Bagnacaôda (or càuda) in summer

I put in order the last traces of Rome.

I returned home, casacasa , as I answer those who ask me: “Home where? Turin or from yours? “. Turin is home, yes. Home with the Rocker, the home of the passionate work of both, the house is always too small, the den where to return in the evening and wash away the heat of the concrete, which always beats strong.

Casacasa is where all my nerves tend, at least once every ten days. Where trams have a vague idea, where the grandmother always has the apron and hands in the air, where there is the white tree, the birch, which is bigger and older than me. Where you can smell the earth, a smell that I know perfectly, but that always knows how to enchant me.


Taking a journey means finding people, places, tastes that you did not know and, inevitably, rediscover your own. Remember them, compare them, exchange them.