ANDREA CABASSI

LET ME INSIST

I changed my life at 40

Translated from Italian by Sofia Cangiano

Preface by Devis Baldi

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Copyright © Andrea Cabassi, 2019All rights reserved

Credits:Preface author: Devis Baldi — Poggibonsi, ItalyEnglish translation: Sofia Cangiano — New York City, USAProofreading: Roberto Montacuti — Norfolk, UKCover photo: Elisa Lazzarotti — Parma, Italy — www.eloisaphoto.comAll trademarks mentioned are property of their respective companies.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the Author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews, in which the Author must be credited.

This is an autobiographical story based on true events. The names of the characters have been initialized, changed or rendered unrecognizable to protect their privacy.

First edition: October 2019ISBN: 979-12-200-4432-5First published in Italian on January 2018Original title and subtitle (Italian): Permettimi d’insistere — Ho cambiato vita a 40 anni

www.andreacabassi.com

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Selected Harmonies

Have you ever experienced friendship at first sight?A travel coordinator for adventure tours knows for sure that

in the preparatory weeks before a departure, he’ll get dozens of phone calls from strangers who don’t give a hoot about the type of trip they are about to take or the itinerary. They just want to know who their fellow travelers will be. It’s one of those unescapable truths; like death and taxes. On one of the many mornings in July 2015, that question arose, as punctual as a Swiss watch: “Hi, Devis! I’m Andrea from Parma. Listen… I was looking into the trip to Zanzibar. Who are the other five people already enrolled?” Considering that four of those people were halves of a couple (a notoriously unattractive combination for singles traveling with strangers), I’m not sure what answer I gave, or which of my interlocutor’s subconscious motivational buttons I pushed, but a few days later Andrea had signed up!

On day one of our Zanzibar trip we traveled by sea from Dar Es Salaam to Stone Town. On the ferry we were crushed like canned sardines but Andrea and I were lucky enough to find a spot on the deck, where we hugged the railing, our legs dangling above the water. We watched the waves break on the ship’s bow as the ferry slowly approached the island, and we got to know each other. Andrea told me he had decided to drop everything and everyone and move from Italy to Dubai. The Zanzibar trip represented a transition between his past and his future.

The next day, in order to jolly up the group, Andrea and I improvised an a cappella performance of the Beach Boys’ Surfin’ USA, singing and dancing on the bow of a battered barge, heading towards Prison Island where we’d pay homage to the centenarian turtles. In that moment, for the first time, I felt the harmony that

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would, thereafter, tie me to this guy with a double loop; the first of many moments of pure empathy. It was friendship at first sight.

A year later, in July 2016, I got the sick idea to visit him in Parma during one of his rare hit and run trips to Italy, far from Dubai. I found a deserted city where the temperature was 38 degrees Celsius in the shade. As we walked along the central streets, I had the sensation I was about to evaporate. We found shelter in an air-conditioned restaurant. Safe at last! While we waited for our food, Andrea began telling me about his latest experiences in the Emirates. That was the moment, between jokes and serious talk, when I told him: “You know, you could write a book!”

Andrea’s face suddenly lit up as if awakening from a primor-dial slumber…

“What is genius after all? It’s creativity, intuition, willpower, and speed of execution.”1

“I’m going to do it and you’re going to write the preface!” We sat looking at each other in silence for about ten seconds, with lumps in our throats, neither of us able to utter a word. Our eyes shone with euphoria. We raised our beers and toasted to a new beginning — the “clink” spoke for us — the decision was made.

You won’t find any existential answers in Let Me Insist, but you’ll find important questions that most of us are too paralyzed by fear to ask, although consciously or unconsciously we may already know the answers. Do I feel satisfied in my current situation? Am I capable of dropping everything and changing my life? How would I tell my loved ones that I’m leaving? What about my job? How can I start a new life at my age? These and many similar questions have run through every adult’s mind at least once. But only the fearless have the guts to answer them. Let’s be clear: There are no right answers to questions like these. Each

1 Original text: “Cos’è il genio? È fantasia, intuizione, decisione e velocità d’esecuzione.” Amici miei, Mario Monicelli movie, 1975.

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of us experiences a unique life journey, with unique aspirations, anguish, desires, and anxieties. But we all have a sense of direction in our search for the right path to well-being. With this in mind, we can find fulfillment anywhere in the world, even at home. We can find it by gazing into the eyes of an elder, rejoicing in a child’s smile, sailing across the seas or even plucking a fresh flower on a warm spring day. Everywhere, even in our own backyard.

Courage. You need a lot of it to uproot your life, but you need just as much courage to stay where you are, not out of fear but either through a conscious choice to build something or through a need to protect someone or something. Travel. I believe it is one of the best ways to find and regenerate yourself while discovering the world.

I recently had the pleasure of expressing these thoughts to Andrea who is still on the move, still not satiated. Like many of his readers, he probably finds travel the optimal way to quench his thirst for life and get to know himself. It’s an experience no one should avoid. Perhaps, one day, each of us will decide to settle down where we are; but only after a journey of self-discovery, when we have reached a place of well-being, will that decision fulfill us.

I hope you will read this book while breathing deeply, and may you reach the last pages with your mind slightly more open, understanding which path to take.

Now, let’s get comfortable and turn the light off on our worries.

Let’s dream.Let’s go.

Devis Baldi, September 2017

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To my sister and my brother-in-law

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While we are postponing, life speeds by.Seneca, Moral Letters to Lucilius

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ANDREA CABASSI

LET ME INSIST

I changed my life at 40

Translated from Italian by Sofia Cangiano

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Do you have plans tonight?

Riyadh, Saudi Arabia — August 3rd, 2016. A few minutes past four in the afternoon. My flight to Dubai has now been delayed by five hours. Five-hour delay. This sucks!

Who knows when we’ll leave? An airplane caught fire on the landing strip. Fortunately, no one was hurt but the airport has been closed since noon. No one is going anywhere, and no one knows anything. Will getting angry make the plane leave any sooner? The information desk agent is in no position to make predictions. We smile at each other for no reason. He wears braces on his teeth and a huge leaf of parsley (or maybe lettuce) is stuck between them. Thirty minutes feels like three hours. Have you ever endured a long layover at Riyadh airport? Kiosks sell fluorescent food and monochromatic coffee against a backdrop of cream-colored walls and ceilings, over a slippery floor with a boring geometric design. It’s a pain in the ass (my ass).

I’ve already checked my e-mail, finished that urgent report, completed the online course I’d been avoiding, and I’ve counted all the floor tiles in the airport. Fourteen thousand, nine hundred and twelve. Three guys from who-knows-where are playing Uno next to me. You know, that game with strange colorful cards. You have to shout “Uno!” when you play your second-to-last card. The muezzin is calling to prayer for the fourth time since I got here. It’s so hot outside even the sun is sweating, and it’s so cold inside I almost expect it to snow. The windows sweat a mix of condensation and sand. I chat with a Palestinian man on his way to Jordan who leaves (lucky him) with a “God bless you”. I should be annoyed but I’m happy and start laughing. It’s time! Nothing happens by chance.

Let me explain. Since my return to Dubai has apparently been postponed to

the future perfect (a future more in the future than the future

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itself), you know what I’m going to do? I’m going to write my book. The one I’ve been thinking about for a long time. The one I mentioned to Devis back in the Parma dog days. This book! At least I’ll start.

I was really good with numbers in school, but I sweat bullets in Italian class and never did better than a grade of “D”. I ran at the mere mention of Greek or Latin. No wonder I chose the Agricultural Institute. This is my revenge or, perhaps, my surrender. Can you imagine? Me? Writing a book?

A year and a half ago, I told myself that I was happy. Then I realized I was lying. During a suffocating July weekend, I found the courage to turn my life around and, so far, the one-eighty-degree turn has been successful. In the beginning it was very difficult. A mammoth task at times. At least for the moment I’m a content person, an aspiring euphoric, closer to happiness than ever before. Many people complain about being unhappy, but can’t or won’t do anything about it. It would be amazing if sharing my experiences of the past eighteen months could help someone find the strength to dive into a new life. What if I invited you to dinner and told you everything?

Turn the page. Let’s go. I’m buying.

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Menu

AperitivoLambrusco and a dreamer’s ciccioli

(Who I was and my state of mind before deciding to change my life)

AntipastoHand-sliced cooked pork shoulder with

torta fritta and doubts mostarda(Turmoil during the decision-making phase)

PrimoAnolini in a jujube broth (The post-decision effect)

SecondoA traveler’s juicy equine roast

(The wonders of preparing for departure)

Dessert Crunchy tart with non-alcoholic nocino

(The sensation of the departure and adjusting to Dubai)

Caffè sbagliatoSpiked coffee

(The thrill of living abroad)

AmmazzacaffèA brave man’s sburlone

(Pros and cons of changing life)

Digestive Stroll(Who I am and how I feel now — a year after — including a

grand finale digression on leaving vs. escaping)

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Have you read the menu? Of course we’re in Parma, what did you think? It’s my city and it’s full of beautiful people. There’s no point denying that — barring exceptions — the average Parmesan people are quite reserved, not the sort you’d befriend a minute after you meet them, but we Parmigiani have hearts as big as the moon. In our city, art, culture, and cuisine blend wonderfully and a grandmother’s wellbeing is measured by her ability to seat everyone at the table. A few slices of prosciutto are all it takes to make romance, business deals, and long conversations blossom. After all, Parma was recognized by UNESCO for its gastronomic creativity. Parma is the capital of the Food Valley. People who are born around Parma have a passion for happiness!

Byron wrote that a man’s happiness depends a great deal on what he eats. Food for the stomach and food for the soul, of course.

Continue reading the excerpt or buy the complete book here: https://amzn.to/2nmeoIe

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Aperitivo

Lambrusco and a dreamer’s ciccioli(Who I was and my state of mind before

deciding to change my life)

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Happiness is the mental or emotional state of those who consider all their desires fulfilled

(Wikipedia says so too)

Winter 2015. In Parma, the last three days of January are traditionally known as giorni della merla, blackbird days, the coldest days of the year. The church of San

Giovanni was nearly deserted and freezing. We were four people in total, including the celebrant. Heating? None available. I find it hypocritical to go to church only at Christmas, so I don’t go at all, but here I was, at the six-thirty mass on a Wednesday afternoon. I lit three candles, found a seat nearby in the fourth row and placed my sweaty palms between my nervous legs. Just ahead of me, an elderly woman sat in the front line, her grey hair tinged with lilac and gathered in a bun. She must have weighed 70 kgs or so, and she wore a green cardigan over a blue skirt with compression socks. A bored, skinny boy sat next to her, most likely her grandson. Balding Don Marcello was behind the altar in his priestly robes and priestly thick, horn-rimmed glasses. He turned off the microphone. We could hear him just as well without it.

I was looking for useful answers to useless questions. My life wasn’t running at its best, and I needed to find out which gears to grease for a more fluid ride. I have never been able to concentrate in church, so after five or six minutes, my own thoughts took over and I was oblivious.

“LET US REPEAT TOGETHER.” Even without a microphone, Don Marcello managed maximum volume. His voice brought me back to Earth. I thought he was addressing me, personally. “But everything exposed by the light becomes visible, for anything that

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becomes light is visible. Therefore, it says, ‘Sleeper, awake! Rise from the dead…’”2

Mass ended. I was heading for the door when I felt as if two toothpick-like fingers were poking my left shoulder. I stopped. The lilac-haired lady in the green cardigan looked at me with the intense gaze of those people who have lived long enough to have seen it all; including war. She pointed towards the sky — the ceiling, actually — and said, “Don’t wait!” Then she went back to bundling up her grandson and didn’t look at me again. Who was she? I didn’t know her at all. Was she a reader of souls? Why should I care? Because if I had been expecting a sign, this could be it. Don’t wait for what? After that cold evening, the old woman’s bony index finger became my obsession. I needed to figure out what she meant and to integrate her advice into my life.

Inspired by her sanctimonious admonition, I turn to you, dear reader. Let us repeat together: “I am not reading a learned essay, nor do I expect to find a life-changing recipe in this book.” If it’s a packaged formula you’re after, I direct you to the nearest bookstore, which is sure to be full of self-help manuals claiming to show you the way to happiness. But I’m rather skeptical, because in my childish mind the concept is too subjective to be found in a book meant for everyone. We each have our own idea of fulfillment. For some it’s family, work, the usual Caribbean beach shack, tasting M&Ms, or collecting frogs. For some it’s watching paint dry. For others, it’s all of these things.

What is happiness? I like to define it as a state of pronounced serenity, a euphoria in which we find ourselves following more or less fortuitous events or situations, coincidences, destiny. Yes, we can motivate ourselves to do things that make us happy, but a good dose of luck doesn’t hurt either. Be careful though, because I find that only losers hide behind excuses, whining “I couldn’t fuckin’ get arrested”. I’m not a wise old man, but in my forty

2 Ephesians 5:13-14.

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years I’ve learned one thing: Good fortune is a negative entropy. That is, it tends to put our lives in order, so it doesn’t happen spontaneously. It needs energy, some sort of catalyst, a push. If you’re dissatisfied with your current situation and you care about yourself and your loved ones (who are happy when you’re happy), you have a duty to work towards change. As far as I’m concerned, those who wait around for things to happen on their own lose their right to complain. If you don’t like where you are, move. You aren’t a tree.

I don’t presume to teach anybody anything. I just want to relate my story, to tell you about my feelings and the difficulties I’ve encountered. And if you’re among those who say “I want to take the leap, but I can’t,” I say that it’s normal to be afraid and that I, for one, have discovered a solution. I want to tell you about my own journey, which began in a church on that winter’s day. Now, with your permission, I’ll step back and introduce myself.

***

Spring 1975, a little after ten in the evening. The weather was throwing a tantrum as it does every April in Emilia. Danilo was pacing nervously up and down the halls of the Maggiore Hospital. At the age of thirty, he still hadn’t managed to grow a full mustache. In order to change his appearance, he needed the approval of his parents, the Chamber, the Senate, his friends, and all his relatives. The nurse on the afternoon shift had left. The morning nurse, whom she replaced, had greeted her with open arms, shaking her head “no”. The baby just didn’t want to come out. Cell phones didn’t exist yet. Danilo had completed all the newspaper puzzles except the connect-the-dots one. Then, almost unexpectedly, they told him it was a boy. An ugly but healthy 2.8 kgs human being with a watermelon for a head. The baby’s body wouldn’t grow much and one day a girlfriend would nickname him “Melon Head”. And so, I was born. A first son, all brains. Mom was fine, despite having

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endured a hard labor (and the watermelon head). Pure Emilian, super passionate about soccer (I later would be cured of this), closely tied to my land and its irreverent dialect. I grew up in a small town of less than a thousand souls in lower Parma, where I found a bar, a barber shop, a hair salon, a restaurant, a church, a deli, a furniture factory, a doctor, a school, two janitors, a mill, a small soccer field, a pinball machine, one crazy person, and a handful of true friends.

I spent the first twenty years of my life in a Radiofreccia3 context. I swear, no drugs. It was as if I were living in a loop of repeated events. The week consisted of a rigorous soccer schedule.

Monday: Soccer training.Tuesday: European cups on television.Wednesday: Champions League on television.Thursday: Soccer training.Friday: Looking for girls, finding beer. Saturday: Soccer match.Sunday: Stadium.During my free time: Fantasy Premier League and my hometown team’s magazine.Summers: Soccer Tournament and player transfers. I liked it this way. Every age has its priorities. I fell in love on

average (and in vain) once a week. One minute I was playing hide and seek; the next, I was at university.

“¡Bueno, la ponemos en el cubo de la limpieza!” “We’ll put it in the mop bucket,” Alejandro said, as though it was the most natural thing in the world.

“¿Qué dices?” I answered in Spanish. What are you talking about? I picked up languages quickly. Life booms in Córdoba in

3 Radiofreccia is an Italian movie released in 1998, the first film directed by the Italian singer-songwriter Luciano Ligabue, featuring another singer-songwriter: Francesco Guccini. Five friends (Freccia, Bruno, Tito, Jena, and Boris) are very interested in music, but they live in a small town in the North of Italy and spend most of their days at the local bar.

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the spring: flowers, crowded open patios, powerful aromas, the trees lining the streets laden with ripe oranges. Sun and tourists. Alejandro, my Spanish roommate, had a black belt in fiestas and his stuff occupied the largest shelf in our fridge. When I needed twenty liters of sangria, he brilliantly solved the problem. Third-rate red wine (in cardboard boxes), orange juice, peach juice, a random liquor, sliced lemons, oranges, peaches, a few cinnamon sticks, and at least eight hours marination time.

The first lesson I learned as an Erasmus4 student in Spain was that a birthday party is no birthday party without a bucket of sangria. The first guest to arrive was Martin from Rotterdam: red-haired and freckled, dressed for the occasion in tourist sandals, orange Bermuda shorts, and a shirt that resembled a striped beach chair. He cared. The other 50 or so guests (the maximum number the place could accommodate) gradually trickled in. Friends from all over Europe helped me blow out my 24 candles. If you weren’t the sharpest tool in the shed, Erasmus would surely get you there. It was an incredible experience for me, a wake-up call that had a positive impact on my life. It should be mandatory for every student. In 2001, I earned a tech-scientific bachelor’s degree, and later discovered that I have an artistic mind. I began my career in the engineering sector, which allowed me to travel all over the world. The job was stimulating but without much room for creativity so, to compensate, I came up with all sorts of ideas during my free time. I started reading a lot more — something I hadn’t done much before — and I contributed guest posts to a number of blogs. I played guitar and mandolin and sang in an acoustic cover band, the O.G.M., which had an extremely varied repertoire. I socialized with anyone nearby. I went through a photography phase — travel photography in particular — and was awarded third place in a national photography contest. For eight years, I performed with an improv theater company. I made

4 European Study Abroad Program.

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decorative objects from recycled materials, including a bookcase, a lamp, and two tables. For a few months I DJ’d in a bar, and one summer I worked as a tourist entertainer. For a few years, I was a barman. I was announcer on a radio show that never aired (sigh!). During lulls, I traveled, discovering new things, wandering. I’ve always been on the move. Change is my lifeblood. It keeps my enthusiasm alive and feeds my joie de vivre.

Now back to 2015.

***

“I haven’t found any clues,” thundered Officer G. “Ask our friends,” I suggested. “I have.”“My relatives then.”“I don’t know your relatives.”“Maybe my neighbors saw something.” “Already interrogated them — nothing.” I sighed and confessed. “Double-faced man.”“What?”“I’ve said too much.” I hung up. Three days before Mardi Gras. My old army marshal friend

(Officer G.) has always been crazy for group disguises, which I hate. That year he got it into his head that the two of us should dress up as a pair of famous characters. He thought it would “attract a lot of hotties.” (Conversations between Parma boys can be a little rough).

“You forget that I have a girlfriend,” I reminded him. “Ok, ok, never mind, I guess I’ll go as pita like last year.” “Good.”

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For the Briscola5 players of Parma, pita, also known as the female turkey, is the ace of suns.

(The reason I’m telling you all this is to say it was February. Please be patient).

I found that listening to random playlists, discovering new music or revisiting old songs could be extremely entertaining, so I launched Spotify. A song by Elio e le Storie Tese, Storia di un bellimbusto, came on. It goes like this:

[…] vorrei vorreifare felice la mia nonna:

una casettina in periferiala mogliettina, il posto fisso in banca

vorrei vorreichissà se ce la farò mai […]

[…] I wish, I wishI could make my grandmother happy:

A little house in the suburbsA wife, and stable bank job

I wish, I wishWho knows if I’ll ever make it […]

I owned an apartment (my “little house in the suburbs”) where I lived with my girlfriend Alice (my “wife”) and I had a permanent contract corporate job (my “stable bank job”).

I walked into the office of Engineer Magat, the General Manager, surprising him while he was at the window, observing a BMW on the street below. “Great piece of steel, but with its rear traction, it would get stuck in the snow” he commented. I shrugged my shoulders. The lease on his company car would soon expire and he had to choose a new one. Pause. Then he turned

5 “Briscola” is one of Italy’s most popular card games. It is a trick-taking game played in two or four players and a 40-cards deck; one of the many regional Italian versions.

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around in his chair and silently stared at me. He was an extremely qualified professional, and a man of few but mighty words; fifty-four years old, with a full head of dyed hair parted to the left with a noticeable grey regrowth. He wore Steve Urkel glasses, the usual regimental tie, a light blue shirt, blue suit, and a company logo lapel pin. If he had sported a change purse and cap, he would have been the perfect bus ticket taker.

“What have I done?” I asked, breaking the silence. He smiled. We had an excellent relationship and I was learning a lot from him.

“There was a board meeting yesterday. Your name was mentioned for a directorship.” End scene.

So, I found myself about to play the “big league”, with an excellent salary, an adorable partner, and quite a few friends. In my free time, I performed in theater shows, whenever I got the chance I traveled, and I had excellent relationships with my family. All my loved ones were bursting with health and so was I. I didn’t want for anything, yet I didn’t feel happy. Period. Someone once revealed a secret to me: “There is nothing wrong with admitting to ourselves and others that we’re unhappy, even when we have everything.”

The same person revealed a second secret: “We have only one life and it’s indivisible.” In this one and only life we have vigor, prowess, temperament, and impetus. They don’t last forever. At the age of twenty, you rip off the band-aid and then, little by little, over the course of a few decades, you asymptotically lean towards nonexistence — provided that by some unlucky chance you don’t find yourself kicking the bucket before time.

The elderly woman at San Giovanni had given me two words: “Don’t wait!” I should have tattooed it backwards on my forehead as a reminder for every time I look in the mirror. All of the wouldas, couldas, shouldas, so on and so forth, should be thrown out with the compost. That dream you want to realize? Stop

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thinking about it and try to follow it! If you keep going around in circles, you’ll end up hurting yourself.

***

I hadn’t been back to my university campus in ten years. The strange sculpture of an enormous blue bicycle with an orange banana as a kickstand was still at the entrance to the faculty of Love Science. I rode an elevator that moved three-and-a-half floors upward in a spiral motion, then took a slide down one floor. I walked through a twisting hallway, crossed a drawbridge, and found myself in the Department of Kissology. Lost in such complexity, I opened the first door I came across and found about twenty students caressing each other in the Applied Cuddles Lab. I preferred not to disturb them. It was getting late. Thank heavens someone recognized my perplexed face and pointed me in the direction of the Butterflies-in-Your-Stomach Lab. At ten-thirty that morning, I had an appointment with Professor Bosca, the best Loveologist in the Parma area. He examined me for a while. The Love-o-Meter read 54.5. The specialist scrunched his brow. “You can do better, Mr. Andr…!” Ring!!! It’s so annoying when your alarm clock wakes you up before you finish your dream.

Have you ever been in love? How many times? What kind of questions are those? In theory, if you’d ever been in love, you’d know it. In reality, only the Love-o-Meter I was dreaming about can tell you for sure. Once, I was convinced I was in love, but ten years later when I really fell in love, I realized that I’d never been in love before. Who’s to say I wouldn’t be mistaken if it happened again? Yes, I’m a very introspective person. I thought I was in love with Alice, but who knows if it was true love? I liked her so much that when doubts arose, I shoved them aside and made our relationship work. Time has shown me that I really cared about her, but also that love is an entirely different story. At least I hope so, I don’t speak the language of time so it’s possible

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I didn’t understand a damn thing. I had two options: I could fake it and dock at a safe port every night, holding onto the pleasure of finding the lights on when I came home, and a lover with whom I could share my butterfly collection; or grab life by the balls with one hand, pinch my nose with the other, and jump. I often dreamed of relocating abroad, imagining myself in a faraway country surrounded by people who didn’t speak my language, doing different things every day, rediscovering lost interests. Every once in a while, I looked for jobs online and sent resumes across the planet. Then one day, I hit the bull’s eye.

Continue reading the excerpt or buy the complete book here: https://amzn.to/2nmeoIe

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Antipasto

Hand-sliced cooked pork shoulder with torta fritta and doubts mostarda

(Turmoil during the decision-making phase)

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Eat the pork shoulder while it’s hot. Place it on a piece of fried pastry, fold it and add a dash of pear mostarda. So delicious!

“Dubai.”“Dubai?” my mother repeated.“Exactly. The Middle East. They say they shoot you on sight.

The city of luxury and appearances. For God’s sake, I wouldn’t go even if they tortured me.”

This had occurred months before, when I had received a job offer from Dubai. I had turned it down for three reasons: because of love, because the financial offer was less wow than I had expected, and because the city and the country were not convincing me at all. At least that was the official version. The unofficial one was that I was terrified of turning my life upside down. However, since then I had a bitter aftertaste in my mouth all day. Meanwhile, a great promotion arose at work. I was hugely gratified, but it felt a little like I’d ordered a bottle of wine and been served a beer instead. The thirst was quenched and the beer was excellent, but I was still craving wine. So, I continued interviewing for other jobs (with scarce results).

Then I received the email that would change my life. It was one of those early spring days when the trees in front of the house had begun filling up with pink and white blossom. I’ve always loved that time of year: the first breakfasts on the terrace; awakening the hammock from its winter hibernation. Fragrance returns to the world. It was an ordinary day: wake up, shower, breakfast,

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cigarette, work, meetings, lunch, cigarette, work, meetings, pool, home, dinner, cigarette, book, bed, dreams. Alice was away at a business conference. I dined alone at home: I knew the sea bream was ready, the eye looked faded, so I took it out of the oven. I overcooked the potatoes as usual. I can never get it right. I poured myself a glass of Gewürztraminer and sat down at the table. My stomach and the sea bream both demanded attentions. With a full belly, I opened my email.

From: Maryam O.Subject: Skype interview.A well-known company was interested in my profile and

proposed a Skype interview in a few days! The position would be in either their Dubai or Cape Town headquarters. One hundred and ten beats per minute. A rock concert was pounding in my chest. I dreamt a lot that night.

The next morning at five past six, I went out for a jog in my worn out red and blue running shoes, black shorts, thick yellow socks down around my ankles like Omar Sivori, a healthy undershirt better known as an anti-mating device, a dark orange fleece sweater, a military green K-way; and a black cap with red, white, and black motifs. The most colorful wannabe athlete in the neighborhood at your service! I estimated the temperature by breathing in and out to check how much steam was coming out of my mouth. It wasn’t raining, but at dawn it was still cold. It didn’t matter. I wanted to get myself in shape for the Skype video call.

I was listening to a live acoustic by Chris Cornell on my headphones when I entered the running path behind my house, pushed myself up to the train crossing, then waited for the passing of the six-twenty-three “Wooden Leg” as we called the local train to Suzzara. It was equipped with only one car and had a manual transmission. A pair of sleepy faces looked out at me from the

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windows, probably wondering (as was I) what pushed me out of the house at that time. When it was clear to cross the tracks I turned onto Via Colombo, Via Cocconi then quickly onto Via Trieste. I was full of expectations. At six thirty, I was back home and sweaty, so I allowed myself a warm shower. I didn’t usually go out for a run in the morning, but today was different. After blow-drying my hair, I dressed in a classic white shirt and blue blazer over a pair of jeans. Since I’d be in front of a computer, they’d only be able to see me from the chest up. I was already at the starting gate at seven thirty. Maryam and Deepak — who was Indian — signed on punctually from Dubai. The image was a bit pixelated, but the audio was perfect. For the first few minutes, we exchanged pleasantries, which gave me a chance to get used to their accented English. They smiled often, her especially, and had an informal approach, which gave me a good impression. We talked for forty minutes about my education and professional experience, about the company they were representing, their roles, and about the position for which I was shortlisted. Then I turned off my computer and went to work. Less than twenty-four hours later, a cordial but friendly email from Maryam informed me that I had passed the first phase of the selection process and was invited to go to Dubai to meet them in person. At their expense. Remembering that I had turned down a job in Dubai the year before, I was tempted to refuse, but I considered the principle that there’s always time to say “no”. Besides, they’d told me that Cape Town was an option.

* * *

The bell rang insistently. So annoying at this hour. Was it a prank? It rang again. I got up reluctantly and went to open the door. I was in a hotel. You never know, maybe it was room service. That didn’t happen, I was dreaming. It was Dubai, knocking on

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my door once again. I dressed for the interview: a white shirt, the plaid tie I’d worn at my sister’s wedding — knotted casually, — beige trousers, and a blue blazer. Now you get me: Never hold back on colors!

Concrete giants dressed in glass, straight as spindles, phallic symbols, delineated a skyline marred by a multitude of huge creaking cranes. Dubai had changed a lot since I was last there. It was hot. In May the “oven” was already turned on. Maryam greeted me with a knock-out smile. Manicured hands, square nails but not overly done — just the way I like them, — dark brown polish, gray eyes (blue when it’s sunny and green at sunset, as she would say), a few kgs in the right places, a red veil covering her hair. She was dressed in a simple white blouse, a long black skirt, crimson ballet flats, a touch of makeup, and she was full of life. We would become very good friends. The interview was an eight-hour marathon. The Cape Town hypothesis vanished after the first ten minutes; the open position was in Dubai. My initial tension disappeared. I’d been through this before: Moving to Dubai wasn’t remotely imaginable, so I decided that the next seven hours and fifty minutes would just be a fun exercise, part job interview and part theatrical improvisation. As so often happens in these situations, my nonchalant attitude had a nearly perfect effect on my potential employers.

* * *

Are you familiar with The Simpson’s Sideshow Bob’s hairstyle? Farah, a Somali beautician, was working a product stand on the JBR Walk. Black obsidian eyes on a light black complexion, the abundant space between her incisors an imperfection that made her even more beautiful. She wore her hair in a style wider than her slender, toned shoulders. She was a work of art. I — vainly — assumed what I hoped was an intelligent expression and

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approached her with the excuse of asking where I could find live music on a Sunday night in Dubai. Estheticians, it turns out, are experts on the music scene. We filled the pauses between customers with chit-chat. I entertained Syrians, Spaniards, Colombians, and English passersby. Dubai was a melting pot, like a trip between different cultures.

For some reason, I felt I had a moral duty to play along with my ruse and go to the live concert she suggested, so I invited her to catch up with me there after work. She arrived with a couple of her friends: Mats, a 1.94 tall New Zealander, and Pedro, a 1.61 short Peruvian. We made the most heterogeneous quartet I’d ever seen. Fueled by a few pints, we sang and danced folk and swing until one in the morning, when we wiped out. It was one of those evenings when you wonder why in God’s name you haven’t done this before. The best nights happen by chance. Convinced that I wouldn’t return to Dubai, I made the rookie mistake of not asking for their phone numbers.

The following morning in the taxi on the way to the airport, with a hangover clouding my mind, my imagination chased the skyscrapers that flowed before my eyes. I experienced unexpected sensations, a new energy. I felt I was at the center of the world. If you’re a traveler, you’ll know what I mean. I had the impression that the interview had gone well and I started to get scared, fucking scared. Lovecraft wrote: “The most ancient and powerful human emotion is fear, and the most ancient and powerful fear is that of the unknown.” How right he was.

On my second visit to Dubai, I was seeing the city through a different set of eyes: The eyes of a man who had, once in the past, left an opportunity behind. I knew that if I was offered the job this time, it wouldn’t be easy to refuse it. I also knew that accepting would be as easy as eating a live cat.

* * *

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I was driving my Volkswagen Golf at 100 kilometers an hour on the only stretch of road without roundabouts in the lower Reggio area. The air smelled of May, and summer was only a few kilometers away. Better Man by Pearl Jam played on the radio. Eddie Vedder’s voice made me feel cool and opened pipe dreams in my mind. I sang out of tune, like no one was listening. The phone rang. Che palle. How annoying. “Jesus, I’m blasting Pearl Jam!” A foreign call from an unknown number. I pulled over and answered. “Helò, avarriù?” I recognized Maryam’s Iranian accent. People of all ethnicities and nationalities live in Dubai. I held my breath for five minutes while she read me the job offer I had feared so much. I was in my car, a stone’s throw from the river Po. If I accepted, I would have to move. I had ten days to decide. This is when shit got real. The people in Dubai had caught me in the middle of a profound sentimental crisis. My mood sped from high to low like a gigantic Luna Park roller coaster; one of the badass ones with deadly turns and twists that scare even the daredevils. I was both tempted and terrified to accept. Can you imagine all the disruptions it would cause? And Alice wouldn’t move to Dubai, so goodbye love story.

In the days that followed, I woke up with the desire to take the job. By breakfast, I was scared to leave Alice. At lunch, I was enthusiastic about moving to Dubai. And by dinner time, I had decided to turn it down and stay in Parma. My poops were worse and more frequent than usual (no wonder they say the intestine is the second brain). I didn’t sleep well and couldn’t concentrate.

Questionnaire.1. How could I find the courage to leave her after having

believed so much in our relationship?2. Where would I find the strength to start again?3. Did I want to make her suffer?4. Who would roll around in bed with me, laughing until

we cried?

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5. How would I fill my free time?6. Who would travel with me?7. Who would make me feel at home?

A tsunami of doubts, fears, perplexities. I wondered: how could I give up a permanent job in 2015, in Italy? A stable job, where they can’t fire you even if you “kill your boss”. And they were about to make me a director! Besides, I would be leaving for a position with less responsibility, so I would be stepping backward professionally in a country where you can be legally fired at any time. And not just in theory. It really happens. To be honest, salaries in Dubai are quite different from those in Italy, and the tax burden at the time was close to zero.

Why are you looking at me like that? What’s wrong with giving up a great position to surf your dreams? I’m no slacker. Since my first summer jobs to pay for holidays, I’d tackled everything with the utmost professionalism and dedication. I’ve always worked my butt off and it has actually paid off. But work doesn’t bring (me) happiness and isn’t (my) reason for living. I finally realized that my occupation was just an indispensable means to achieve the quality of life I desired. I chose to try and build my career in life rather than at work, to do my best to avoid situations that ruined my mood.

“Don’t wait!” Said the old woman in the church, remember? But what if I regret my decision, grieve for my beloved Po Valley and repatriate? I will have missed the train professionally, and have to look for a new job without knowing what work I want to do. And what sort of employment would I be able to find? All of this scared the hell out of me.

Then a book fell into my lap, Il giro del mondo in barcastop by Alberto Di Stefano, a great man who gave up everything to go around the world hitchhiking on boats. After this emotionally enriching experience, he may have returned to his former life with less money (I think) but with rivers of stories to tell his

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grandchildren. In my opinion, that was an example of true wealth and the kind of pathway I was thinking about. I wrote him a congratulatory note and asked him the big question: “If I give up everything and leave, what do I do when I come back?” He wrote back with a disarmingly simple answer. I don’t remember the precise words, but he said something like, you can’t be sure what will happen, but with reasonable certainty you’ll figure something out.

Too simple to have been conceived by a twisted mind like mine. The concept is elementary: Why worry today about a problem you may not have tomorrow? Who knows how many doors might open in the meantime and where they might lead? I believe it’s a serious mistake to imagine your future based solely on who you are and what you have today. That’s just the starting point, the foundation. Everything else will change with us and our experiences. Anyway, what if I don’t want to come back? False problem: It would be a conscious choice, so I’d be fine with it. “If ifs and buts were candies and nuts, we’d all have a merry Christmas.” Stranded in this tower of doubts, dreams, uncertainties, hopes, fears and mirages, I consulted my loved ones: my family, and precious, trustworthy friends — the people I could count on to put me in a good mood and wouldn’t judge me. They played a fundamental role in advising me without limiting my choices, and pushed me towards conquering my world.

* * *

The waiting room was deserted. There were five black chairs and a table in the corner with the usual crap-filled magazines. An elderly gentleman entered, greeted me with 120 decibels of sound, and proceeded to the office without knocking on the door. “I wanted to know if you’re coming to dinner tonight!” Fantastic. He was the psychotherapist’s grandfather. The type of retiree who

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is strong in his good deeds and greedy with his precious time. After all, he had offered to nourish him with food, which in my view is one of the greatest and most ancestral gestures of love. This happened while I was waiting for my appointment with the psychotherapist. The third secret is that shrinks aren’t just for madmen and there is nothing wrong with seeing one. They are humans which means they don’t have the truth in their pockets and it’d be moronic to expect them to make decisions for us, but I sometimes find them a valuable tool that help us see our mess through different eyes.

The moment to make a decision was getting closer. I was alone in a company meeting room with weeping armpits and nervous feet. My rational self, after yet another fist fight with my emotional self, had once again decided to turn down the offer and continue to live by the script. I’d called Maryam to inform her. “How are you? Bla … Not bad, thanks … bla … It’s summer here … blabla … listen, I’ve decided … yeah so … I wanted to tell you that … that … no… yes… I was calling to tell you that …” my protesting stomach cramped, “… that I accept the offer!”

After five seconds of incredulous silence she shot an obvious “Oh Good! I thought you were going to decline!” I hung up. I’d thought so, too. That’s how I discovered that I’d decided to shake up my life. I spent the next fifteen minutes in a religious silence, locked in the bathroom, sitting on the toilet, pants down, hands in my hair, executing a tumultuous bowel movement. I took three breaths, recomposed myself, removed my shirt, dried my sweaty pits with the hair dryer, gargled mouthwash and smiled at myself in the mirror. “Now you’re screwed, Andrea.” For a minute or so, I tried unsuccessfully to rearrange my face into something like a normal expression. Then I left the bathroom with shaking legs but a firm step. I locked myself in my office and printed out the job offer (in case I changed my mind). I read it twice, tucked my shirt into my pants, carefully chose the bluest ball point pen on

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my desk, held my breath for a moment, then signed it with all the solemnity required of great occasion — like when Reagan and Gorbachev signed the disarmament agreement. I scanned it and sent it to Dubai. No, not the disarmament agreement; my employment contract. The play button had officially been pressed. Life-change mode: on. After a few hours, I began to feel lighter for having made a decision. I’d taken the first big step. Now I had a sentimental situation to resolve and an important job to leave. I started by going out with friends for a few pints.

* * *

At this point I know you’d like to order the primo but hey, I’m the only one talking here! Let me finish the antipasto!

Meanwhile, do yourself a favor, watch two videos on YouTube. The first is the speech that José “Pepe” Mujica (former president of Uruguay) gave in 2012, in Rio de Janeiro, to the United Nations Conference on Sustainable Development. Learn it by heart. In approximately ten minutes he simply summarizes the things that should be life’s priorities. Happiness is at the top of the list. The second video is the Rockin1000 project, shot in the equestrian park in Cesena, Italy, July 2015. In order to convince the band The Foo Fighters to play there, organizers managed to gather 1000 musicians who performed the band’s song Learn to Fly. And it worked! In addition to an explosion of collective joie de vivre this video sends a fundamental message: Where there’s a will, there’s a way.

* * *

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The alarm rang promptly at seven o’clock. Son of a bitch. Getting out of bed on a Monday morning is always a feat, but this particular Monday was special. I turned on the shower and, as I waited for the water to heat up, the bad dreams washed away. I started with my hair, then my shoulders, torso and down to my feet, using an abundance of soap. I rinsed off the last trace of foam, threw a striped bathrobe over my shoulders and sat on the floor where I waited for the condensation to clear from the mirror. I stared at myself for a long time. I groomed my beard, dried my hair, put on a pair of stretch boxers and chose a mouse-gray shirt, khaki pants, black socks, and a belt. I boiled a cup of water in the microwave and prepared an infusion of berries with the usual generous spoonful of honey. Meanwhile, I fried two eggs in a drizzle of extra virgin olive oil, a little salt and a sprinkle of pepper. A couple of slices of toast with plenty of plum jam, some biscuits, and a yogurt. A breakfast of champions served with a side of TV news. I brushed my teeth carefully, eight seconds each for the top, bottom, and sides as the dental hygienist had taught me, and I combed my hair the way I liked it. I grabbed my jacket, computer bag, sunglasses, and checked myself in the mirror one last time. All dapper, I smiled with the anticipation of one who is about to start an emotionally difficult and important day. I wondered how long it would take to find a slot in the packed schedules of the two people to whom I had to deliver the news of my resignation. For the record, things never happen on their own. Half an hour after I arrived at work, I was summoned to a meeting they were both attending. Bingo.

As my colleagues left the meeting one after the other, I asked the two interested parties to stay behind. They looked at me. I looked back at them. My brain was scrambling to find

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the “right words” folder: Nothing. I had stained armpits (of course), nervous foot (just my luck), and a shaky voice (again). They were waiting expectantly, smiles fading. The one on my right frowned, sensing something. “What do you need to tell us?” He was worried (professionally). I spilled the beans. They were taken aback and displeased with my choice, but they congratulated me. It was like (please allow me a few seconds of vulgarity) letting go of a 30 kgs turd. I felt a lot lighter. Another tessera of my new mosaic was in place.

Sometimes it’s easy to resign. For me, it wasn’t easy at all. I had worked for that company for nine good years. During that time, it had grown from fifty employees to one hundred and fifty. I had gone from being the only project manager to directing a department of about forty people and I’d learned that the older they were, the more childishly they would behave and the more tantrums they would throw, especially if they had prestigious positions. I had been promoted to manager and an executive position was on the horizon. I’d traveled the world for work and I was very well respected. My employment had given me great satisfaction. In short, I had a cool job, a permanent position in a country in crisis, in a continent in crisis, in a planet in crisis. But man, it did not make me happy!

My role neither fulfilled me nor brought me joy. It didn’t amuse me and there was no room for creativity. Nobody in the office would ever laugh until they had tears in their eyes. Sometimes I wondered what my job was good for and where it would take me. I couldn’t find any convincing answers, so I grew a pair, aware of what I would be leaving behind, and made the decision. My future was a big question mark. I did it by colliding with clichés from some friends and colleagues who were addicted to their permanent “thanks God is Friday” jobs. I decided to leave

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because, let’s face it, I didn’t have a family to support and I had a passion for change.

If you aren’t happy, you have a duty to try to change your situation, to live your life and not the life others expect (or you think they expect) you to live. You need to have the strength to change your own situation, which has been conditioned by your need to conform and feel secure. For a soul like mine, nothing is more devastating than a certain future. Yes, you read that correctly: Certain. We are often our own worst enemies, prevented from risking new adventures by our own stubbornness. Now I had to face the most difficult consequence of my decision. It kept me up at night and caused stomach cramps, vertigo, and sudden sprints to the toilet: I had a relationship to sort out. I was terrified of going back to being single and starting from zero at the age of forty. I couldn’t bear the thought of making my partner suffer, and I was convinced that it would be difficult to find someone new. I feared the judgment of our families, our friends and the rest of the world. So, I decided to do the right thing and be honest about it. Alice and I often spent weekends in Pavia, her hometown. I chose a Sunday to break the news. I rehearsed my speech over and over, wherever I was — in the car, under the shower, in the doctor’s waiting room. For three nights I couldn’t sleep at all. I kept refining and changing the words I’d use but when the time came, I forgot everything and improvised. In a tremulous voice I told her that I had a dream to pursue and that I wasn’t in love with her anymore. I said that we should take separate paths, go our separate ways. Obviously, nothing was resolved in a few hours of discussion. From then on, our time together alternated between cold silences and long rants. These were the most difficult days of my life so far. Sometimes, in a relationship, we forget that our significant other is searching for happiness too and focus solely

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on our own journey. It’s possible that you can find happiness in trying to make your partner happy. And if that doesn’t work, maybe you weren’t meant for one another. It was very hard and I cried a lot, though believe me: It passes.

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