THE PEACE GARDEN (an english novel dedicated to my beautiful guests)

No mood to go for spending a couple of days abroad, no mood to go to the airport and took the plane, no mood to share, but, the ticket was paid and the friends already waiting for. So, no way, let’s go. 

It was a good flight with a lot of people. 

I met a boy, the same age as me. No one in the palne,but me and he was alone. Each and every person in the plane was with someone, ready to share an exiting experience trip to the European city. it was  just me and my book. 

London, the rainy town, it doesn’t fit. London the sunny town, a little bit windy, but sunny, that was.

The green of London; what is called “English garden”, that’s it, all around moving from the airport to the house.

landing...Love English speech, love to be able to talk by a language which is no my mother tongue. Love to meet happy people happy to see me, happy to live their lives, happy in their moods.

 Greenwich time just impacted on my physical  time and earlier in the morning I waked up. The house was silent and due to the fact there were no curtains on the windows, the sun came in and and lighted the kitchen and brightned the garden. I had my coffee, waiting for my friends waking up to have a good English breakfast together.

 The green peaceful part of earth, limited by some little threes and flowers, just put me in a short enchanted world of mind, where it is easy to talk to myself, to listen to me, to make my eyes nourished by the colours and my body got warm by the sun.

 Everything lookedto be made by measuring oneself against the world. Anything was typical English.

What’s typical English?

English people are quiet as the nature around: they took their time with the rhythm of the world. Different from the daily life I live: frenetic, chaotic and rushing.

They let each one spends his own time by the rhythm of oneself, empowering the way of feeling of each one. Different from Italian people, whose, trying to get the more hospitability as possible, sometimes limit the way of being of oneself. 

After taking my time, with my pyjama and my second cup of coffee and having a great English breakfast, jut went out and breathed London, by walking on the bridges along the Thames, having a break in a pub, crossing the squares and visiting the monuments.

While the sun was going down and the wind coming up I went for a bier with my friends.

Cool English pub and cute tables on the Thames and beautiful sunset in front of me. In the table next to ours I could  see the boy met in the plane, talking with some people, with his strange accent and way of speaking, not the English one, but the italian way of english speaking.

 A friend of mine said hallo to a friend of his company and cheerful the conversation began and the two tables became one and the people of two groups merged, talking about Milan, the city of Marco and me and London, the city of our friends.

 The time went on and we had to go the restaurant we reserved. A Thai restaurant. Happy for the bier and lovely conversation. Happy for the great Thai food, happy for the trip back home on the english cab and happy to end my evening in my friends'  living room with a hot cup of tea

 The day after was the time to go back to Italy.

At the airport most of the people I had met during the flight to London was those I flew back with to Milan.

Marco was there, waiting for boarding. 

As the English way, talking about the weather, we took place in the plane and continued talking.

 When in Italy we just say goodbye, than queuing an Italian queue for the paper control, we went with on two different queues towards the same counter.

 Day by day my life continued as usual and sometimes I was thinking of Marco, living in Milan, not far from me  and met in the flight and then in London (one of the biggest city of Europe) and then again on the same flight. coincidence 

in the next 2 months i moved to another company and when I changed job I met a lot of new people and one of those was Marco. Marco the Marco I met in the flight to Great Britain.

 At first it was strange to approach each other as  colleagues. Wearing  high-heel and suit makes difficult our approach. The jeans and the shirt dressed during our trip easily  fitted with the easy way of talking and with the easy way of being, while our high-heel and tie lead to complication as the Italian way to, but we found the way.

 It was a Saturday afternoon and we met at Brera Gardens, a little garden where the silence lives and where some threes provide shade. The atmosphere was that of an enchanted garden and the way was the English way, polite and quite, but friendly and confidential.

 The Italian aperitivo  became the new  English bier on Navigli.

 The first week end we spent together was in London, where anything had began.