As white as white can be, sitting, elegant, on the slope, the villa, that my father built in Cala Girgolu, in Sardinia, looked, from the beach, like a candid blanket left to dry in the gentle caress of the hot sun and salty wind that were and are king and queen in those latitudes. My father, who was a lawyer, had discovered the deserted spot (in the far away Sixties) during one of his lonely roams in the island which he loved as if he had been, in a previous life, king of a nuragic tribe... He found the place, fell in love with Tavolara, pink and blue in the distance, bought a piece of land and started building his dream. His dream is now my dream and as I write these words, I am there now, right now, wings glued on my feet like the ones that Hermes wore to bring messages from the Gods to us, down here, in this topsy turvey world.
And as I see, all around, the sad scenes that I watched on television: water everywhere and the sea full of trees from the land inside, I remember an old sardinian man, a friend of my father's, who, long, long ago, said to my father (and to me sitting in his shadow), and he was criticizing the modern way to build, build, build, as if the planet only belonged to us, selfish people. He said in sardinian: "S'abba tenet memoria". The water remembers. No matter what man does, nature is stronger...
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