Christmas time. Family is calling. Home is calling. Friends are calling. Time goes by, but nothing really changes. More Jack Daniels please.
My first approach with my town was shocking. New buildings, shops which I spent many time my money closed and replaced by new ones, and many new faces. Walking home, it was like seeing two different cities at once. Faded, the one I remember. In front, but in the same position, the one I don't recognize.
After the usual "hello son, how are you?" thing in the family, and the welcome from my dog and cat, I spent another considerable amount of time in my room, still on the book.
Let's face it: reading IT so many years after the first time, in the original language, was a totally different experience. My point of view has changed.
Back then, I was a 15 years old teenager starting to understand how to get laid as soon as possible, without money in my pocket and with a weekly allowance to spend on weekends with my friends, usually hanging around the football pitch. And the book scared me like hell.
Now, I don't have to ask anymore money from my mum or dad to spend some time with my friends, I don't hang around football pitch with my friends (I go there just to train and to play on sundays), I'm 27 but, at least, I spent many years trying to understand how to get laid and how to relate with girls. Very difficult indeed, by the way.
First evening, straight to my usual Texas Pub. Good drinks and food, and first meeting with my old friends. The last time I came back from London by myself was last christmas. Recently, I've been with Ian, Sarah and Lindsey. So, I realized I could do something that it's not so easy to enjoy while I'm in London or while I'm with guests: wasting my time, completely.
In London, you can't afford to wast your time. In Milan is pretty much the same. People have just this crazy internal clock which pushed the actions, the behaviours, the available time, to some rude limits.
Just few hours before, while standing in a overcrowned train on my way to home, I could clearly see disgusts and rudeness and not much sympathy against the only guy with a big backpack and two quite large bags, just because I wasn't suppose to be there, stealing precious space on the train wagon. I couldn't move, I couldn't breathe, and I spent my (fortunately short) trip just listening to music and reading the same space of the only english paper they gave me on the plane for what it looked like too much time.
I tried to get drunk the first night. Drinks were parking on my table, and as soon as they were in proximity of the reach of my hand, they disapperead. I don't like beer, I usually start with something light, like a long island, to finish with a classic pure italian grappa. Burns like hell and tastes like paint thinner.
Give me a pint of JD, and a slice of lemon, and I would drink it without any problem. Nothing better for a nice evening.
Evening which soon became night, and soon my tired eyes were still reading the book, around 4 in the morning. Then, blackness came.