Luigi - The rainbow in Milan

Milan - Fluttering dress

Verona - Rolled up pants and sleeves

Cinque Terre (Corniglia) - Yim

Cinque Terre (Vernazza) - Un bello ragazzo italiano (mediterranean look)

Florence - British flavour

Australian girls are awesome

It’s impossible to be in Florence and not wonder about those gentlemen stuck in their impeccably tailored suits, who use handkerchiefs in their lapels the same way we use our “everyday” ties and who wear those bright-coloured socks that seem to be part of the best Agatha Ruiz de la Prada collections. A fashion editor from la Repubblica reminded me: “Firenze non è Pitti Uomo”. He’s right. It’s too hot in Florence. I look around and all I can see is mini-skirts, flip-flops, tank shirts, naked biceps, sweaty cleavages and naked shoulders. And tourists…thousands of tourists. Emma is in front of me. I look at her and I wonder:

- What am I complaining about?

Siena - When a shy guy looks like a rock star

Siena - Daddy cool

Florence - Turquoise dress

There have been more than twenty years but I still remember... We went out to dinner after another day at the beach. Over her tanned skin my mother was wearing a turquoise dress. Since that day turquoise it’s my colour for women

48 bipolar hours

I went to Genoa on purpose to buy a new camera. I ended up spending an entire monthly wage in a new one. Not that that the new camera is that exceptional…I simply don’t earn that much (I know my director sometimes visits this blog, and to be honest, I’ve never been known as subtle guy…)

I arrived Cinque Terre too late to find an accommodation and I ended up begging to stay in the last place I was planning to sleep - Camping. The idea of me sleeping on the beach and waking up in the middle of the night being kicked by some Carabinieri didn’t particularly seduce me and In the end I was still able (in spite of my low moral) to capitalize the little charm I still had to convince the receptionist of campsite to let me sleep in the open air.

There’s no use to try to denying it… travel alone is really amusing but when things go really wrong you have simply two choices: or spend half an hour of roaming with your best friend, or risk a major vulnerability. Sleeping in the open air in the middle of families in tents and caravans, with the new machine inside my sleeping bag which closure I had just discovered it was broken was not exactly the picture I had for my vacations.

The next morning I know a Finnish guy. The empathy is immediate and that social boundary has suddenly effect on my moral. He goes to Rome but I decide to go to Florence. I look for a place to dine outside the tourist area and I manage to find a beautiful terrace full of Italians. This is where am I writing you. A group of Florentine people invite me to make a toast with them and I recall that in Italy, beautiful women notice me more than in any other country (cast the first stone who never found comfort in the care of strangers) but that, instead increasing my libido, brings me to the memory only what I really need to cheer me up: when you travel alone, you’re just by yourself when you really want to be by yourself. I look back to my last 48 hours and with a ridiculous smile on my face I recall that famous phrase from the mother of Forrest Gump: “Life's a box of chocolates, Forrest. You never know what you're gonna get”

My Princedom for a camera

The two Dutch guys start to feel the same nausea that I have come to complain. In Monaco, nothing sounds real or human. But they still count the number of Lamborghinis and Maybachs. One of those guys screams something. I assume it is the Bugatti they still didn’t find. The moment I turn back there is a mismatch of wills between the orders of my brain and muscle reflexes in my right hand. The camera falls. 10 seconds after my ass is on the floor and my hands on my head. I think about the walls of my room plain of people I met while travelling, the unexpected happiness of running a blog, and especially, in my will of doing this trip alone. It is not easy to understand for those who don’t really know me but, that episode makes me wonder half the decisions I have taken in the last half year. I’m touched, first with the international scurrility I hear around me, then with fraternal silence that I feel on by backs. I tell them I could hardly imagine a moment like that without tears in my eyes. The phone rings. It is the girlfriend who I still don’t manage to call her ex. Already with a blurred vision I ask those guys:
- What did I just tell you?

The official footwear of the French Riviera

Smells like Saint-Tropez

Saint-Tropez has a lot of people to shoot and little space to do so discreetly. I kept my camera inside the bag and only took it when I saw this Lacoste polo in a terrace. For those who do not understand why and have patience to read the text you can click here...

The other side of Cannes

United Colours of Croisette

Marseille - (after oriental shirts) 4 pleasant chinese girls

Toulouse - Gianpaolo's oriental shirt