onto a parallel road, still followed by the Amsa truck, which, however, relents and makes a difficult maneuver to let me pass. I park and can finally go home. I parked about four hundred meters from the house, a distance that in my home town of Ancona I would probably cover by car. It’s now eight-something in the morning, and I’m already exhausted, nervous, and tense. I think about the reckless driving I suffered while on holiday in Albania and tell myself that perhaps I wasn’t being too generous in reporting it that way. As I open the door, I hear someone on the main street: a few meters away from me he tells someone else to fuck off with the kind of verbal violence I would only reserve for a dictator about to be captured. “It’s only the first day of school,” I tell myself, but the noise of excavators laying foundations on a construction site fortunately prevents my thoughts from moving on.

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