7,3 km/h

Will to arrive. Strain, english curiosity, greed. By now feet (or whatever those lumpy potatoes attached to my ankles had become) and legs are insensitive to strain and beauty (or uglyness, it depends). I keep on straightening the route, I go faster and skip some stops. If everything goes fine THE DAY AFTER TOMORROW I’m in Calais and leave France and the continent. It’s been four/five days now since not even the places I visit spur me to slow down (except for the Arras’ gang): insignificant fields, poor and ugly villages peopled by the unemployed miners’ grandsons, Commonwealth soldiers war cemeteries every ten km. On the other hand the weather is glorious: few white clouds, dry cold, wind blowing from the back. Headphones on, play and go, few photos, few chats; not even tea break, ’cause France costed me twice Italy (I tried to explain italian politics to Frenchs. They are astonished, find it hard to believe and, for solidarity, they complain about Sarkozy).

Apart from that I just followed that nice headless dog: he told me about an old fight in Prague, about his life which is a jumper, about that time he interviewed Dario Fo playing an three strings ukulele and counting to ten bullets; he also performed in hendecasyllabic, interrupted by Drugo’s laughter (a quantità infinite), by CSI, De Gregori, Capossela, an unusually out-of-tune Mozart who sings Summertime and by many other wonderful  discordant voices. In one word, radiocontromano. Thank You.


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