I’m Italian, as well as 58 million people in my country and at least 4 million others in the world. Once someone who wasn’t Italian said: they are like children, that’s the reason you can love them, you can hate them. It’s true, maybe. We try to grew up, to be efficient, uncorrupted, to be like we have to be, but we cannot understand any kind of duty. Our life is a play, without rules. We are spolit, litigious, we want to win, always, by any means. Machiavelli built a theory about it: Clean Hands docet, Moggiopoli docet, any Italian scandal docet. We cannot lose and sometimes we cannot win. But we often win, magnificently. We win when you visit Rome, wonderful, stately, full of history in any corner, or Venice, with its sad charme, and the South, beautiful and damned. We win when you talk to us, ‘cause you can talk to us, we love talking, maybe more than we love listening to, but we can listen to you, if you ask, and we can help you, if you need. We win when we invite you to have lunch with us, and you can drink a glass of wine and eat spaghetti, and pizza at dinner: it’s not a sterotype! The difference between Italians and the rest of the world it’s this way to lose and win: when we lose, we lose alone, like you. But when we win, you win with us. ‘Cause we love sharing joy. And we look for greatness, in troubles and pleasures…

I’m listening to you, now. Because I’ve talked.

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