Yesterday I pulled out of the closet my big flag. I opened it, I went to the terrace and I stretched very good for everyone to see. It was so long that I wanted to do, long before the March 17, from very long before the World Cup, the Europeans. Now he stands there, fair, watching the world it represents, a street that was very reminiscent of Italy, rural, simple, slenziosa. Those colors, green, white and red suit he lost to the landscape, trees, sky, roads, land. I felt proud, not only of my country, but that gesture. I felt even more proud when, turning to a town red, so red, like Perugia I noticed that others had done the same. Lots of flags, banners, banner display, some shyly, some majestically on the balconies, windows. A small gesture that costs little but means so much. It means "you like me you're Italian." It seems little, it seems obvious, but it is not at all. Italy of the communes, it is always Italy. Italy Italy is always uniform. Fascist Italy and Fascist Italy is always. And so on to infinity. There will always be someone who will try to rivinar the party, but this is not something that happens only on the boot, it happens in other countries which seem more united than ours, but it is not. Think of us, and one shot of a city in western like mine you understand that all this division, this hatred is mere posturing. Talk of the vulgar who think themselves superior because they do not celebrate, because they do not know the story, do not respect it and do not respect all those guys, those girls, those young people who are looking for fixed points, believe in the flag, at least in that.
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