While trying to organize a first ever, I am convinced that things are decided at the last minute are always the best. Yes, because when you decide to last, you still have the thrill of the doubt, do not know what will be, you're not prepared, so a pleasant thing that happens to you without you have provided becomes the Beautiful with a capital. And while you're going to the show for which you have organized, checked, very welcome and decisive, the Cross, which takes me under his auspices and Cinzia and take us to church Vallisa: is program in a show choir spirituals. Pleasant experience. The group performs transportation, encourages the audience to sing the melodies reminiscent of the most famous of these beautiful songs, different from the gospel because spontaneous, improvised, so many faces to the expression of mood, passion, creative personality. At the greek restaurant in Old Bari is a friendly waitress, we are three very different individuals (an elegant maroon began to Cynthia, rainbow scarves for Michael, divided university for me) and we seem to be expected for centuries: they give us beer, smiles and a dish of Greece. The moussaka is very good, but the sweet, we take it from Fanelli, in King David: On the other hand, the cornet at the end of the evening is a must since I was in Bari is at this point that the factory crossbar with a brilliant idea of \u200b\u200bthe wonders of his mill. Editor of the Journal of the South, where he works: "Have you ever seen how to print the papers?" In elementary school I had led a time to see the press Eco di Bergamo. I was the lowest among my companions, an imposing man showed us where these giant trucks piled copies in print of the local newspaper, I was almost frightened by the noise, the straps with the newspapers, the smell of paper and ink . We were given a copy of Echo and I remember that I had preserved for a long as if it had been a collector's item. Twenty-five years later, a press review in action, watch the production of plates, the formation of color, fast printing of a newspaper that runs on rollers picturesque before being distributed throughout the south, gave me new things. Above all, I thought that while I sleep, just when I sleep at night working there is an Italy, an Italy made up of journalists, guards, factory workers and secretaries, chased by whistles and sirens under the stars, while the driver a waiting van that fills the space of her way to go and distribute the magazine to newsstands. I yawn, they have just begun. They'll sleep, I hope, while I buy a newspaper at the kiosk, or ordering a espressino read it before entering university. Yes, because someone once told me: "You must understand one thing, now that you are in Bari: The Journal of the South can not be bought, but it reads the bar."
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