Skandorina's Travels

I can be, at times, a superficial person. Sometimes, I like to stop at the appearances. For many years, I have been looking at Micheal Fassenbender and branded him my perfect match only because he looks perfect. Then, at times, miracles do happen. Life…

I have not written for quite a while, and maybe someone missed my images and words. I ran, although not literally, over the past few months. When you travel and your life changes, often you do not realize how much you need…

Every time I think of her, I feel this immense tenderness, bittersweet, coming across in waves. At her place there is always someone who curses everyone and everything. She has anorexic children with her, and an endless variety of bulimic…

They say everything about Liguria. They tell you that, we, hailing from these shores, are grumpy and stingy. That our sea is magnificent in some areas, and raped by eco-monsters in others. That pesto in our kitchens tastes like nowhere else.…

Oddly enough, my 2014 summer has been characterised by several cultural events about chess. I am not a player and I am probably not smart enough to play, but the following impossible dialogues have been inspired by the show “ScaccoMatto”…

Beauty comes to us in many different ways. Some find it in the eyes of their children. I often locate it in architecture. Buildings are reflections of Humanity’s greatness, and I mean Humanity in the most extreme and superior sense,…

‘Cause we’re lovers, and that is a fact Yes we’re lovers, and that is that I’ve been keeping a close eye on my love. I have travelled around throughout the years but I have returned to the starting point. They…

We came out into the open, some time ago. I might as well tell you more about us, as I’m not in love with Torino on Saint Valentine’s Day only. I fall in love when I am in Piazza Bodoni:…

Those chains have been strangling her waist for centuries. Light does not reach her that often either: very few visitors venture to San Lorenzo di Arzene, beyond Casarsa, Pasolini’s birthplace, looking for her in this parochial church in Friuli. Her…

Two and a half months have passed since the last love letter (here and here). I know you, dear readers, are all out there trembling, wondering what happened to my love story, and at night you cannot sleep, like me.…

Here we are, again. You and I. We survived another mild summer together. On your streets, some apparitions walked with me during the last two months. A pair of abandoned shoes on the tram tracks. Where had they been? Who…

Looking up is the last thing that comes to mind. You are in a hurry. You do not even you realise where you are. In Corso Regina Margherita, but where exactly? The wall running next to you as you keep…

So many people filled your streets, my love, these days. Many stopped to make you virtually immortal with their iPhone and with their cameras. You make the heart race for many, but I am jealous. Although many observe you, I…

A huge empty box You will find it some 60 kilometres from Bari. The superficial idiotic tourist would define it “a huge empty box”. It can be seen from afar and from its walls made of Trani stone, an iridescent…

There are books made of paper. We curiously browse their pages. With reticence, we lend them to someone. With love, we smell them. Firmly, we say, “I can not buy another one.” But still, we continue to purchase new ones. …

How long has it been since I sent you my last love letter. One year, time flies. And loves make immense turns and it comes back, doesn’t it. Do not take it bad, my dear city. Do not think that…

On the threshold, I am sure I stopped for a moment. The rain continued to fall behind me. My hands were frozen by this perpetual January. I pushed the door. The gatekeeper of San Vitale Basilica was standing beside a…

I think life is made up of small moments. Each of them is a journey in itself. We touch hundreds of lives in fractions of a second. I also think that life is often made of waits. I began to…

Will a new humanity arise from this pandemic? A more sensitive, more logical, more attentive humanity? I don’t think so. Call me disillusioned, sour, tired. In these months of post-isolation, I have often noticed various levels of reckless behaviour that existed…

And yet It is practically impossible to talk about Florence without sounding predictable, without mentioning Brunelleschi’s Chapel, Giotto’s Bell Tower, the Uffizi and the Arno River. It is difficult not to say things that have already been said by so…