ROME. And anyway, Rome is beautiful, they say, swarming from the Circus Maximus, descending towards piazza Venezia, reaching out on the forum, more empty on a Sunday afternoon in February. They are almost all from other cities, the boys and girls that attended the show. Many romans stayed home, in support of the campaign of deterrence subliminal put in place by the Municipality. Which, by the Christmas tree scrauso of the world to the donkey impuntatura of the “no money” repeated like a mantra, he tried all ways to snub the new year, treating it as an Olympics any. Ignoring it, until a few days before the event – and after the failure of a concert at zero cost that the sponsors have left, perhaps frightened by the manag ing bankruptcy that you could see on the horizon – it is expressed with an eloquent “do you”, indicating the stages which, despite everything, had been mounted.
where, in the best of times, and have played Bruce Springsteen, David Gilmour, and the Rolling Stones, would have been able to take the word of anyone with a good idea, or even an idea and just. By registering, I guess, anyone could reserve their five minutes of fame. Who knows how it went down then the lottery, but a few hours from the night of the 31st were finally announced the choices: generic, performances by cirque style (euphemism with which are usually approximate, and the incautious followers of Cirque du Soleil), musicians are not popular, and the play of light, to cheer the stubborn that, despite everything, they wanted to still celebrate. And that, with patience commendable, you are put in a row for the time-consuming checks. Even if we were few, many of them remained outside the barricades during the countdown, when the playing of the drum had come down from the crane where they had hung. And while it was a widespread music to chill out, and the spectators looked a bi t dismayed, the people ended up entering, and at the same time began to exit.
It was the new year more the short of the story. At midnight and a half and we away quickly, as if instead of celebrating we had done our duty, paying homage to the god of the end and the beginning in the hope of placating his fury for the next year, and then off. There is very little euphoria, just as soon as of joy, but above all an immense and mestissima yield to the evidence of the little. On the contrary: very little. The barrels almost nothing – raudi firecrackers and tric and trac were sold in stalls that were hanging from photocopied pages of who knows what, which said that they were not prohibited but the people did not trust – and fireworks of superhuman misery. Whatever he had to mean the final blowout, the burning of the past year, and the rebirth of the festive lights, colorful, this year in Rome we had him. In perfect harmony with a political project that has as its goal the season of lent and as a means to achieve it, say no to any proposal. The music st ill playing behind us, on the screen the images indecipherable to which we give back because, thanks to the toast, elicit a nagging sense of nausea.
opposite to the Mouth of Truth we ask ourselves what to do. There is the crowd that protects you, the one that spintona and cries and keeps her company. They have taken away even the blocks to piazza Venezia, so there is no one to block. The best among us wear ridges are bright in the shape of the ears, rosaries, the minimum wage of the gadget to the end of the year. A group of boys from the veneto bawls in a vain attempt to stop the only taxi on the horizon. Then nothing more, not a bus, a tram, a means of any that we may carry to the bridges, where, in a few hours, they were programmed dj set. But am I the only one worried. Almost everyone around me are saying that it will be better to go back home, someone wants to go to Testaccio, who knows why, other in Trastevere, because friends have told him that is the heart of the nightlife of this city. Where is piazza San Callisto, asking me stubbornly, a man with a milanese accent. I show him the direction and he starts to walk away, followed by friends. I would like to stop him, to tell him that he will not find anything different here, people moving to the case with wattles bright red above the forehead. More than a party, this night looks like a dystopia, in which the town, now the property for some unspecified disaster, witnessing a transhumance sad of employed people
to survive, the night will pass.
Yet, Rome is beautiful, however. Have reason, these boys and girls who have come to celebrate the new year in the capital, which, however, must return home on foot after having witnessed a spectacle that would have drawn crowds to the festival of the fish soup. And next year, now that Rome have seen it, and it never has anything new to offer, they will go without hesitation to the festival of the fish soup, which costs even less.
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