Omar Longo
Trieste, one of the oldest cities in Italy, perhaps the oldest. Not as training, no, is the age of the population burden. She is young, almost a child, constantly striving to keep at bay his grandparents. Ward off or treat, the city is structured for the elderly: an amusement park for over 80 or a sort of geriatric open. If the municipality has to invest, invest in its old, reliable source of votes. As there are fewer and fewer births, there will always be older: the true generational Italian.
roamed the city often silent, awkward shapes nell'incedere. Up close, the faces of the cortex in which lines radiate from the junction of the eye, plowing through the base and complicate the eyebrows, then descend in clinging to his lips wrinkled cheeks. With slow, rhythmic movements, like their feet, the skin falls on his face: swollen dew that disappears in destroying streams increasingly thin. A character who returns child is not with the old, the one who understood you can not understand him eighty in less than thirty years. And maybe it's true. Too bad the tv he has bruised many making them rot.
Who knows that in the midst of so many people right here in Trieste, someone forgot to die, blending more and more curved from unsuspecting passers-by of its uniqueness. A small man, quiet, with a weak voice, but visibly happy because they are still able to cross the square unit, or as he called the Great Square, with the north, supported by a stick figure with an antique ivory horse to handle. I ordered sparse hair falling when the wind does not mess up. Thick glasses on a weak eyes. Maybe you can meet the public garden where it follows the slightest movement in the bushes, hoping the return of some chickens. You may sedergli next and ask for his youth, certain that the story will start from the Second World War. You'll be surprised to hear the name of Casimir Donadoni. Ask who he is. And he tells you about the day when the lawyer Donadoni, who returned from Vienna, the store announced the status of Porto-Franco between a fly Phrygian hats. Flags praising Austria were lost in the cloudless sky. A wonderful day, in memory of those who are always sunny. He was there with the other Italians, with Liburnian with the Istrian interior, with the jew, the Dalmatian, greek Adriatic: Trieste elated, anticipating a multicultural city. You would see puzzled, would step back.
It was 1719. At the time, Trieste was a white snowdrops came out of the salt. Few people, a center of 5000. Then the intervention of Vienna: the status of Porto-Franco. The salt is disciolsero. As dolls of salt water wet, the faded aristocrats: too tied to land unprofitable. Freedom to pursue trade and industry, improvement of port facilities, tax exemptions, bank insurance, prohibition of forced entry into vessels, allowed foreigners to own houses and land. The economy caper. Attracted by the favorable conditions for thousands of people it reaches the Gulf to play with fate, and he with them. The city became a melting pot of peoples. Through the new channels are mixed imperial nations: each with its own culture to enrich the new port-garden in Central Europe. A lively city that was growing by feeding on to the jew like the Christian, like the greek-orthodox traditions of mutual respect, a corollary of a way of Trieste. 1781 Edict of Tolerance. Not only were building a big city, but a new spirit, secular and cosmopolitan. At the end of '700 Trieste already had 30,000 people.
And if man does not tell as the Trieste tercentenary of his youth? If his character had soured over time? Perhaps it would be an old grumpy, peevish and annoyed by a cradle and Trieste prison of his life. Perhaps his story would begin in another way.
It was 1719. A new market for Austria had brought the center to inflate artificially. The economic opportunities especially favorable pushed Friuli and Istria to pile up in emerging neighborhoods. The nobility sweep. The new rich puffed up with himself, blind to any logic other than that of business. Jews as Catholics, Orthodox, Protestants such as: all busy to eat and grab. A secular bourgeoisie family, money, savings, morality and religion on display, security and more money. The wave of traffci led to Trieste where people of all, the tide was ebb cultures leaving town on the shore of the lower classes: the Italian majority, followed by a small minority of bureaucrats Germans, Jews, Greeks and a strong part of Slovenia. Did they have less ethnic groups other commercial cities? Italian Culture tried to standardize the other through a systematic and deculturalizzazione approval. It was not a cosmopolitan city, was a city thanks to an artificially straight Vienna, devoted to the economy, not tolerance, but indifference toward everything that had anything to do with money. A town grew up in the values \u200b\u200bof cosmopolitanism did not, two centuries later, made bonfires of the Balkan. Trieste: no meeting, but a clash of peoples.
do not know, maybe not even tell it so, with so much rancor. Maybe because the truth is neither in the cosmopolitan city (romantic myth Elio Apih seconds), or the oneness of its economic culture.
do not know, maybe the truth has been gentrified: hates the extremes, it feeds its myths and stay in a median immobility, sometimes unsightly.
Trieste, one of the oldest cities in Italy, perhaps the oldest. Not as training, no, is the age of the population burden. She is young, almost a child, constantly striving to keep at bay his grandparents. Ward off or treat, the city is structured for the elderly: an amusement park for over 80 or a sort of geriatric open. If the municipality has to invest, invest in its old, reliable source of votes. As there are fewer and fewer births, there will always be older: the true generational Italian.
roamed the city often silent, awkward shapes nell'incedere. Up close, the faces of the cortex in which lines radiate from the junction of the eye, plowing through the base and complicate the eyebrows, then descend in clinging to his lips wrinkled cheeks. With slow, rhythmic movements, like their feet, the skin falls on his face: swollen dew that disappears in destroying streams increasingly thin. A character who returns child is not with the old, the one who understood you can not understand him eighty in less than thirty years. And maybe it's true. Too bad the tv he has bruised many making them rot.
Who knows that in the midst of so many people right here in Trieste, someone forgot to die, blending more and more curved from unsuspecting passers-by of its uniqueness. A small man, quiet, with a weak voice, but visibly happy because they are still able to cross the square unit, or as he called the Great Square, with the north, supported by a stick figure with an antique ivory horse to handle. I ordered sparse hair falling when the wind does not mess up. Thick glasses on a weak eyes. Maybe you can meet the public garden where it follows the slightest movement in the bushes, hoping the return of some chickens. You may sedergli next and ask for his youth, certain that the story will start from the Second World War. You'll be surprised to hear the name of Casimir Donadoni. Ask who he is. And he tells you about the day when the lawyer Donadoni, who returned from Vienna, the store announced the status of Porto-Franco between a fly Phrygian hats. Flags praising Austria were lost in the cloudless sky. A wonderful day, in memory of those who are always sunny. He was there with the other Italians, with Liburnian with the Istrian interior, with the jew, the Dalmatian, greek Adriatic: Trieste elated, anticipating a multicultural city. You would see puzzled, would step back.
It was 1719. At the time, Trieste was a white snowdrops came out of the salt. Few people, a center of 5000. Then the intervention of Vienna: the status of Porto-Franco. The salt is disciolsero. As dolls of salt water wet, the faded aristocrats: too tied to land unprofitable. Freedom to pursue trade and industry, improvement of port facilities, tax exemptions, bank insurance, prohibition of forced entry into vessels, allowed foreigners to own houses and land. The economy caper. Attracted by the favorable conditions for thousands of people it reaches the Gulf to play with fate, and he with them. The city became a melting pot of peoples. Through the new channels are mixed imperial nations: each with its own culture to enrich the new port-garden in Central Europe. A lively city that was growing by feeding on to the jew like the Christian, like the greek-orthodox traditions of mutual respect, a corollary of a way of Trieste. 1781 Edict of Tolerance. Not only were building a big city, but a new spirit, secular and cosmopolitan. At the end of '700 Trieste already had 30,000 people.
And if man does not tell as the Trieste tercentenary of his youth? If his character had soured over time? Perhaps it would be an old grumpy, peevish and annoyed by a cradle and Trieste prison of his life. Perhaps his story would begin in another way.
It was 1719. A new market for Austria had brought the center to inflate artificially. The economic opportunities especially favorable pushed Friuli and Istria to pile up in emerging neighborhoods. The nobility sweep. The new rich puffed up with himself, blind to any logic other than that of business. Jews as Catholics, Orthodox, Protestants such as: all busy to eat and grab. A secular bourgeoisie family, money, savings, morality and religion on display, security and more money. The wave of traffci led to Trieste where people of all, the tide was ebb cultures leaving town on the shore of the lower classes: the Italian majority, followed by a small minority of bureaucrats Germans, Jews, Greeks and a strong part of Slovenia. Did they have less ethnic groups other commercial cities? Italian Culture tried to standardize the other through a systematic and deculturalizzazione approval. It was not a cosmopolitan city, was a city thanks to an artificially straight Vienna, devoted to the economy, not tolerance, but indifference toward everything that had anything to do with money. A town grew up in the values \u200b\u200bof cosmopolitanism did not, two centuries later, made bonfires of the Balkan. Trieste: no meeting, but a clash of peoples.
do not know, maybe not even tell it so, with so much rancor. Maybe because the truth is neither in the cosmopolitan city (romantic myth Elio Apih seconds), or the oneness of its economic culture.
do not know, maybe the truth has been gentrified: hates the extremes, it feeds its myths and stay in a median immobility, sometimes unsightly.
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