Despite the pouring rain and the storm which has been blowing since last night, the morale is high as I have to do only a few miles downhill to get to Gavoi, the birthplace of grandmother and father. This time I cannot fly downhill because the wind is likely to throw me down, and the tarmac is very wet. It takes me 18 minutes instead of probably 10 or less.
Gavoi is home. Both physical, our house on via Roma, and mental. Gavoi has been so many times a place of escape, rest, inspiration. Today more than ever.
Great reception of the municipal administration, the mayor Giovanni and his deputy Enrico. Visit at the exhibition World Press Photo Exhibition 2018. Huge, very strong, destabilizing, heartbreaking, beautiful, very sad, incredible. A million points to the organization and to those who brought it here.
Gavoi today is gray and wet but the view from the old police station is very impressive, the clouds on the top of the mountains, the lake of Gusana in the distance, the roofs of the houses and the bell tower of Santa Rughe that stands out and oversees the town.
Finally, my concert at the recently inaugurated Museo del Fiore Sardo, organized by the municipal administration. I play my bass ukulele, with which I start to get a little confidence. Beginning with some existing piece of mine, then I show my manuscript paper Moleskine, and I premiere a few fragments written in these early days: Nuoro, Oliena, Sarule. Very warm audience in a special place.
End of the day with an aperitif in S’Istentu and dinner at the legendary Osteria Borello where Rossano spoils us with first choice meat and excellent red wine.
SARDINIAN SHORT STORIES
Fanny, 104, has not returned to his home town Gavoi. She now lives in Cagliari, and talking about Gavoi means sadness, her youth, her memories, the impossibility of seeing it again. At the age of 100, Fanny reunited the family to reveal her secret: for 40 years she wrote poetry, for herself, hidden in a drawer and never read to anyone. At a certain point she felt she had to share her thoughts, perhaps to pass on her experience to the youngest of her descendants. At 100, Fanny wanted her poems to see an even greater light, she wanted to see them published. Then children and grandchildren had a lot to do, sorting, revisions, contacts with publishers, proofreading, images cover, and finally print. Fanny publishes her first book at the age of 100. Even today she asks how many copies are being sold, she has the dream that they are translated into English and sold abroad, and sometimes she is found in her chair in Cagliari to reread them, always with a pencil in hand, you never know that there be something to correct, to refine or to rewrite.