One Apple A Day #85
It’s a small bar. All white and minimal. It’s the new generation of the village’s bar typical of this part of Italy.
Every village, even the smallest ones, have their central bar. The ones where the inhabitants meet after the function on Sunday morning.
And where the workers have their “aperitivo” before heading home for dinner with the family.
It’s Saturday mid-afternoon, the air is hot and humid. My clothes are stick to the skin, not the best setting to sit and write.
But the bar has all the doors open, and a small breeze runs through the tables making the inside of the place more comfortable.
It’s the end of May, and in Italy, it means that in almost every public place the TV’s are set on the Giro d’Italia. A few people, all men, are staring at the screen.
There is something epic about cyclists and the long bike races divided in more days.
I remember when I was a university student. With a few friends, we used to gather at the house of the grandmother of one of us to watch the “Giro”.
She lived near the university, so we didn’t waste any instants. She used to give us biscuits, and we sit everywhere to watch the race.
Saturday there was no lesson at the university. I used to watch the race with my dad at home. It was one of our few shared hobbies.
He had always worked a lot, at that time I didn’t understand his dedication to work. I would understand it only later when it was a bit too late.
But, cycling has always been something we shared. We used to sit in the kitchen, after my dad afternoon nap. We didn’t talk much, but I cherish those moments.
It was the era of Pantani and races was exciting. Then I grew up, I went on with my life, and we didn’t watch together the cycling races anymore.
Now I’m here, trying to write something but it’s hard. The TV is broadcasting the race, and I feel like when I was with my dad. He is sitting on a chair, and I’m crouched on the floor.