He has always loved construction sites since he was a child, he says they are won<strong>der</strong>ful places, where everything moves, where the landscape changes every day. I always remember my father’s tiny construction site, who was a small buil<strong>der</strong>. He says that and it seems that the eyes sparkle with nostalgia. I see myself as a child observing everything, sitting on a pile of sand. I’ve always loved going to the construction site with my father, and seeing things come out of nothing. For a child, the construction site is magic: today you see scattered sand and bricks, tomorrow you will see a wall that stands alone, and in the end, everything will become a tall, solid building, where people can live. It will be turned into something that will defy gravity. And he carries on remembering distant times, while we have already docked on the artificial island of the airport. I often think of my father, it was immediately after the war, in 1945. He already seemed old to me, even though he was only fifty years old. He was a Genoese, reserved and taciturn. Perhaps more of a master buil<strong>der</strong> than an entrepreneur. But, on the construction site, he always had a jacket and hat on his head, sometimes even a tie. Elegance aside, otherwise he was always there, working with the others. I was a rather frail child, and my mom, your great-grandmother Rosa, wanted to take me to the countryside in Ovada in the summer. It was her idea, along with that of making me study and making me read anything. She was the stubborn champion of an undisciplined son and an ass at school. I would like to interrupt him to ask him what exactly he was up to at school. What the professors told him and how many shortcomings he had in his report card. But he runs after her thoughts. However, I preferred the city to the countryside, and went to my father’s yard to play. He, after dinner, received the workers at home. There was a small one, stocky and full of muscles, it was called il Moro. Then there was Carletto della Rocca Grimalda, always on the move. And there was Luigi, the faithful guardian.All together they took stock of the day passed and what there was to do next day. Then my father dictated to me the report of the day that I wrote slowly on the marble table in the kitchen: 8 workers worked for a total of 72 hours, received 4 sand graves of the Po, bought 12 dozen nails of 100. I think it also comes from there, from those evenings, my passion for building. I watch everything with my mouth open on this magical island. The airport space is huge and full of passengers running around, happy to leave and return. 18 46
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