The cellar of his grandfather. will not be less than three square meters. The light in there has never been, you should always settle for the one reflected from the walls of the entrance courtyard and the communal stairwell. And 'certainly excessive to call the "cave" that tiny and cramped storage room that my grandfather jealously guards, condominium there in the compartment under the stairs, but since childhood has always fascinated me causing a curious sense of "awe."
None of that, a dark, damp hole full of junk, narrow and the ceiling running from floor to get a share of about six feet tall. We've always gone with my grandfather during the holidays with your family, to take the chairs, rather than a bottle of wine, or sauce, or a watermelon. As a child (and even now ...) I am terrified at the same time capturing rancid smell of humidity mixed with powder, the fragrance typical of the places closed and dark.
I always liked to imagine how the secret access to a mysterious underground world, but still looking good and take more than a foot inside.
This afternoon I'm back, only after such a long time, and I felt a vivid sense of deja-vu. I opened the lock with the keys of my mother, I opened the little iron door, and inside it was surprising to find again the same things: the wheel of an old Fiat 500, a Formula One calendar 70s, umbrellas, wooden folding chairs, bottles of homemade sauce and wine, a beach umbrella incellofanato, of my grandfather's work jacket, boots, some old magazine, tools, earthenware. And there in front, next to my feet, "Come along," the prickly pear box left for me by my grandfather. Another look inside, a smile, I collect the box and go on.
curiosity for the things they immersed the dark has no age.
(Listening: Our 57th minute of the 23rd - Galliano)
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