Recuerdos de un italiano en Londres-19

 

https://www.amazon.fr/Solo-como-una-piedra-Recuerdos-ebook/dp/B09Z6C5LKC/

La tranquila vida diaria de Oxford Street a veces se veia interrumpida por la aparición repentina y casi fugaz de los "contrabandistas".

Eran personas acechantes del este de Londres, menos malvadas y deshonestas de lo que su apodo podía suponer, que eran capaces de improvisar una venta en la calle de articulos de lujo falsos más adecuados para la comedia de Goldoni.

Por lo general, actuaban en grupos de cuatro, cada uno de ellos con un papel definido.

Llegaban a la calle Oxford en una hora topica (entre las 11.30 a.m. y las 16.p.m.) después de estacionar en su camioneta en una de las calles adiacentes. Por lo general, ocupaban un segmento de acera entre dos barras transversales; dos de ellos actuaban como postes en cada una de las dos intersecciones, por lo que nunca podría suceder que una patrulla se acercara inesperadamente y los otros dos dispusieran la caja con la mercancía en el centro del pavimento (perfumes, billeteras, bufandas, encendedores, relojes joyas, que variaban según los días, pero siempre eran marcas de lujo pero falsas).

Uno de ellos, el orador, sentado en una de las cajas de cartón, volcóada como asiento, elogiaba la calidad y el precio de los productos expuestos a la venta,, con voz exaltada en ese incomprensible dialecto de Londres, que a su vez era un espectáculo imperdible.

El cuarto compliz, el provocador, estaba colocado detrás de la multitud que regularmente se detenía alrededor del orador, atraída por ese espectáculo improvisado, y luego,  empujando el dinero, visible entre sus dedos, gritaba "... ¡Compro tres de ellos!" , "¡Quiero dos!", "¡Tomo cuatro de esos!" Arrastrando consigo a docenas de compradores que a veces daban el dinero sin siquiera saber lo que estaban comprando.

Una vez uno de los dos de guardia, consciente de la llegada de un par de bobbies, dio la alarma. En cuestión de cinco segundos, sin haber previamente tranquilizado a los clientes ocasionales sobre sus honestas intenciones, los bienes, el dinero y las cajas ya habían desaparecido, tragados desde el callejón frente a la dirección de llegada de los policías. Y después que la patrulla londinesa, completamente ignorante, desaparecia de la vista aguda de las guardias contrabandistas, en el mismo punto se iba  reformando el mercado de ventas fraudalentas. Y debe agregarse que la interrupción no le hizo mucho daño a los asuntos de la banda.

En reversa, el miedo que la banda mostraba de haber por la policia, ya sea cierto o falso, podría haber convencido a la gente de que los negocios propuestos tenían que ser muy rentables.

¡Qué bendita ingenuidad de los británicos y los turistas de Londres!

Recuerdo que mi padre solía contarme acerca de los sinvergüenzas napolitanos que vendían a los compradores ingenuos relojes de oro falso,  desde la época de la Segunda Guerra Mundial, fingiendo que eran el botín del último robo del siglo. Aunque todos conocen el Teatro Napolitano, es algo diferente de la comedia inglesa.

También recuerdo que Bob una vez me confesó que se había ganado de vivir en ese estilo, durante un tiempo, y que sabía que los que lo practicaban eran todos muy buenos chicos.

Recuerdos de un Italiano en Londres - 18

 

 

https://www.amazon.fr/Solo-como-una-piedra-Recuerdos-ebook/dp/B09Z6C5LKC/

The Evening News era en realidad solo una imitación del Evening Standard más famoso. Este último venìa publicado en múltiples ediciones desde las siete de la mañana. hasta altas horas de la noche, con una frecuencia entre las dos y las tres horas. De una edicion a otra, solo cambiaba la primera página para atraer a los lectores a noticias brillantes. Se distribuyìa con una red de distribución realmente fantástica.

Las entregas llegaban en una camioneta negra y amarilla, y desde allí, con el motor encendido, sin descender de la furgoneta, volaban los paquetes de periódicos.

The Evening Standard no tenía una fisonomía política precisa (al menos no en el sentido que los italianos le damos a esta expresión) y tal vez alternó su afinidad ideológica con los partidos políticos al gobierno en el cuerpo administrativo más grande de Londres: "The Great London Council" .

Todos esos vendedores me daban una impresión extraña: que siempre habían hecho ese trabajo. No solo por la voz sibilante que los caracterizaba, sino también por su ropa muy sucia. La piel de su cara se veía oscura, casi sucia, debido a la exposición al aire insalubre.

También me parecia que siempre tenìan fríos, incluso en verano, como si en sus huesos hubiera penetrado la humedad y el escalofriante aliento de las corrientes de aire heladas procedentes del Metro.

Usaban guantos que dejaban los dedos expuestos para agarrar fácilmente dinero y periódicos y se calentaban con una taza de té con leche que compraban en el bar más cercano.

A pesar de su aspecto, que en los días de intensa niebla se mezclaba con el paisaje circundante, convirtiéndose en un elemento característico, como las columnas rojas del Royal Mail, las cabinas telefónicas y los taxis negros, las sensaciones que transmitían eran muy positivas.

No digo que fueran alegres, pero puede ser joviales. Una serena y resignada jovialidad, como si la difusión de los acontecimientos londineses y del mundo entero, contenidos en sus periódicos, los hiciera impermeables a las emociones, colocándolos por encima de los acontecimientos humanos, como mensajeros imparciales de los dioses del subsuelo.

Cuando pasaba por allí, donde estaba trabajando, nunca faltaban de asentirme con simpatía, al mismo tiempo emitiendo un sonido que quería ser un "¿estás bien?", Pero uno solo podía escuchar un silbido, como el viento que había entrado en sus cuerpos, consistiendo en tres, tal vez solo dos sílabas, veladas en la garganta.

Recuerdos de un Italiano en Londres-15

 

https://www.amazon.fr/Solo-como-una-piedra-Recuerdos-ebook/dp/B09Z6C5LKC/

Una vez, por ejemplo, hubo una cola larga y ordenada de clientes que esperaban ser atendidos en la máquina de helados, hasta el borde exterior de la acera.

De repente, Bob dijo que tenía que ir y hacer una llamada telefónica. Y al decir esto, mostró a los clientes una moneda de diez peniques, manteniéndola en alto entre el pulgar y el índice de la mano izquierda y silbando, con el labio superior ligeramente curvado sobre los dientes, en una serie de disparos de glotis: “Me vuelvo en un minuto! “.

Después de que desapareció en la tienda intenté hacer mi mejor esfuerzo para servir a los clientes. Cuando regresó, viendo tanta gente todavía haciendo cola, me preguntó amablemente, para dejar de lado, trazando un semicírculo con su antebrazo izquierdo y tomó una docena de conos, él fue capaz de llenarlos todos girando hábilmente la mano debajo del grifo de helado, al mismo tiempo que manejaba la palanca con la mano derecha, y mientras yo luchaba para tener los  helados en ambas manos y distribuirlos, los clientes, lo miraban con admiración. Y parecía que estos clientes tendrían la magnitud, porque había más y más detrás de ellos, y el show de Bob se repitió hasta que la máquina pudo seguir refrigerando.

Pero cuando se mantuvo alejado por más tiempo, solía preguntarme, con un gesto significativo del índice frotado en su pulgar, si tenía billetes, a los que llamaba en su jerga graciosa “wonga”.

Fue en ese momento de mi primer noviciado en Londres cuando comencé a amar a los ingleses.

The real story of Patrick Winningoes-8

 

https://www.amazon.it/real-story-Patrick-Winningoes-Salvatore-ebook/dp/B0B244SFNQ/

How had succeeded, that strange old man, in transporting those visions down our sights, below the windows? The same visions I had still in my mind, being so fresh and real, we had just lived right that Friday of 9th November 1979 I was relating of!

We had walked silently. Sometimes we crossed some hasty passing or perceived, almost more than hear it, as a fleeting apparition, a car or a motorbike whose noise was spaced out slowly, as absorbed and diluted in the immensity of the surrounding silence. Turning around several times, after an indefinite time, that desert of dry leaves seemed to stop against an iron handrail.

From my point of observation, tall brushes of trees hid the horizon and I could only see, slightly swaying in the void, a green poster with the write “Winpey “in block red-dark characters.

I felt a pleasant excitement throughout my body. A feeling that immediately was of lightness. A desire to let my body flow in the air, toward that poster, flying the sky.

. As we went down the stairway, the view, under of us, revealed his real contours.

That poster, that seemed to me like suspended in the air from my previous point of view, was the summit of the tall pylon of a crane that laid in the center of an immense housing estate.

I watched again toward that write and noticed that it was hacked against a loaded leady sky with no change of tonality. A dark and heavy vault until my eyes could see.

To find the access of the yard, that occupied a wide place in the centre of a crossroad, we walked for an half along his perimeter. The thick tables that bounded it were interspaced of half an inch, around through numerous working machines were glimpse: diggers, shovels, concrete mixers, kneaders, all firm, as dead animals, in the most total silence.

The entrance was exactly on the opposite side of the inn from where, for the first time, I had perceived the pylon of the crane. We reached it, after a quick and silent walk. Between working machines and shovels, heaps of sand and piles of sacks of cement, bricks, lumbers, irons and utensils, we noticed a small cottage of red plate that was almost in the centre of the building yard. We were approaching there when a small door was opened out of the shed.

- «Hello boys!» - A gentleman said sorting out. - « Can I help you?»-.

His voice was cordial and happy. It seemed he was talking to well known persons.

-« Is there any need of some workers?»- George did him without preambles and also laughing.

We stopped a little closer and so I had the opportunity to better observe him: he looked quite a lot peaky, making a net contrast with the strong black of the hair. He dressed with elegance a brown suit on a white shirt with a red and black cravat.

- « I would not mind at all » - the man replied in the former jovial tone -«but our firm assumes only through the agency. Now I will give you the address so you can go and see there. There are good hopes. Follow me in to the office, please» -, he spurred on, seeing us so undecided.

The office looked like the building field. As matter of fact inside there were numerous buckets full of hammers, chisels, pickets, waterlevels, trowels and other mason utensils.

Once inside, Mr. Joking (that’s was the name he had introduced himself, asking us in turn our names) immediately passed beyond a desk loaded on with papers, different samples of colored tiles and some minute utensils . He scrutinized us for a long while.

-« Where do you come from?» - He asked after a careful examination, dissuading his look.

-«From Italy»- responded promptly George, preceding me.

We seemed to overcome his examination, because he smiled in a satisfied way.

-«Here is your agency’s address» - he said after scribbling some lines on a piece of paper, - «and good luck!»-, added while was handing the note to George!

We had not even had the time to read it that we heard a strong aloud voice:

"-Old Pat doesn't stand people pronouncing his name and that of his Agency in a wrong way and above all he doesn't bear to be told any lies. If you do it, you won't have any job from him."

Then, turning to Mr Joking he added:

- "Sir Patrick the Hanger Winnin’goes again, doesn’t he?" - Only later on we had to realize that the big man we saw rudely laughing, turning a look back on our shoulders, was not misgiving English language at all, as he willingly wanted but to stress the wrong verb, like he really did.

George stood perplexed, with the note in his hand, now looking the big man, who was still laughing, now Mr. Joking, who seemed rather embarrassed than enjoyed.

I walked closer when I saw him reading the note. On a single line the note said:

"Pat Winningoes - Gehenna Geld", and nothing else.

-" Strange names, the last two. They sound quite German" -, George exclaimed by low voice.

- "He has not even put the telephone number. Shall we ask for it?" -, I said.

-" We might take a look for it on the telephone guide. Still if it really does exist" -,

George murmured. putting the note in his pocket while sorting out the cottage. We walked out without even greeting, with fast and nervous footsteps. Before reaching the exit of the yard, nevertheless, we heard a man’s call.

-« Hey, wait a moment, please!.» Mr. Joking came rushing slightly breathing towards us.

- «Do not pay attention to Big Joe, please! He is a joker» - he added gently smiling like he had made the first time, with a tone of reassuring voice.

«Come over with me, please» -, he said driving us over the exit .

- «You cross the road in that direction and take straightly the avenue you have in front; then, taking the third street on your left, that can’t be wrong, you will see a big door in dark wood. There is the agency. Go in….. and...... good luck»!.

He had spoken all of a breath and in so convincing way that we had already forgotten Big Joe and his strange former laughing . The avenue that Mr Joking had pointed us, was really the third crossroad on the left. It was a blind, wide and short alley.

At the bottom a massive dark wood doorway stand out, occupying all the breath of the street..

More than the entry of a job’s agency, it seemed to be as the entrance of a rich and luxurious residence. A few steps in marble lead to an extraordinarily glimmering atrium, to whose sides were risen, also in marble, two mighty columns.

George, walking the steps, almost was very close to stumble. He restored immediately his equilibrium, murmuring an annoyed "My goodness!" and looking on the bottom of his shoes, like searching there the cause of the accident.

The wind was blowing more insistently, and formed in the alley a strong eddy, violently shaking above the front door a rectangular poster which was bestowed with some scotch tape, held out against the wind on a unique side. With my right hand I stopped it on the front door. We read there, in a clear handwriting and cursive characters:

"London Trickery and Illusion Centre."

- «But where the hell did they send us?» -said George looking at me.

- «’I do not know!» -, I answered, releasing the side of the poster, which retook immediately to wave.

- «They made a joke of us, those two braggarts!» -, I told him with angry voice. Then turning to my companion - «Didn't we make a mistake by wrongly counting the crossroads?.» I said returning back on our steps to check in.

- «Come soon to have a look, please!»-, cried George in that while, with excited tone of voice.

I returned quickly on my footsteps and drew close to him. With the right hand he stopped the poster on the front door and surprisingly I could read on it this time - "Pat Winningoes - Geenna Geld Agency - 1st Floor."

-«What devil of history is this? »-, I told George, who was looking at me in a mocking way, with the right hand still fixing the poster on the door.

-« The history is all here» -, he answered. And with emphatic gestures as a conjurer who discloses an amazing trick to the public, he turned the poster from a side to another, showing the different writings we had read on it just a little before. I turned it for a couple of times, as to make myself convinced, while George was already pushing the other half of the front door.

Recuerdos de un Italiano en Londres-13

https://www.amazon.fr/Solo-como-una-piedra-Recuerdos-ebook/dp/B09Z6C5LKC/

Pero si Soho es el corazón palpitante de Londres de noche, el turismo es el gran negocio en el resto del West End: un gran centro comercial y comodidades en cuyas venas corre un río infinito de personas, motorizadas y con dinero, que atrae a un reemplazo continuo de nueva vida de las arterias invisibles del inmenso metro subterráneo de la metrópoli de Londres. La presencia de esta masa de plancton metropolitano había permitido en esas calles el surgimiento de una variada fauna de vendedores, incluidos los puestos de frutas, que se establecían principalmente a lo largo de Oxford Street. Sus frutos, tan hermoso y llamativo que parecian falsos, se destacaban más por la calidad y la forma que por la cantidad. Los "vendedores de fruta" en realidad vendían a los transeúntes, lo habitual para un "almuerzo rápido", o para turistas ocasionales, una manzana roja californiana, una "Granny Smith" sudafricana verdosa o incluso un pomelo siciliano, un plátano o , quizás, al más sofisticado, un avogadro cortado en dos mitades, provisto de sal y cuchara de plástico. Mientras que las pocas amas de casa o restauradores en la zona, que se encuentran en la calle Berwick cercana, encuentraban precios más baratos y mejores opciones. La "London Fruits Sellers Company" (de la que dependían estos vendedores de frutas en particular) era sin duda una empresa con todos los documentos adecuados: permisos de comercialización municipales; Licencia de ocupación de suelo público; tarjeta de seguro médico e incluso pagos regulares y sustanciales al Gran Socio Estatal: el voraz Fiscal de la Corona. La cumbre corporativa estaba compuesta casi en su totalidad de financieros judíos, eternos y expertos, siempre en busca de inversiones y ganancias, mientras que la organización en el campo, por así decirlo, estaba en manos de los ingleses. Todos los vendedores ingleses venían del barrio "East London", una ciudad en la ciudad, el mejor Londres, para aquellos que eran legítima y auténticamente londinenses.

La concentración en el este del Támesis de los descendientes de los antiguos habitantes de Londinium había ido junto con la expansión de la capital inglesa.

Expulsado hacia el este por la ampliación del núcleo antiguo de la ciudad (así como de Holborn, Seven Dials y Covent Garden), que se convertirá en los siglos en la rica milla cuadrada, desalojada del oeste para hacer espacio a ricos y lucrativos edificios, la gente más pobre de Londres encontró refugio cada vez más en el lado este de la ciudad, fusionándose con los descendientes de los hugonotes, los judíos, los romaníes y los ingleses más pobres de la actualidad, mudandose a Clerkenwell, Finsbury, Shoreditch, Wapping, Limehouse, Hoxton, Stepney, Bethnal Green, Whitechapel, Shadwell, Aldgate, Millwall, Hackney, Rotherhithe, Mile End e Bow, que se convirtieron en otro Londres, el único real y original, en contraste con los ricos y turistas de Londres. Y mientras Harrod's, Selfridges, Marks y Spencer y los bancos más grandes de Londres estaban ubicados donde una vez ellos vivieron, encontraron refugio en el East End, lejos de la caótica y contaminada Nueva Frontera. Y cuando cruzaban esa cortina invisible que los protegía hacia el este, entraban en la "Ciudad" o la "Ciudad", pero Londres ya estaba detrás.

The real story of Patrick Winningoes-5

 

https://www.amazon.it/real-story-Patrick-Winningoes-Salvatore-ebook/dp/B0B244SFNQ/

While I was trying to go further in what the man had told of his personal story he took back with sad voice to tell his tale.

 

«I apologize for talking in a such confused mess. Before continuing telling you of my son it would be better to resume what happened first. At the age of twenty one, after a long journey and appropriate studies, I started some peculiar experiments on the human brain. I felt that I had to create a super brain in order to be reproduced and form a race of super-men able to drive on the right direction this dreg of humanity that inhabits the world. After all I had to consider that the brain of every living being contains, even though modified by the evolution, the original matrix of our existence.

After some rough attempts of surgical engineering, that occupied me for different years, whose initial success and following disappointed bitterness, almost led me to abandon the whole project, it was the fate to intervene and to point out the right way to me.

Which kind of proof would I more need to wait for? The same celestial stars directly showed me the way!

A beautiful day, in fact, while I was observing under the microscope a cat’s brain, ulterior, fortunate guinea-pig, subtracted to the deprivations of its life for the glory of the Science, an amazing account happened to me.

I had set the small feline’s organ in a cylindrical open neck test-tube and I was continuously thinking about it, looking as usual for a sprout of understanding on its complex and mysterious composition. At a certain point, needing something to eat, I went upstairs. I left unwillingly open the microscope’s focus. I was going to have a cup of tea, with my daily survival meal.

 

As I returned downstairs I immediately noticed that something strange had happened during my brief absence.  In the test-tube the brain of the cat had dried, acquiring a grey and pale color.

I extracted it with the pliers: it seemed a dry sponge without neither weight nor smell. What devil had it happened?  It was a gust of wind which answered to me.

In that underground where I secretly developed my experiments, I had not left but a small window, that I wanted surfaced to the level of the ground.  It had slightly disclosed, quiet enough to allow the passage of a provident ray of sun which, intruding the optic circuit of the microscope, had poured in with all its mighty energy, dehydrating completely the object of my experiments.

 

But my light, initial disappointment had soon to be transformed in high exultation, when I closer observed the test-tube that had served like furnace to that unforeseen experiment. On its fund rested some drops of a dense and glimmering liquid! I had a lightning, an intuition that afterwards had to be exactly revealed.

Admirably exact, my friends! I had found the way to extract from the muscle that includes our life, from the brain that contains all the knowledge of a human being, its own essence. An extract, a summary, that is the same, but free from the physical brain’s encumbrance, from the grey mash that comprises it. Free from the flesh as a soul is free from his body as an idea from his thinker as a thought from his action!

 

As you certainly know all our mental energy springs by a simple chemical reaction that is continuously produced in our brain. Such reaction, that the physicians define with the name of “synapse”, is originated by the reaction between the liquid whose any  brain is imbued and the cells it copiously contains. In practice this liquid, that has equal molecular structure in every man, works as a tracing detector of the cerebral process, whose action is, instead, what countersigns a man from another.

 

The intimate reasons for such different action of the cerebral processing, have seen divided for a long time the humanity. Manhood has however been until now incapable to intend the true reason for the difference of the beings of its species.  A human being, from the scientific point of view, it is only a product of a casual connection of the basically chemical mixtures that are contained in the cells. And all its activity is coordinated by the cerebral cells.

To succeed on obtaining a distillate of those cells, meant therefore to dispose of a substance of inestimable value.

 

At the beginning I thought to try his reproduction, but actually this would have been only an interesting and suggestive detour from my principal aim.

In order to reach it I had to gather all my efforts, and the results of that first experiments constituted the base of my following job.

First of all it was clear that the cerebral muscle, under particular conditions of temperature and environment, like those which took accidentally place that prophetic day in my laboratory, released a particular, liquid and dense substance, containing the fundamental geniuses, that I call primaries; those which are responsible of the most intimate and proper characters of the race.

 

It was also evident that such substance appeared able to be moved into another brain, creating there a new habitat in which to regenerate its cells and with them repurchase its functions and its aboriginal characters.

I verified more times the exactness of these hypotheses, but only in a direction, that I define evolutionary. The experiment only succeeded if the essence of a superior animal, in the steps of the evolutionary chain, was introduced in the brain of an inferior animal, while in the other way down, the phenomenon took place in a lesser and very attenuated tone deprived of significant consequence.

 

I baptized the liquid essence ‘nouchefalon ', and I prepared hence myself to develop in the foreseen direction my experiments.  What would it happen if I transfused some ‘human nouchefalon ' in to the brain of another man?”

 

 

 

 

To Brexit or not to Brexit - 2

I want to spend a few words in favour of British people, whatever might be the decision on Brexit (it seems yes, since now, but you never know).
That's a decision who is up on British governement and I'll respect it, whatever it might be.
British people are good people. I know English people more than Irish and more than Scottish, even more than Welsh people. And I'm sure that English people are good people.
If some of them have thought to go out of European Union they might have good reasons.
British people are not selfish people; but they are not silly nor stupid.
May be they are simply fed up with this kind of European Union. And so am I.
Of course I would be glad if Great Britain would stay with us to fight against European burocracy in order to change EU.
I still remain a believer in European Union, I mean in the Union of all European people to be happier and whealthier together. I feel all the European people are brothers and they must increase this brotherhood creating a common market, a common governement and sharing a unique flag without renouncing to their peculiarity and their identity.
I dream of the United State of Europe with the United Kingdom, that means with English, Welsh, Scottish and irish people.
I have this dream and I'm not going to give it up.

London for ever - 29

Michelle was a Parisian girl. The two had met in London and had always been together. Her charm was not the ordinary allurement that usually circles  on long-limbed French girls, a bit diaphanous, with the features of their faces eternally ingenuous and gentle.

 It derived instead from her rather cheerful and carefree air, symptomatic of those who can live day by day, with no particular moods linked to sentimental events, work issues, or perhaps existential complications. Much more than her  attitude of disenchanted non-chalance, if not of deliberately informal and countercurrent behavior, it was astonishing the  contrast with the almost serious and formal behavior that Giampiero was going through even more than the hated bourgeois he declared to be still in fight with.

Michelle, on the other hand, was a painter and earned her living by selling her paintings and making portraits in Portobello and the other large London-based large markets; Her attendance allowed Giampiero not to lose all contact with a certain kind of culture and alternative minds, to which, though not in the depths of his being, he had been tied.

– “Whoever does not die,  comes alive, soon or later!” Giampiero said to the phone, returning my greeting, “What have you done all this time?”

– “I found a pub that resembles an amphitheater!” I said laughing- “and tonight performs a Rock band with square balls. What do you say?”

– “I say we were thinking about going down the corner to have a drink; But the idea of ​​a bit of good music would be even better. But where are you? “He asked then translating from English, as he sometimes did speaking Italian.

– “I’m here in Paddington Station, in a newspaper store”.

-” I get it. From Notting Hill is a step away. Wait for me to come. Maybe even with Michelle and a Parish friend who comes to visit us. I’ll see you right away!”

29. to be continued…

Memoirs of London - 6

In 1979 I was back on the road to work for the B.B.C., a company that, apart from the initials of its name, had nothing else to share with British state television. In fact, the Benjamin Building Company did not afflict people with boring programs, neither it  talked with shameless lies about national and international political events. Finally my Company did not even put its nose in the lives of the Queen and the other members of the Royal Family,  generally speaking.

The company I worked for delighted their customers  by selling ice cream and drinks, logistically relying on a chain’s shop of souvenirs, sweets and tobacco’s  strategically located at several points in the great London area known as West End.

 This vast and famous London metropolitan area, which also includes Soho district and numerous small and large parks, is bordered by a perimeter that runs through the important streets of Oxford Street, Charing Cross Rd, Shaftesbury Av and Regent's Street, forming an irregular trapeze whose four tops pass from Tottenham Court Rd to Oxford Circus; from there to Piccadilly Circus and  finally end at Leicester Square, couple of yards   from Trafalgar Square, where Admiral Nelson's statue, according to the likely intentions of the public authorities who wanted it so powerfully high, witnessed  the  British’s greatness and glory to all those who would walk from there: French people, foreigners  and British from all over the Empire.

 In those years, the greatness and glory of England, after the almost total depletion of the British Empire,  seemed more remote and far from the statue of the great conductor of the seas. And nostalgia, it’s all over known, is a feeling that more acutely manifests itself, when the best times are over and  a crisis is bound to come.

 And that Great Britain was in crisis at the end of the seventies of the twentieth century, it immediately became apparent also to the "street traders" who, living among the people, felt the moods of the average citizen in an emotionally direct way.

 On the street, they felt discomfort and nervousness, though the real troubles were still to come, shortly thereafter, with the irresistible rise to power of the Conservatives headed by Margareth Tatcher (later known as the “Iron Lady"), which would mark the end of a cycle in London's administrative life, characterized by a policy of traditional securing of democratic freedoms and sympathy for the weaker social classes.

Moreover, the English metropolis had represented since the rising of the first music liberation and protest groups (born on the wave of the American Hippies movement, also known as the "beat generation") a decisive cultural reference point, helping to make London the Capital of the Rock Movement, where refugees disappointed by the illusion of the failed revolution of 1968, could find a safe refuge escape from the backflow of the reaction which  had gone through  the whole world.

And it was right there, in London, that they could still see the last glow of brightness before its definite sunset. So, in a good way, I agreed to resume my job and sell ice-creams and drinks in the street. By my side I had a refrigerating machine that turned milk into ice cream and a refreshing machine dispensing orange and lemonade.

Where  else could I work, let alone  the road? And to do what? Maybe to get into some office with air conditioning in the summer, heating in the winter, and the stench of paperwork under my nose? There was no other world for me, now, if not that; no other destiny, no other life I could have wanted, than the free life  of street's traders.

 Returning to the road meant for me to relive from the very beginning my adventure in that mysterious and fascinating city that, unfortunately and superficially, is too often considered cold and inhospitable, considering also that never or almost never come into you get a direct contact with English or British people.

 This story is devoted to London and to the dear places where I have lived in.  But it is also dedicated to all the peoples that those places with such variety and vivacity animated in those years who will pass through the main scene of my story: the streets of London.

6. to be continued...

Thank you Lords

It  invites us to a serious reflection the amendment the Lords have inserted in  the Brexit bill in order to protect three millions of EU citizens, working and living in UK, after Artcle 50 is triggered.

What I expected  was to be done by the  House of Commons It has been done instead by the House of Lords.

It is a widespread belief, even abroad, that  Lords are  people of privileges,  living in the past,  insensitive and rich enough to snub all the rest of the world, indifferent to anybody'else problems.

I don't know if that's true.

What I know for sure it's that yesterday 358 (against 256) of them vote an amendment to secure the acquired rights of 3 millions of EU citizens living in UK.

But why such a vote is surprising?

I'll try to answer this question.

In my opinion as the Commoners were afraid  to lose the political consent by the voters, they voted, on both fronts (tories and labs) giving carte blanche to Government on Brexit bill.

The sad truth is that inspite we rant about democracy, a forum of no elected people (The Lords, as matter of fact) remember the world, with their amendment,  the real basis of morality and principles of human rights.

And in times of trumps, lepens and various despots, pushed by blind populism, it's not really a poor thing.

And anyway, I told you  various times that London is forever. 

Brexit

The referendum which will ask all British people to express if they want to stay in the European Union or not has been called by Premier  D. Cameron for June 23rd (it will be on a thursday).
The voters have to say if on their opinion is better for UK to proceed on Its own through the enigmatic and crucial challenges  this epoch of globalisation is putting forward the western states, specially the more advanced and reachest, including the mass of poor people moving from Asia and Africa on the routes of a search of a better life.
Though Great Britain has an important political and economic background, mostly due to its colonial heritage, it's a relatively small country compared with the emerging colusses such as China, India and Brazil.
I'm personally convinced that the European Union must tighten its politic bonds to form a stronger political union capable to face the increasing and rising economies of the globalized new world.
Nevertheless, though I'm fond of the British culture (both of english and scottish and even of Irish), I've alawys seen London very uncertain on the path of European integration.
And I could say the same for Paris (of course for different reasons from Great Britain).
But now we are coming to a turning point.
I see on the next future a double scenario: if Great Britain decides to go out, the other partner will probably tighten closely trying to find new strengh and new reasons to stay together; if, vice versa, British voters call for staying also in this case the other partners will ask Great Britain to abandon its hesitation, which has often trespassed into ambiguity.
1. to be coninued...

Like a film story

Sound really like a movie-story the facts narrated  in  the autobiography of the Rolling Stones's guitarrist Keith Richards as DM on line reports today (please see the link below ).
Standing to that report, in the late sixties the MI6 (all together with a specialized sction of the the american FBI) asked a quick wit man, named at that time David Sneiderman, to join the british rock group in order to set them to the Justice through the provider of different drugs (specially acids, from which the informant has been named since then King Acid).
As matter of fact the man, died in 2004, became the best Rolling Stones 's dealer and organized with his employers a trap in the Keith Richards's house in Redlands during a heavy drug party he had adequately provided.
When the Police ran in the house, King Acid was not in.
-"He was the only one to escape the arrest"- reminds Keith Richards in his book- " and that's why, since then, I've been quite sure he had been the police's informant!".
Now I understand the reason why in those years I liked better the Beatles.
To learn more on this:

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1323236/emailArticle.html