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I wonder if there is really a need for this constant noise. Do we really have to talk for hours without saying nothing?

I always thought that words were important and in a way, I still think so. I believe communication is fundamental to understand and to be understood by the surrounding world. Yet lately my thought has changed.

I love interesting conversations, those where you create a link between two minds. Those that shift in a moment from the loud laughter to meditative moments, to silence and gaze.

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Written words are always sort of sleazy, once read they tend to dissolve in ether, at the most just remaining as distorted and far away echoes promptly absorbed by the immeasurable cosmic ear.

Most probably, being less obtuse and square than what I’m, an article or novel with such a title would never be published or proposed; the “dream story”, indeed, of many non-authors (as I’m):

“The Long Ride”.

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We suffer when the mind story that we live only within our psyche deviates from reality.

Pain, both physical and mental, simply happens beyond our will. The body gets sick, we get injured, a dear friend dies. We cannot do anything about it. Suffering is very different thing and only when one is lying between the coils of ignorance it gets mistaken for pain: suffering does not happen; one chooses to suffer, mostly unconsciously.

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The books to bring on a trip are one of the ways to stay on the journey. Accounts that show other people’s outlook on stories near or far, they become magnifying lenses on the present. 

Squeezing through bodies and objects in the souks is a challenge. The sandals are dirty with mud and organic residues and the skin impregnated with strong, sweetish or savory scents. As I walk, no one fails to notice my being a European woman, let alone me... But now I'm used to it, I let the thoughts take me and I wonder if I am going like the novels I picked, and if they will nourish the emotion of reading.

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Enraptured by the adrenaline of the moment and the beauty of the landscape we stop the car and dance in the middle of the road with the moths that seem to dance with us, drugged by the lights of the car headlights.

I landed in the US with Emanuela, in Portland, Oregon on September 22nd. I had picked a nice place called Austin (not the one in Texas) as the first stop on our trip, a village of 200 inhabitants near the mountains of Toiyabe in Nevada, which I knew about through a novel by Don Winslow and that fascinated me for its beauty and its desolation.

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Almost never have I bought a book by chance that I did not like the editorial project or, at least, the cover image. Sometimes I was disappointed, but less than what statistics could confirm.

Meknes’ Medina, part of the poorer market. I'm looking for a book.

Any book, I tell myself, as long as it allows me to have something to read during the long journeys on public transport from one place to the other and in the evening, after walking all day in the African sun.

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I left early the “Small Country”, just because I felt suffocated and constricted, even though I soon discovered that any “Country” defined as such, has its own limits. 

I was born and raised in a part of this planet called Italy.
I bear a Passport issued by the so called “Italian Republic”.
I’m therefore considered an “Italian Citizen”, at least according to the actual denominational system even though I never fully understood what it really means.

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I would like peace to be a resource and not a weakness, and that a greater degree of freedom and tolerance that we have sweated over the centuries is not lost because of our ineptitude.

Metaphorically speaking the full belly and the peace have made us beings without “balls”. On the one hand, the Western style has colonized the world while his exhausted body is rotting.

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The reality is that when you have the sensitivity and the proper attention you can become what you want.

The summer season is ending and I would like to use this space to thank all those who contributed in making our 2018 season the best ever, in terms of quality and quantity. Our Bellaria style doesn’t follow the stereotype: "I won’t do anything that is not my job role" rather, it is a "bubble" in which those who enter are available to do what needs to be done.

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Nowadays older people are perceived as stuffed animals that should last as long as possible even to the detriment of the quality of life.

A good friend of mine (Max Monti) often reminds me that it’s not that growing older equals to being wiser, it’s simply that one is physically forced to be more conscious in order to survive. That is, if you’re older and lead the same lifestyle as you led in your twenties, you risk to burn the candle extremely fast.

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