Growing up in Sicily in the early eighties felt like living on several inner layers at once. On one layer there was my family: fairly wealthy, but always on the brink of some kind of financial or psychological disaster. The kind that doesn’t announce itself—it just hangs in the air, and then someone is shouting and the wrong dosage of salt in a salad plate becomes the firing shot of the next argument.

On another one there were my friends, with strong political convictions and an honest appetite for change and peace—while the Cold War kept dropping its latest absurd breadcrumbs across the television like bad recipes for an unpurposeful official dinner. Below all, a rumbling bass note no one could fully escape, was the mafia presence. The Second Mafia War was still fresh in the streets and in people’s eyes. Blood ran on the boiling asphalt, and judges were running for their lives, and the lives of their families.

Meanwhile, my schooling was, at best, flexible. Most likely because a new mobility element had entered my life: a small engine on two fantastic wheels. And that meant freedom—the kind that makes you forget to look at the future further than your nose, and lets you be stuck in the present. Adventures that alone would be worth another telling, but I will leave those for another day, and another tack.

Then, while I was still smelling the air running in my face and keeping myself striving as best I could into those politics, the bombshell came. Sicily was chosen by the American government to become the host of a new nuclear missile base right in its middle, among lemon trees and grapevines—both of which my palate and drunkenness still does remember quite well.

I was seventeen at the time, and while I could not identify myself as the strongest politically prepared individual, I was appalled by such a social face-slap possibility. My political education was rooted in liberalism and communism of its finest sources. Those open ideologies were evident in the presence of a huge mural situated right behind my father’s drawing desk, portraying the face of Che Guevara and saying, “ahora la cosa marcia.” In reality, things were not going as well as he expected, but I was growing within his and my mother’s sphere of political and social influence—and I still try to make the best of it, even after all those years.

From the beginning, while the government forces were working to accommodate the Americans, the Italian and European movement decided to organise peaceful protests all over Italy, and to create a permanent peace camp located in Comiso, in order to coordinate the protest and build a structure capable of protesting against the military base and its absurdity.

Our intent was simple and concrete: block access to the base. Stop the workers from entering the workplace and contribute to the greater cause of leaving such a beautiful part of our land intact. Hold the gates with our bodies and, at the same time, speak to the workers directly—pull on their conscience, ask them to stay out with us, and to trade the immediate, limited reward of a day’s pay for something larger. The stubborn goal of peace. We didn’t see them as enemies. We saw them as people who had been asked to build the wrong thing in the wrong place. Humans, just like us.

The big question was posed onto my kitchen table at dinner, which provoked some marginal choking in the mouths of both of my parents, who—after a small debate—agreed to let me go and join the camp as long as it didn’t interfere with school, most specifically during the summer. My guess is they also realised that my absence would give them the chance to keep on fighting each other and demolishing some more china without risking further hurt to my feelings—and at times my being as well.

I joined forces with a few friends and departed Messina on a dusty regional train, which, melting in the heat, slowly took us to our desired destination: chasing peace together. At the time the camp was made of a headquarters inside a building in Comiso, and an additional large campground in which there were tents and people from all over Europe, including, quite interestingly, a high number of Dutch, who were without doubt among the strongest paladins against nuclear establishment of any kind, and did teach us more than a thing or two about nonviolent active protesting.

Everything went smoothly for a while: daily sit-ins on the airfield surroundings, peaceful protests in town, and debates on how to conduct our protest moving forward. Then, at the beginning of August, things began to escalate. Even the air seemed firmer and without an escape route; its substitute was the dust, so thin it would appear inside our pockets.

One week in particular, things heated up. Was it the constant heat? The growing demands from government forces far away? I could not say. But on the night of the 7th of August a strange awareness began to fall on our faces—its quietness more intense, like expectations gathering for what was ahead. Not sure any of that was palpable, but we could feel a switch in the way policing authority were taking their daily steps.

On the morning of August the 8th, the camp woke like a single organism—not with speeches or rush, but with a low rumble without a distinctive origin. People folded blankets, tied shoes, passed information in low voices, while sharing coffee that tasted like burnt objectives. The goal for the day was the same: stand in front of the gates and slow the work inside the airfield, meant to prepare the place to welcome those deadly beasts. Not much change from the previous days—more dust, more heat—but nothing else noticeable.

By the time the sun came up, we were in front of the gate and the initial part of the walls—a thousand of us—forming a semicircle that almost touched the defending lines of Carabinieri, all in full display. Their shoulders filled with weapons and dust, sweating the upcoming day in silence, with a new uncertain look on their faces.

Then we realised a new element had taken its place in the improvised platoon: the police in full uniforms. A lot more than on any previous day. More helmets, more shields, more bodies in formation. Not shouting, not dramatic—just present in a way that murmured.

“we’re done pretending this is a gentle morning conversation.”

The workers arrived around seven. In an ordinary way, showing up for a shift, and with a few slowing down for what we hoped was the opportunity to exchange a few words. Some looked away. Some stopped. We spoke to them the way you speak to someone you don’t want to disturb—directly, simply, politely—offering them the option to notice the impasse.

“Look at where you are. Look at what you are about to do. Don’t cross.”

A few smiled and turned back. A few stayed and talked. Some hovered at the edge of the blockade, caught between a job and a conscience. But nobody forced their way through. And for a short time it felt like we might hold the day just by standing there, like close friends discussing the weather ahead.

Then the late morning tightened. You could sense the change before you could touch it. The police wanted to rotate their standing line at the gates—and we knew what that meant. The movement would create cracks the workers could walk through, so we pressed closer together and, shoulder to shoulder, we began to chant. We sang. Not to be cheerful, but because those sounds keep everyone from dissolving into fear.

Then, from the corners of our eyes, more reinforcements came. Vehicles from the sides. Doors opening. Quick movements, lines thickening like a theatrical play that had begun to run. And then came the scream of the siren. That sound didn’t just announce a scene change—it was a message to both them and us. It announced a decision:

“this is no longer about moving people; this is about breaking them hard. Not only your soul, but your body as well.”

Their charge hit fast, and in the confusion bodies jolted—someone falling, someone yelling a name, hands grabbing wrists. This was not a joke; it was an unwarranted attack. Among lemon trees, a battle against unarmed people had begun.

Our semicircle collapsed into fragments. People ran everywhere: across the vineyards, back toward the camp, sideways into whatever space looked like escape. Then came the tear gas. At first it’s a sting—then your eyes are on fire and your throat becomes a narrow tube and your brain starts bargaining with your lungs. Breathing becomes work. Thinking becomes secondary.

In the midst of the screams, a roar from the sky. I looked up and saw the helicopter, with huge cameras and gas cannons as well. A helicopter, I told myself, for a few peaceful folks in dust clothes.

I ran, and in the confusion, while escaping from the hard hit of a policeman’s foot, I saw someone who, in the middle of that chaos, was taking pictures, a handkerchief on her face, she stood there defiantly, with the stubbornness of someone who truly believes images matter.

Then I suddenly realised two cops were running in her direction for the grab. So I pulled her arm and dragged her away in a panic, adding to my own fear her own, and probably creating more confusion in her than any sense of security. Like pulling someone out of a doorway before it slams. We stumbled, half-running, half-tripping, coughing, eyes watering, her camera knocking against her chest like a visible police magnet.

In the panic we cut sideways through a few small bushes, away from the main line, and then—a mercy in the middle of ugliness—a nearby car stopped. A door opened. Hands reached out, grabbing our clothes and pulling us onto the back seat with the kindest violence anyone would like to experience. For a few seconds, the world inside that car was its own small universe: coughing, spit, tears you can’t control, screams and open fears. Both in shock, but in a sudden intimacy created by mixing fear and hope, shock and horror.

It was then that I felt a surge of love. Not in a romantic way, but in the way people love others in the midst of sudden events and want to care for them until they fall silently in our arms. She made me feel human again, while I was in total uncertainty inside a very inhuman day.

What happened afterward has been written many times, and I’m not arrogant enough to think I can improve on it. Still—if I stop here, it feels like I’m cheating both history and you. So I’ll sketch what came next as plainly as I can, with the humility of someone who knows he’s only holding one little corner of truth.

Despite everything, the government announced in March 1983 that the first 16 missiles were already operational in Comiso, and that all 112 would be operational by June 30, 1983—as if that kind of thing could be filled on a calendar.

Comiso didn’t let go quietly. Initiatives continued, pushed hard by the women of La Ragnatela, who even entered the base at night on April 21. Later the fight became more practical—municipal resolutions, direct actions, even attempts to interfere with the movements of the TELs (Transporter, Erector, Launcher) as exercises began.

Luckily by 1984 the energy thinned out, and then the world shifted. In March 1985 Chernenko died, Gorbachev arrived, disarmament talks reopened, and on December 8, 1987, Reagan and Gorbachev signed the agreement that finally closed the Euromissile chapter, which almost immediately delisted the base of Comiso from the already complex military map in EU.

Today, that airfield is no longer a military project. It’s a civilian airport—trying, in its own way, to become another gate to Sicily, alongside the larger airports of Catania and Palermo. And every time I think of that, I return to a simple image: the same place that was meant to welcome weapons now is trying to welcome returning migrants, tourists, luggage, embraces, and departures.

I wish I could say that since then things changed in the public process of peacefully expressing your ideals. Unfortunately, much more drastic and dramatic events have taken place in Italy since then, and new laws are now being made to prevent those expressions, limiting freedom, and openly antagonising who is different from you—in a clear Orbán-style fashion, in which even the press and the judiciary system are being held accountable and run the risk of being completely controlled by the political system.

It is not hard to imagine my feelings as I took one last look at the buildings surrounding my tall-ceilinged roman apartment in the San Lorenzo neighborhood before deciding to push my entire life across the pond to America. I was leaving what I loved the most for a place I would come to love even more — at least for a few years, before the word America itself would begin to change shape. Unthinkable today.

It was a gorgeous day in July 1998. My pregnant girlfriend was beaming with joy, quietly watching my uncertainty about what lay ahead. She would go first. I would stay behind a little longer, finishing the packing, selling the last things that could not come with us — among them my motorbike, one of the most painful losses, because I knew I would not find anything like it again for a long time. In those days, leaving still felt like adventure, not escape — a joyful jump into another kind of waterfall.

My flight was booked on US Air — itself now a strange fossil of aviation memory — from Rome Fiumicino to Philadelphia on a luxurious 767, then onward to Hartford on an already old-looking but sturdy 757, possibly still the best airplane Boeing ever built. That promised landing in Hartford, Connecticut, where my girlfriend would be waiting in her Subaru, pregnant and glowing, surrounded by the green valleys of the Berkshire region, would become my first American home — a place that felt as wide open as the future itself once did.

If you are expecting the mountain of paperwork that would accompany such a move today, you would be wrong. There was no visa, no ESTA, no interviews. Only a small cardboard form handed to you on the plane, where you declared — on your own honor — that you were not a criminal, not a drug dealer, and had no intention of committing wrongdoing. Not in an office. Not at an embassy. Just seated over international waters, given to you by a smiling stewardess, with the simple instruction to show it with your passport on arrival. Impossible now, even in the most remote country on earth. But that was America: brave, curious, still willing to believe that strangers might arrive carrying more than fear.

The cockpit door was left open. You could see the pilots working in the dark. Even the air inside the plane felt open — light, trusting, welcoming. My English was almost nonexistent. I smiled a lot. I said “thank you” every time someone spoke to me or handed me something, as if politeness itself were a kind of visa. I did not yet know how rare that openness would become.

Philadelphia was noisy, hot, and sticky. My eyes were wide as I watched what looked like a perfectly oiled machine — people moving, working, talking, flowing in every direction. I remember running toward a sign that promised Italian cuisine, and being surprised that it wasn’t half as bad as it would seem to me today. Pizza e Pasta, it was called. I still wonder if it exists now, and what kind of people might be eating there.

I sat in a warm corner of sunlight, watching planes take off and land — still one of my great, enduring passions — trying to digest the magnitude of what I was doing. Was this the first time I had erased one life in order to step into another? Certainly not. I had always been a kind of gypsy, and the excitement of what might come next — something entirely new — easily outweighed the fear and the language barrier. Back then, the future still felt like an open door, not a wall, never a barrier.

What would America be for me?
What would it give me — as a career, as a life?

I did not know then how right I was to hope. This country — now so deeply unrecognizable — gave me more than any place ever had before, certainly more than I could have imagined.

The flight to Hartford was messy, with heavy rain and turbulence. I wasn’t too worried — after years of flying between Rome and Sicily in winter on lighter MD-80s, I was used to it. But an old lady across the aisle looked terrified. I smiled at her, as if to say everything would be all right. She smiled back, grateful. I sometimes wonder where that small, unguarded kindness has gone.

Outside the airport, in the eager arms of a soon-to-be mother, I smelled the night for the very first time — grass, mud, flowers — filling my lungs like water in the desert. The air was so clean it felt unreal. Was this the nature we had forgotten in Europe? Or was it simply a country still young enough to let you breathe?

The drive through the dark was pure magic. Green hills rolled endlessly, no streetlights, no houses, only the shapes of forests untouched by human hands. Turn after turn, it felt like passing between sleeping giants, watching us quietly as the car slipped through their territory — a world that had not yet learned how to be afraid of itself.

Arriving in Great Barrington, Massachusetts, just a couple of hours from New York City, in the dark was another surprise. Small glowing windows of shops and a few restaurants spoke of calm, of a warm and gentle summer night. Fireflies drifted in the air, as if curious to touch your face. I don’t know if they still shine like that now, but I hope so, and often long for it.

This was my first night in America — an open field for both my mind and my future. Just the first taste of a much larger country I had not yet begun to walk through, a place that would open and close its doors in ways I could not yet understand.

The next morning, a lawn mower shattered my first American dream, rolling the smell of fresh grass straight into my jet-lagged face. Loud, abrupt, alive — the first sound I truly heard upon waking in America. A country was waking up, and so was I.

I did not yet know how many more stories were already waiting for me — interviews, connections, misunderstandings, fatherhood, cold winters, and a long list of quiet human victories — all of them pieces of a place that would one day feel as distant as this first, innocent morning.

The fragments lay scattered across the ancient stones of San Marco — my meticulous plans, a loose diamond, droplets of blood, and what remained of my dignity. Our sausage dog would later blink knowingly in Lake Como sunlight, as if he’d witnessed the entire cosmic joke from the beginning. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

We designers sometimes exceed our own expectations, don’t we? Determined to make everything just a little more special, we craft elaborate schemes that teeter precariously between brilliance and catastrophe. This is the story of one of those times — when good design and careful planning collided with the universe’s apparent sense of humor, leaving me face-down on consecrated ground, bleeding and inexplicably furious.

The plan had been flawless, naturally. Once I decided to propose to Kelly, I immediately sketched ideas for the ring and commissioned a jeweller to bring them to life. Two prototypes emerged, but one was the clear winner. Everything would be fully recycled — gold from an old ring, not too yellow in tone, and a small but beautifully tinted yellowish diamond. Perfect fragments of the past, reformed into something new. Those who know me understand how deeply I care about this. In a world growing more wasteful, it felt important to do my small part.

Then came the choreography of the moment itself. Venice beckoned with our upcoming trip, and I envisioned the proposal unfolding inside the Basilica of San Marco. The plan was elegantly simple: collect the ring from a disguised courier in the bathroom of the famous Caffè Florian, then place it in the holy water stoup where Kelly would discover it. What could go wrong with such careful orchestration?

Everything, as it turned out.

We arrived in Venice and wandered the maze of bridges and piazzas before stopping at Caffè Florian for a quick Venetian bite and espresso. Right on cue, the predetermined “passerby” appeared, gave me a subtle nod, and I slipped away to the bathroom to retrieve my carefully crafted future. Ring safely pocketed, I returned to the table, paid the bill with the satisfaction of a director whose actors were hitting their marks, and invited my beautiful bride-to-be to step into the Basilica just a few metres away.

That’s when the universe decided to heavily edit my script.

Beaming with delight at the prospect of my perfect proposal, I failed to notice the construction debris at my feet. In an instant, I took a spectacular fall — flat on my face, with no hands up to protect me, too surprised even to react. As I hit the ancient stones, I felt the ring pierce my leg. The carefully set diamond, freed from its setting by the impact, went skittering into the corner of my trouser pocket like a tiny, expensive refugee.

Bleeding from a gash on my forehead, I realised with mounting horror that my perfect moment lay in pieces around me — literally. By the time worried church assistants rushed to help, I was not only hurt but consumed by a simmering rage that surprised even me. I was furious at the terrible timing, at the near loss of the diamond, at the construction debris, at my own clumsiness. Furious, really, with the cosmic injustice of it all.

Here I had crafted this beautiful moment, assembled all the fragments with such care, and the universe had scattered them across the stones like some cruel art installation titled “The Futility of Human Planning.”

My future wife, of course, was taken aback, not understanding the true source of my volcanic anger. All I had to show for my elaborate scheme was a bloodstain on the pocket where the ring had been and a gash that would require immediate attention. After a quick pharmacy run, I emerged looking like a soccer player recovering from a particularly brutal match — half my head wrapped in gauze, topped with a cap that screamed “sporting accident” rather than “romantic gesture gone wrong.”

For days afterward, she puzzled over my inexplicable rage at what seemed like a simple stumble. I offered half-truths and mumbled excuses, desperately concealing the real story: that I had been carrying the ring, that the proposal was meant to happen in that very sacred moment, that all my careful planning had been reduced to fragments on Venetian stone.

The plan had to be abandoned. My head had to heal. And I was left wondering: what now? How do you reassemble the pieces of a perfect moment once they’ve been scattered?

The answer came quite literally across the street. Back home in Amsterdam, I walked into a jeweller’s shop in the Jordaan, the broken ring in my pocket like evidence of my own hubris. “Can you fix this?” I pleaded, and with it, began planning the resurrection of my romantic intentions.

Ring repaired, diamond safely reset, I focused on the next attempt. This time: a boat ride on Lake Como, complete with food, the mountain views we both love dearly, and our beloved sausage dog as witness. Would I drop the ring in the water this time? The possibility haunted me, but sometimes you have to trust that the universe might, occasionally, show mercy.

The rest unfolded bathed in sunlight and blessed simplicity. We left the small dock in San Giovanni, crossed the lake, and let the fresh air and surrounding mountains carry us away from all the careful choreography that had failed before. After a few minutes, I slowed the boat in the beautiful coves along Limonta and handed Kelly a small red box, grinning with the relief of a man who had finally learned when to stop directing and start living.

Not only was I finally able to make my proposal, I could confess the first failed attempt — giving us both laughs that would last for months. Our sausage dog blinked in the sunlight, as if he’d known all along how hard it had been for me to keep such a ridiculous story hidden, how the fragments of that first disaster had somehow reassembled themselves into something even better.

All of this to say that sometimes our spectacular failures yield unexpected treasures. The scattered pieces can be gathered into something more beautiful than our original design ever imagined. So if something like this has happened to you — try again. Failure isn’t the end; it’s how we learn to create our most heartfelt successes.

Just imagine being an architecture student in the late 1980s, in the city of emperors and popes. Poor as it gets. My father, an architect himself, somehow always managed to keep his pockets empty. And there I was, hungry for whatever Rome could offer me. By a stroke of chance, I landed a full scholarship and lived in a student dormitory just a few steps from the Stadio Olimpico — where all of Rome gathered to shout and cheer.

This fairly modern building, with its view of the Italian Ministry of Foreign Affairs and a beautiful globe sculpture by Gio Pomodoro, became my base. From my room, I was inching closer to what even my own parents thought impossible: an architecture degree. Was I happy? Most likely not. Why? Wouldn’t I want what I had been dreaming of for six long years? Why wasn’t I thrilled at the idea of success and the prospect of entering a Roman studio of some notoriety? There was a hole in my mind. Was it because the endless, brutal studies had made my appetite for “designing the houses of the future” less yummy? Or because there were so many unemployed architects in the country that I quickly realized I’d soon be one of them? I’m still not sure to this day.

What I do know is that those feelings opened the way to my real profession — the one I’ve loved and pursued for more than thirty years. Many discover design by profound choice. I stumbled into it by chance. Chance, with a pinch of deeply felt sensations. Still, not something I thought myself capable of — such a brilliant, demanding profession.

Back then, I was more concerned with filling my lunch plate, buying a pair of pants, or putting fuel in my white Vespa. That Vespa was my only means of mobility, purchased with the last bits of Sicilian savings I had scraped together after my previous one was stolen from under my balcony in Sicily—on the very day I was leaving for Rome to become a student. But that is another story entirely.

Finding a job in those days was nothing like it is today. The internet was still a privilege for those who could afford a massive computer, and a “browser” could barely load a page at the speed of a slug. Most people found jobs through newspapers — national or local — which sometimes were left for free in the dorm’s ground-floor lounge for us to read.

Desperate for work, I began scanning every listing with little success. The only job I managed to land was as a mail courier for the city of Rome, which, in those years of rapid business expansion, needed to deliver correspondence faster than the regular post could handle. I accepted my grim fate and gave it a try. The work was punishing—low pay, heavy on the body, harsh on the skin—but I had no other choice. For a while, it was manageable. I could cook small meals on my roommate’s stove and even share some of my meager earnings with him. He was a fashion student, in an even tougher spot than I was—slightly disabled, unable to drive, but endlessly creative. His sewing machine rattled on in our room, producing miracles out of nothing.

Then one morning, a small announcement in the paper caught my eye: “Small design studio seeking an intern designer with the will to try his best at creating innovative solutions for local and global clients.” Could I do it? Could I bluff my way in? My father had always seemed to enjoy identity design more than architecture, but when it came to the early days of software, I was a complete zero — perhaps even less.

I stood there pondering, staring at the dirty clothes from my courier job, at my own tired face in the bathroom mirror. Maybe I should give this a shot. Surely I won’t get it. But what draws me isn’t only the job. It’s the idea of design itself. Could this be my first real calling? Could I prove myself wrong?

After some debate with my roommate, I decided to apply. No emails then — just a phone call. They invited me to visit that Friday. Panic set in: what to wear? What skills to invent? Being an architecture student gave me some visual taste, sure, but was that enough? My roommate calmly told me: “Anything is worth trying.” I still hold onto that advice, thirty-five years later.

As for clothing, he proposed to quickly whip up a coat just for that occasion. I protested I could never pay for it. He replied: “You’ll pay me back when you get the job.” Nervous laughter. I promised instead to bring Sicilian weed on my next trip south.

The coat was nothing short of amazing. Something between Dracula’s wardrobe and sharp cuts that only the boldest fashion designers could dream of. Dark blue, almost black, with subtle details in an even darker tone. It wasn’t just a coat. It was a flying carpet, stitched with dynamism and charm. I wish I still had it today — it would be as contemporary as any piece of clothing I’ve ever worn.

Friday arrived. Nervously, I climbed the stairs of a small but well-placed building across from Italian Public TV on Via Teulada, famous for its celebrities and bar culture. I knocked. The door opened to two men who looked me over with a mix of curiosity and suspicion. The coat clearly did its magic. “Who is this student,” they must have thought, “on the verge of becoming an architect, now daring to enter graphic design?”

We talked for hours. Bauhaus, Tschichold typography, Fronzoni, the Vignellis, Chermayeff & Geismar, Wim Crouwel. Then the computers: big gray Apples, with the very first versions of Photoshop and Illustrator. “Do you know these?” they asked. Not much, I admitted. “My father uses one for CAD.” They smiled. “That’s something. Would you like to learn?”

“Yes,” I grinned. “Learning is my favorite activity.” Then they showed me the manuals — and my grin quickly faded. Still, how long could it take?

They made it clear: if I wanted to eventually earn money, I had to learn the software as fast as humanly possible. Only once I could produce real work would they pay me. When they mentioned the possible salary — about three times what I made as a courier — I almost fainted. They said there were other candidates and the decision would take a few days.

We shook hands. I left in a strange mood — half-terrified, half-exhilarated. Was this design? I wanted it. Needed it. Like a drug of choice. Architecture suddenly looked pale. My books stared at me on the desk, but all I could think was: No way. I want typefaces, logos, lines, and printing machines.

The wait was endless. When the dorm’s hallway phone rang, I assumed it was my mother scolding me for not calling. Instead, a James Bond–like voice introduced himself: Claudio Conti from the studio. “You’re in. We’ve decided to give you a chance. When can you start?” The floor fell away. My heart pounded. I whispered: “That’s awesome. Anytime you want me.”

And so it began. I learned at superhuman speed, producing projects alongside them in our tiny studio of three. I was happy, thrilled. Later, when summer came and we’d grown closer, like friends more than colleagues, I asked what made them choose me. They laughed and said it had been a hard call between me and a talented woman. Then one confessed: “It was the coat. You looked different. Intriguing. Hungry to create. So we went with you.”

I was speechless. A handmade, improvised coat had changed my career forever. Thirty-five years later, unfortunately the coat is gone, but the memory and gratitude remains — stitched deep, like a tattoo on the bottom of my heart.

For the curious: the studio was called Boogie Movie. A small but brilliant design agency in the heart of Quartiere Prati, Rome. Its two partners, Claudio Conti and Gianni Fasciolo, which truly remain dear to my heart, their generosity and guidance in my early days as a young and thirsty designer still always walk with me. As for Marco, my wonderful fashion designer roommate, he is now thriving at a global fashion firm I won’t name out of privacy respect. To him goes my deepest admiration—for giving me a “fashionable” boost when I really needed a chance.

Like many landowners in 1970s central Sicily, my grandfather didn’t have a driver’s license — not even after having been a tank commander for the Italian Africa Corps in the war. He preferred, instead, to be driven. He relied on a dedicated driver, someone always at the ready to take him wherever he wished.

Seeing him like that — seated in the front, never driving, but always commanding — gave me a sense of grandeur and power. Even if the car itself, a diesel Peugeot 404 Break L, was far from glamorous. You could hear it coming from half a valley away.

Whenever he invited me to join, I ran with trepidation toward the waiting car. The driver, Turi Tataranchio, would be holding the rear passenger door open for me, never closing it until I was properly seated. That soft click, followed by the firm, practiced motion of Turi’s hand closing the door — it always marked the start of something exciting, no matter the distance.

Turi had the look of a Sicilian crow. His skin was dark and leathery, his hair a wild battalion of curls in open rebellion, and his moustache sat thick above small, pale lips. He rarely spoke. When he did, the words shot out in a rapid-fire code — so unintelligible I thought, for years, he might have invented his own dialect. It sounded like a mix between the growl of a Nebrodi wolf and the whispering hiss of the scirocco under a closed door.

His clothes, too, seemed to mirror his contradictions. There was always a trace of formality — a white shirt, a crooked tie — suggesting pride in his role with our quasi-noble household. But they were always slightly stained, slightly rushed, as if he’d dressed while already halfway out the door. He was like a small, perpetual fire — never quite still, never entirely contained.

As a child, forever finding new ways to scrape my knees, I was fascinated by Turi. He could drive. He could go places. I, by contrast, was confined to our hazelnut farm, constantly watched by the worried eyes of my parents — well aware they had a miniature monster on their hands.

One late summer day, my grandfather, then beginning to show signs of illness, called me to his bedside. With a gentle voice and trembling lips, he asked if I’d like to accompany Turi into town — to pick up pastries for Sunday lunch. I stammered out some kind of “yes,” heart racing, lips trembling.

He reached into his pocket and pressed a 500-lire note into my palm — the worn paper warm from his fingers. It was for my own pastry, he said. But I mustn’t tell a soul — not my cousins, not anyone else in our large, hungry family.

I pressed my finger to his shoulder and ran, rich and sweaty and poised for freedom.

Turi was already on the far end of the driveway, heading toward the car. I sprinted after him, panting.

“Are we going now?” I asked.

He looked at me like I’d stepped out of the bushes as a ghost. Then, wordlessly, he nodded, a cigarette clenched beneath his moustache, and continued walking.

The Peugeot, parked in the shade behind the tool barn, radiated heat like a brick oven. Turi approached it as if it might bite — cautious and deliberate. He opened all four doors, peeked inside without breathing, and then rolled down every window.

Still too hot.

But my eager expression said there was no time to lose. A cassatina and two dozen cannoli awaited us on the other side of the valley — and I wasn’t about to make them wait.

Then, something extraordinary happened. Turi gestured for me to sit in the front seat — not in the back, as usual. Today, I was the stand-in for the Baron.

I climbed in, honored and elated, barely noticing the burning leather beneath me. The seat scorched my legs, but I didn’t feel a thing. My adventure had begun — a miraculous breeze had rescued a stranded sailor.

The car roared to life, and as it took the first curve downhill, it seemed to move in perfect rhythm with the breeze rushing through the trees. It wasn’t just us breathing now — it was as though the whole Earth was inhaling, exhaling, and wrapping us in its finest smells and sounds.

With each turn, the engine’s growl echoed into the heat, and the trees waved us goodbye. But I was transfixed — watching Turi’s feet and hands in motion, dancing between clutch and gear stick. His driving was rough and gentle at once: short, abrupt shifts on the descent, soft and slow ones on the straights.

The car must feel like a horse to him, I thought. And he — the quiet rider, commanding it with strength and grace.

Before I could lift my eyes, we were already at the edge of town.

Ucria: a small, straight-spined place of grand family palaces and humble peasant homes, pieced together like an urban mosaic across centuries of nobility and toil. We climbed the street and soon arrived at the pasticceria, itself a kind of monument in the heart of town.

Turi switched off the engine and came around to open my door — only to find that I’d already jumped out into the baking square. I nearly lost my balance pushing open the glass-paneled door, but when I stepped inside, I felt salvation.

Cool, dark, and rich with scent. The air hit me like a benediction — marble floors, dim light, and aromas of cinnamon, orange peel, linen, and dark chocolate rising like incense.

“Come sta il signorino?” asked Prospera, the shopkeeper, her voice warm and round.

“Molto bene,” I answered, licking my lips.

I placed the order and added a cassatina for immediate consumption. She nodded and ushered us to a side table. Turi simply nodded in return.

A moment later, Prospera appeared with an espresso for Turi, a glass of water, and my perfect pastry.

I ate in silence — as if in prayer — surrounded by the humming of the fridges and machines. This was the church of my faith, where the gods were sweet and generous. If food were a religion, I would have gladly become its devoted priest.

Turi sipped his coffee quickly, vacuuming the last drops as though they were essential to life. He gestured softly — it was time to go. I swallowed my last bite, already wishing I had more, when Prospera reappeared with the box of cannoli.

No need to pay. Like many families, we had an account, which my grandfather — the Baron — would settle in his own time.

Just a smile, a nod, and we were off, back into the sun’s cruel glare.

Turi held the box as he opened the car door. The heat from the Peugeot poured out like breath from a glass furnace. I climbed in, instantly searing my legs, and cursed my decision to wear shorts.

Why was I such a hopeless rascal? Was it instinct or sport? I didn’t know. I didn’t care.

Life was good. Perhaps too good.

As we began the long climb up the hill, Turi glanced sideways and suddenly froze. His eyes went wide, fish-like, as he took in the mess I’d made of my shirt.

He slowed the car to a stop and muttered, almost incomprehensibly, “Permette, signorino?”

Then, with the care of a tailor, he brushed every last breadcrumb from my shirt, making sure I looked presentable once again. Only then did he smile and start driving.

I smiled back, thinking: He saved me. Maybe that’s why Grandfather keeps him always at his side. Maybe Turi is his savior too.

The play was over. The lights dimmed, and the celebrations began — a full week of sold-out performances at Théâtre Les Ateliers in Lyon. After too much wine and the kind of laughter that only comes when things go beautifully right, I found myself alone in my hotel room, packing.

I wasn’t going home. I was going to Paris. This would be my first time as an adult in the City of Light.

At the time, light — and sound — were quite literally my livelihood. I made a living rigging stages and setting scenes. But this trip wasn’t for work or pleasure. It was a mission from the heart.

My girlfriend back in Rome, an art history student, had tracked down a rare manuscript mentioned by Panofsky — an original copy housed in a bookstore on Rue de Seine. The owner agreed to let someone photograph a few pages, but only on-site, with gloves, and under supervision.

That someone had become me.
The things you do for love.

I boarded a brand-new TGV at Lyon station. It looked like a sleeping snake, ready to slither across the countryside at a speed I had never experienced. I settled into my seat, watching the scenery race past like a living painting. I thought of Paris — what I’d find, what I’d feel, what I’d say when I arrived among its boulevards.

There were no answers. Just fields of grain and rows of trees waving in the spring heat.

When we pulled into Gare de Lyon, a voice came over the speakers — “Bienvenue à Paris, Paris Gare de Lyon” — warm, sultry, and so unmistakably French that it stunned me. It felt like Paris was flirting. Was it a premonition? The start of a new love story?

I had no hotel reservation, of course. That wouldn’t have been very me. At the time, nothing in my life was planned — no schedule, no permanent address, no five-year goals. I just lived. Floated. Stumbled through days with more freedom than was probably healthy. Almost homeless, but not quite. Always supported by a web of friends and strangers who took me in.

Eventually, I found a small Italian-French hotel near Rue Eugène Gibez, not far from the Convention metro stop. I rang the bell. An older Italian couple answered — kind-faced, but matter-of-fact.

“You can stay,” they said, “but only for two nights. We’ve sold the hotel. Friday will be our last day.”

“You mean... I’ll be staying the very last night?”

“Yes,” the woman said. “You’ll be our only guest.”

I didn’t know what to say. The price was right. The bed was creaky. The walls were lined with old wood, the sink leaned into a dark corner. But the room felt alive — like it had watched people for decades, and now it was watching me. The wallpaper shimmered in the dim light, whispering stories I couldn’t quite hear, though some felt oddly close to my own. It wasn’t eerie — just a quiet reminder that many had come before me.

The next morning came quickly. I rode the metro to Rue de Seine, slipped on archival gloves, and held the manuscript in my hands. I took photos, scribbled notes, stared at the ink and the weight of history. The bookstore owner smiled.

“If you like,” he said, “you can buy it.”

I smiled back. “A little out of my price range, I’m afraid.”

Outside, I walked in a kind of daze. It was hard to believe any of it was real — that someone like me, a stagehand vagabond, had been trusted with something so rare. That I had helped someone I loved finish something that mattered.

Wandering aimlessly, I suddenly found myself standing before the great gates of the École des Beaux-Arts. I stopped, overwhelmed by something I couldn’t name. The place stirred something in me — as if it were trying to say something I would only come to understand years later. I took one last breath, one last look, and walked away.

Back at the hotel, the couple greeted me like a long-lost son. Their faces looked a little more fragile — probably from the weight of the farewell ahead. They handed me a baguette stuffed with ham and cheese, and two warm beers. I thanked them, touched by their kindness, and slowly climbed the stairs back to my room.

“This is my last night in Paris,” I thought. “And the hotel’s last night too.”
We were sharing an intimate goodbye.

I lay in bed, crumbs on the sheets, the evening light fading to a soft, silvery blue across the ceiling. But sleep never came. The walls were too alive. They still had stories to tell.

I imagined the lives they’d witnessed — lovers whispering first confessions, immigrants from the south crying softly, travelers passing through. Joy, longing, goodbyes, reunions, affairs. All of it trapped in the wallpaper, and now — for one final night — shared with me.

So I gave them something back. My stories, my memories, my voice. I let the walls have them, so that when the wallpaper was peeled and the bricks exposed, a piece of me would remain — tangled among the many who had come and gone before.

The next morning, I ran back to the station and boarded a slower, dustier train back to Rome — counting coins, hoping they’d last for one last espresso. As the train rumbled away, I felt my feet pull backward toward the doors. Was that Paris? I wondered.

Prologue

The hotel was eventually sold to Ibis, the European hotel chain. It reopened for a time, then closed again — not enough business, they said. It remains closed to this day.

As for me, I went back to Paris many times. I had my own troubling love story with her. But that’s another kind of manuscript — and not one I was sent to retrieve.

These short films, nearly forgotten amid the swirl of modern content and computer-generated animation, carry a kind of wisdom and invitation that feels more urgent than ever. Originally produced by Italian Swiss Television in 1986, they bring to life five of Leo Lionni’s beloved books—stories that, though simple on the surface, invite children to imagine a kinder, fairer, more creative world.

The first two, Swimmy and Frederick, were made much earlier—in 1967—through a remarkable collaboration between American author and illustrator Leo Lionni and Italian filmmaker Giulio Gianini. Using découpage animation—a slow, tactile technique—they transformed Lionni’s illustrations into beautiful, vivid motion. These films were first presented at the National Institute of Design in Ahmedabad, India—a detail I’ve always loved, adding yet another layer of cross-cultural care to their origins.

Watching these films again—now with my second child—felt like rereading an old letter I once wrote to myself. The animation is slow, handcrafted, and beautifully imperfect. There are no flashy edits or fast-paced jokes. Just paper, color, silence, and truth. These stories don’t aim to entertain in the modern sense—they gently prepare children for being human. For belonging. For noticing what matters.

Each one carries a lesson, though never in a didactic way. They unfold like quiet invitations: to think, to wonder, to care. And somehow, across decades, they’ve meant something to both of my children—one born in the age of VHS tapes, the other in the world of tablets and streaming.

Swimmy. The importance of courage and strength
A black fish, the only survivor of a predator attack, learns not just how to survive—but how to lead. He teaches a new school of goldfish to swim as one, forming the shape of a giant fish, with him as the eye. A lesson in solidarity, courage, and the strength that lives in difference.

Frederick. Survival through the power of creativity
While the other mice prepare for winter by gathering food, Frederick collects colors, words, and sunshine. When the supplies run out, it’s his poetry that keeps them warm. A quiet celebration of inner life—and how imagination can sustain us when little else remains.

It’s Mine! What’s mine is ours: learning to live together
Three bickering frogs, each claiming ownership of everything around them, are forced to face a flood together. In their struggle, they learn that nothing truly belongs to one alone—and that cooperation is the only way to build something lasting.

Cornelius. The quiet strength of standing apart
Cornelius, a crocodile who walks upright, is mocked by his peers. Frustrated, he walks away—and learns new skills from a monkey: standing on his head, hanging by his tail. Eventually, the others begin to follow. A story about making space for difference, and the quiet power of leading by example.

A Fish is a Fish. Being yourself is a beautiful thing
A tadpole becomes a frog and leaves the pond, returning with stories of the world beyond. But the fish, unable to imagine a world he’s never seen, tries to leap from the water—nearly dying in the attempt. Rescued, he realizes that embracing who he is, as he is, is more than enough.

And so, decades apart, my children—one born in 1998, the other in 2023—have sat beside me, eyes wide, watching cut-paper fish and frogs and crocodiles move across the screen. I like to think they’re seeing more than just stories. They’re glimpsing how to be in the world.

I hope you’ll find a moment to watch these gentle classics with the children in your life. Maybe, like me, you’ll discover that the quiet stories from long ago still hold the power to teach us how to be kinder, braver, and more connected—across generations, and across time.