Neshumaeng’s Weblog

Finally the train stops. We are in Rome. An infinitite series of heartrending moans is invading the aisle. A hour and  a half ago, at 3.30am, I saw the Japanese guy sitting in the aisle in front of my compartment that tried to sleep while standing, the hands of the window that covered his face. He resisted for 45 minutes in that position. These oriental philosophies are really something.

Miraculously, we manage to arrive at Tiburtina Station without loosing anything and we jump on the 8am bus. We arrive in L’Aquila at 11am, but only because the bus broke in the middle of the highway and we have to wait for another bus to pick us up.

The luggage switch from one bus to another is not that easy in between cars that flash past at 180 km an hour, but noboby gets hurt. And this can be considered a victory for the bus company ARPA.  

L’Aquila is a little more beautiful that I left it in July. More shops and bars are open, people start to go out at night. The red zone, the historical center that completely crashed down with the heartquake, is still there, surrounded by soldiers and barriers. Only the outskirt is now alive, but at least it lives again. With regard to the center, the old heart that united L’Aquila (as the city is actually made of dozen of micro villages, being the Italian city that occupies the most surface compared with the number of citizens), no one will be allowed to step in for at least 5 years.

And then there is the “3e32” camp,

in via Strinella, 200 metres from the bus station. An oasis of democracy in between the Forza-Italia-blue of the tends belonging to the Civil Defence Organization, which are all equal, all fenced in, all silent. What was once known as “Parco Unicef” is now “Piazza 3e32”, from the name of the committee that organized the place. 3:32am, the time of the earthquake.  A presidium of firemen (“We only trust the firemen” was one of the cries of protest during the G8 protests, and the processions would always back away on the streets sidewalks to let them pass), a media center that during the G8 had become the official meeting point of all the journalists wo wanted to give some real news (from Japan to Finland, the “Yes we camp” writing on the top of the hill travelled the whole world), a bar, a shed for concerts an meetings,a kitchen and a litte fountain to wash up.  And, last but not least, the three mythical Sebachs, the three chemical toilets that are the only form of toilet possible here.

Well,the atmosphere is not the same as during the G8 anymore. Martin is not here anymore, the German rioter who spoke 11 languages and who have been in jail four times because “I am not a non violent rebel!”. He had followed every G8 in the past 10 years, even the one in Japan (which he reached by train), and his only luggage was his tumpet case. Turi is not here anymore, the homeless who played the wooden flute. The buddist monk who used to wake everyone’s up at 5am with the gong for the prays and the witch from Vicenza who maintained that cell phones are unuseful because thinking of someone means connect with him on an energetical level and messages are delivered even better are missing.

But Sara, Mattia, Vincenzo, Lorenzo, Federica, Orzo and all the 3e32 guys are still there, a bit more tired but still hard-fighting. And definetely not alone: as I arrive I am surprised by the number of tents that sprouted since the last time. 3e32 is a real camp now, lots of turists are arriving because of the “Yes we camp” writing from the tv news.

My sister and I pitch  the tent, right in front of an anthill of course, and we spend the rest of day hanging around the city. It rains hard. It always rains in L’Aquila, but the rain does not stop anything.