1983, in Kathmandu
25 December 2016

1983, in Kathmandu

Sometimes, you meet people who leave you, for some reason, something you carry with you for the rest of your life.
A word, a movement, small things: I firmly believe that we all leave to other people, every now and then, this little unforgettable memories.
This does not make us special, but it somehow makes us eternal.
It’s 2005, I am in Panama and I go for a pizza with an Italian guy I just met in a hostel.
I tell him I was born in 1983, and he answers that in that same year he was walking barefoot in Durbar Square, Khathmandu. I can’t remember anything else of that night, not even his face, but since then I have always associated this city with his feet walking in a square I have never seen.
Eleven years later, Chiara and I are wearing shoes, and we got to Durbar Square by bicycle.
I think of Panama, I think of time, of the road of stories and my whole life becomes an amazing journey in space, among people, on words.
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