Due Torri in Bologna

Location is okay. The whole building was in reconstruction, lots of things hanging in the entrance and stairs and the view was not a view at all, it was covered by plastic and maintenance stuff. The bed was comfortable and we had a bathroom.

Yet there is something good in you, something that makes you overlook the atmosphere of decay that you perceive as soon as you step into the hall and are hit by the spicy bouquet of damp and mold. I admit it: the photos on which I based my choice had deceived me like my friend Gina's selfies. At sixty, he continues to "filter" on Instagram as one does with ash sifted through gauze after boiling the must. But by dint of ironing out wrinkles, widening the eyes, shrinking the double chin and using every technical device that still makes her look attractive, the result is an evident and plastic artificiality. The three keys that will give you access to the mansion located at the top of a staircase accentuate the unfathomability of some questions that crowd your mind when you enter the mansion. Okay, there is a bathroom, but I'm not saying how much it might cost to plaster it (my cousin would do it for you for thirty euros), but the person you pay to clean it for you might notice some superfluous hair between the sink and the floor. And the wallpaper as pale as the face of Vlad III of Wallachia and which is so "passing by the grandmother you remember when you need the fifty euros that gives you up when you remember to go and visit her"? For everyone, sooner or later, the moment comes when we need to modernize our entire wardrobe. However, I appreciate the effort made with the comfort tarts with an ancient aftertaste. They touched me because they reminded me of snacks at Aunt Silvana's; she, eternal spinster by choice (of the others), never missed, along with caresses, a slap on the wrist as soon as you dared to rummage in the closet of her bedroom where I hid with my brother for fun. And yet... despite everything... regardless (Totò would say), there is a beauty hidden in here, the magic of an unpredictable experience, something that will make you say: "I will never be able to forget you". You must have faith and believe that the enchantment of a Montalian opportunity will still come true. And I, in a Pascalian way, want to believe that you will reveal yourself again, to renew the miracle of your secret essence. Too secret and romantic, like Mimì's attic in "Bohème".