Fabrizio in Palermo

 That’s me, in Palermo (draft in elaboration)

I am Venezuelan, a descendant of the Italian diaspora. I arrived in Palermo in April 2022. The world was reborn after the pandemic, and thousands of young people flew to Palermo to avenge the years of lockdown, abstinence, and celibacy. I did not come to recover from the lockdown, abstinence, or celibacy, but to reinvent myself professionally and existentially, and I wanted to do it by discovering the land of my ancestors. With my training as a sociologist, I can't help but give a certain historicity to the triviality of my desperate decisions, and I notice that I am a returning member of the diaspora, which at that time filled me with a certain emotion.

 Finally, I would see the land my nonna (grandmother in Italian) told me about. And I came here to be reborn because I had encountered a tremendous economic failure in Cameroon, which followed a professional and existential crisis in England. Of course, this followed, in turn, a political crisis in Venezuela, after which 7 million people, including myself, left the country where I was born, grew up, and studied. Because I am also one of that diaspora. But I must return to the story of my arrival in Palermo, Sicily.

From the plane that brought me from England, I watched Europe pass by through the window, and I had no doubts when I started to see the Alps. There are millions of us in the world who know that part of our genes come from this boot-shaped country; even its shape is beautiful. Italy and its beauty start to dazzle you already from the airplane window. I was filled with joy, hope, and a sense of certainty that I would rise again. I was ruined as a result of the combined effects of a separation, cancer, a pandemic, and a commercial fraud that bankrupted me in Cameroon. But I didn't care; I also felt like an heir to the strength of Marco Polo, Columbus, and so many who left this peninsula to explore the world.

I was arriving in Palermo, and I never tire of repeating it, ruined but optimistic because I knew I had a cultural background and professional experience that I was sure would help me rise again. I had arrived in England 20 years earlier with nothing, and by adopting all the strengths of the Italian diaspora, I made my way in that formidable but cold country. Just three years after my impromptu arrival in England, I was working as an adviser and advocate for refugees, asylum seekers, and irregular migrants. If I could do it in England, then surely, I could do it even more so in Italy. Italy, a country that no one doubts is more welcoming than England, would allow me to do something similar. Or better.

And unlike my tumultuous arrival in England, I had a clear plan for Italy. First and foremost, I was going to write a novel that would tell the story of the Bolivarian Revolution's fiasco. While writing, I would work in the professional field I had carved out in England: I would work with refugees and asylum seekers. Simple. I would draw on my knowledge of the Society of Jesus, a religious congregation to which I feel spiritually connected despite having no faith, not defining myself as a Christian, and being philosophically an atheist. But the Jesuits of Venezuela trusted me because I studied with them, and they called me to lead difficult projects, which I did successfully. So, let's get to work.

I arrived in Palermo at a hostel where I had a reservation for a week, thanks to an adorable friend, Kasha, whom I will talk about in another story. I was greeted by the owner of the hostel, whom I will call Giovanni to protect his privacy.

Don Giovanni took an immediate interest in me. Upon meeting him, the difference between Italy and England became apparent, face to face. For him, it was normal to be interested in me, my personal circumstances, and my motivations. In England, a conversation with a hostel owner would have been primarily about the weather, the famous "weather." It would have been filled with topics with little personal involvement, without politics, without religion, without personal details. He made me feel that I had arrived in Italy, the stereotypical Italy, the Italy of the nonna, and that in this country, I would rise from my failure in Cameroon and become a person once more.

Don Giovanni was very eager to offer his help. And I, besides appreciating his help, felt that I was in a country where who I am was valued. Indeed, he was impressed to learn that I went to Cameroon invited by a project aimed at attracting investments in the eastern part of that country, which is the poorest area. I detailed what I did when I traveled through that part of western equatorial Africa. Above all, I was excited to notice that Don Giovanni seemed to appreciate that the project was born from a felt need of the Cameroonian diaspora who wanted to contribute to their country. He elaborated, confirming that the project failed not because the idea was bad, but because of the simplicity of the businesswoman behind it. I felt that I was part of Don Giovanni's country because, for once, I felt that someone understood my sensitivity. I had arrived in the right country, the country of my nonna.

I explained to Don Giovanni that for now, and probably for many years, my project in Africa was shelved. Here in Italy, I would focus on supporting organizations that aid refugees and, in my spare time, I would dedicate myself to writing a novel I had started in England, a novel with the backdrop of Venezuela, my departure, and Ana's suicide. I shared the details with him, and he encouraged me, suggesting that I also include the experiences I would build in Sicily, my return to Italy.

Immediately, Don Giovanni offered his help. He recommended that I visit a refugee assistance center near the hostel.

"But don't be in a hurry to go. Your story impresses me. Take a few days of vacation to shake off the bitter taste of your experience in Cameroon."

I followed his advice and toured the city as a tourist for a few days. Finally, I visited the Centro Astalli, a European gem of refugee reception. My first impression was overwhelmingly positive. The first person I spoke to was charming, beautiful, energetic. She took a personal interest in me; when she spoke, she even touched my arm and hand. She reminded me of how I used to show interest in my clients when I worked at the Refugee Council in England, though I would never have touched a shoulder or elbow of one of my clients. I was fascinated. I was in Italy. My heart and brain were in agreement. Talking with her, I realized that my way, so criticized in England, of showing interest in people, is simply an expression of my Italian culture. What pride.

A few days later, I spoke with the director, who received me in his office. An old priest, a Jesuit, who listened to me with attention and courtesy. I told him about my involvement in Fe y Alegría in Venezuela. There, I was a history teacher, a community promoter, and later I became involved in educational research projects, but without losing some hours of dedication to Fe y Alegría, the Catholic organization that started its projects "where the asphalt ends." I thought that when I told him I had been the director of a project we called the Community Management School, he would be enthusiastic about me. And rightfully so. Indeed, that school aimed to create tools for communities to take charge of their own development. I was the founder of that school and worked in it with my great friend, another Jesuit, Joseíto Virtuoso. I thought that now I could fully exercise all my talent, my ability to inspire. Suddenly, the Jesuit interrupted me.

"No tenemos cargos para ofrecerte," he said. And he continued with a more or less bureaucratic speech, talking about the many needs they have to address and the few resources they have. He told me how the center came about... and insisted, "We have no positions to offer you."

I wanted to say, "Hey bastard, I'm not looking for positions. I can support you so you can help more people, hire more people. Damn it, I don't need positions; I can create them myself, and I can help find funding."

Of course, I didn't say that; it's not my style. I told myself, "To him, you're just a South American, that's all. No matter what you've done, all he sees is a beggar looking for work. Period." I thought about calling a friend of Joseíto's, also an acquaintance of mine, who I knew had been called to work in Rome and held an important position. But I didn't. "Forget it," I told myself. "I have to find my own way, like any other migrant."

I went back to the hostel and spoke again with Don Giovanni. He made me understand that Italy is controlled by a generation of old, entrenched people stuck to the institutional gears, preventing them from functioning. In Italy, those with ambition and initiative have left, and these old people stayed behind, oppressing the young. I remembered the wonderful girl I met on the first day, whom I'll call Antonella, and I told myself I had to open doors among the young. "Go and find Antonella," I told myself. "Look for those like her." A few days later, I returned to the center.

I followed the regular procedure for any migrant, although it was a bit strange because I have an Italian passport, I have Italian citizenship. Still, I followed the procedure; I had to understand how things worked. And while following procedures, a few days passed.

During those days, I dedicated myself to tourism, making friends with the young people at the hostel, with whom I felt very comfortable. I joined their parties and outings, where I was always invited, partly because of the bond between the Ukrainian and me. And when I was finally registered, interviewed, and so on at the Centro Astalli, I decided to look for Antonella.

"Where is Antonella?" I asked someone.

"She left, she no longer works with us."

She was gone.

I returned to the hostel frustrated and found Don Giovanni there. He asked me, and listened attentively to my story. He told me that's how Italy is: talented young people have closed doors and end up leaving.

"But remember that Sicily is a great land." He felt grand, speaking solemnly, a reflection of the island's history.

"We Sicilians have been here since the beginning of civilization. Phoenicians, Carthaginians, Greeks, Romans, Arabs, Byzantines, Normans, Spaniards, and Italians have all been here. Everyone. We did not leave to build empires, to conquer and subdue other peoples. Here we value life and culture. They conquered us, but we won the hearts of our conquerors with our culture. So, you are welcome in Palermo by me. I offer you to write here in my hostel."

"I would love to, but living in a hostel is very expensive."

"And who said you have to pay?"

The pride of being Italian couldn't fit in my chest. I am Venezuelan, as I said, but a descendant of Italians, and through one of the lines of my paternal family's maternal side, I also have Sicilian ancestors. I felt part of the history. All the solemnity with which Don Giovanni spoke to me was filling my body, feeding my ego. I felt that mine was a triumphant return. The descendant of those who left had met the descendant of those who stayed. Here I would build something.

But I knew I couldn't let myself get caught up in so much emotion. I couldn't accept such generosity without giving something in return.

“What can I do? How can I contribute?” I asked Don Giovanni.

“In no way,” he insisted. “It’s my prerogative and privilege. I help you, and I feel proud to be Italian, Sicilian. Helping you is like saying to myself that I would have helped Pirandello or Goethe when they came to write in Palermo.”

I was struck by Giovanni's connection to history, literature, and the literature produced in Sicily. This helped me accept his generosity, but even so, I neither agreed nor refused. It was too much.

But the next day, something even more surprising happened. Giovanni approached me and said:

“I recommend you take a vacation. You deserve to enjoy yourself. You took a beating in Cameroon, left Venezuela in a bad way, and faced discrimination in Spain. Now it's time to write. Write in peace. And to be at peace, enjoy the summer, go to the beach, rest, have fun. Then, with a peaceful mind, you can start writing your novel.”

I’m not used to someone being so generous with me without expecting anything in return. I believed in his kindness, in his pride of being Sicilian, but I still felt I had to give something back. I remembered my mother’s saying: “il pesce dopo tre giorni puzza” – fish smells after three days – which basically means that one shouldn't overstay their welcome, as both the host and the guest can grow weary. I couldn’t stay in that hostel for a whole year or two, writing a novel, without giving something in return.

So, I decided to tell Giovanni the truth and explain that his generosity put me in a vulnerable position.

“Hey, in this situation, you will get tired of me. I’ll become a parasite. Eventually, you’ll get tired of me because I’m not doing anything for you.”

He looked at me with a mix of sympathy and disapproval. I continued:

“You are giving up a space in the hostel that you could rent to your clients, and I’m just writing.”

But he had thought it all through. He said:

“You have too much Anglo-Saxon culture in your head. You are in Sicily. I want to be your patron. But to make you happy, I’ll tell you that your presence here is positive. You bring a good atmosphere. You give an intellectual touch to the hostel, which benefits me because it improves the spirit of the place, and I avoid the drunks who come from England looking for cheap beer.”

Still, I wanted to do something more tangible. But what he said seemed very true. In the days I had been there, I went to the beach with the kids, went out for cocktails, told stories about Cameroon, England, and Venezuela... and the online comments about the hostel were increasingly positive. In short, I was giving something in return for my accommodation.

The conversation about doing something more tangible came up naturally. We gradually matured the idea of creating a coworking space to attract the growing digital economy audience to the hostel. This would give me a job, a formal position while I wrote the novel. I would create a new branch for the hostel's business, not just the intangible atmosphere. Don Giovanni loved the idea.

“Meanwhile, go and enjoy the beach, enjoy the presence of the young people in the hostel. I’ve seen that the kids like you, and you enjoy being around young people. I also adore young people.”

The next day, Giovanni was talking to workers, lawyers, architects, and even local government authorities: he was starting his project to expand the hostel and make part of it a coworking space for which I would be responsible.

When I communicated Giovanni’s offer to my family, everyone raised their voices in concern.

“It sounds good, Dad,” my daughter said. “But you went to Cameroon full of illusions, and it was all a mirage. You were convinced that Claire was an honest person, and I told you she only wanted money and would throw you overboard when she didn’t need you. And that’s exactly what happened. How can we trust you? You don’t have good judgment for assessing people’s kindness. What does Don Giovanni want from you?”

He wanted a role in history, to feel Sicilian, and he wanted his clients to be happy in his hostel. To me, it was clear. So, for now, I thought, I have to take advantage of what is in front of me. Convinced that I had won a sort of lottery by meeting Giovanni, I dedicated myself to going to the beach, going out with the young people at night; in short, I lived a second adolescence almost at the age of 60. I enjoyed the tourist side of Palermo, went to the beach whenever I could, became a regular visitor of Capo Gallo, from where I set off on swimming expeditions to the Grotta dell'Olio. I had all kinds of adventures with the young people and also had some small flirtations with the girls, rarely romantic and almost never erotic. My experiences were etched in my memory, and I captured some in the anecdotes of stories I later compiled in my book  “Bloody Migrant." And above all, this period of second adolescence allowed me to conceive some stories, still unpublished.

There was a young Ukrainian man managing the hostel. I became friends with him, and he was happy with me, never feeling threatened by my closeness with Giovanni. At one point, he told me that thanks to me, the hostel had acquired a new, more joyful atmosphere. I was pleased to know that by having fun, living la vie en rose, I was creating an environment that led to more and more positive online reviews for the hostel, despite its hygiene limitations. I also invented new tasks for myself, like going to buy breakfast items for the guests, even though I wasn’t obligated to do so. Thus, I spent the most enjoyable summer of my life, which practically extended into winter. 

The procedures I followed at Centro Astalli didn’t become a significant frustration because I had outings and conversations with the young tourists arriving at the hostel. My favorites were the descendants of Italians coming to discover the land of their ancestors or the girls who provided opportunities for some flirting. After winter, I started to worry because I wasn't seeing progress with the coworking space, the area I was supposed to manage. The beach days were economical, but the cocktail nights were much less so. My credit card could handle a lot, but not that much. I knew I’d pay off this debt once I became the coworking manager, but I couldn’t accumulate too much debt. And then the solution came from the sky.

I had bought a bicycle to avoid spending money on buses when going to the beach. But the same day I rented it, a tourist staying at the hostel asked if he could rent the bike. Of course, I said yes. And that same day, I bought a second bike, one for renting out, one for myself. Two days later, a couple of lovebirds appeared and wanted to rent both bikes. So, I bought a third one. Gradually, I kept buying bikes with the profits from the rented ones. I built my small empire of 10 bicycles. I wasn’t making a lot of money, but it allowed me to hang on while waiting for the work to prepare the coworking space.

One morning, all my bikes were stolen just as I had barely saved up enough money to buy them. I went to the police and filed a report. When I returned to the hostel, I encountered Don Giovanni.

“How could you go to the police? Why didn’t you tell me first? Never call the police without consulting me first.”

Don Giovanni was furious. I didn’t understand. They stole my bikes, and it’s extraordinary to report it? I truly didn’t understand, and I still don’t.

“I’ll get your bikes back, and you’ll withdraw the report.”

I don’t know what happened, but a few hours later, the bikes reappeared, some with a different seat or handlebar. But they all reappeared.

Meanwhile, the hostel's atmosphere had soured. The manager’s brother had returned, bringing a very negative vibe, full of gossip. I was one of his victims. And a few days later, my bikes were stolen again. The thieves were caught on camera, and Don Giovanni told me that this time they wouldn’t be able to retrieve them.

I don’t remember what else happened, but the atmosphere continued to deteriorate, and I tried to distance myself. I bought new bikes and locks and kept my interactions with hostel guests to a minimum, only enough to rent out the bikes.

Then the day of reckoning came. Don Giovanni approached me and said:

“I’m not going to invest in the coworking space. Just like that, Giovanni told me, ‘I can’t, it’s not worth it, I’m sorry.’”

The situation hit me hard. I felt vulnerable, and in that state of mind, I lost interest in the young people and their adventures. The effect was immediate: I stopped being functional for the hostel. Five days later, Giovanni told me we needed to talk.

“You no longer bring a good atmosphere to the hostel. You’re not functional. I prefer you leave.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow.”

And so, I suddenly found myself homeless, without money, without credit, and with ten bicycles. But I left with three stories to tell: Candela, a wonderful, beautiful, charming, and incredibly free woman who inspired a character in the novel I am writing based on my life in Palermo. Claire, whose name has been changed here to protect her identity and her miseries, also inspired a character in the story of Celine, already published, representing everything wrong with modern feminism and femininity. And Celine, who expresses everything right about modern femininity and feminism, and also my last lover. These characters animate the story I published in “Tales of the Damned Migrant.”

With my stories, my three suitcases, and my debts, I went to sleep at the hostel for the last time. And that night, I slept well.

The next day, I began my life as a homeless man. But the only homeless man with ten bicycles.

From homeless to bicycle entrepreneur.

I was scared, sad, desolate; but at the same time, I felt fortunate. Now I truly knew what it meant to start from the bottom. I had no home, no friends except for the Ukrainian. I lived in a foreign city, I was a stranger. I had just a few hundred euros of credit on a maxed-out credit card. I had a debt that would take years to pay off. But I told myself: the situation could be worse because what could be wrong was my spirit or my health. And I had already had and overcome cancer. I had already overcome separation and divorce. I had already overcome my children leaving. This is a piece of cake. Strength, Fabrizio, you still have a strong soul and perfect health.

Sleeping wouldn’t be a problem, I told myself. It’s a beach city, I’ve been a privileged child, so I’ve often slept on the beach, looking at the sky, speculating about the universe, and seducing some girl. Come on, Fabrizio, strength. I repeated this reasoning to myself: my fondest memories are lying on the beach at Cayo Borracho, in the middle of the Caribbean Sea, with my dear Cristina, speculating about the vastness of the universe. And then with Kathiana, on the same beach. And then with others. And on that same beach, with Anabel, whom I would fall madly in love with and marry. Of course, this time it wouldn’t be the Caribbean. This time it would be different. I wouldn’t have company. I wouldn’t be either openly or secretly in love. This time I wouldn’t be a privileged and adventurous boy, seducing no one and enjoying the company of a friend with whom I was secretly in love. No. This time I would be homeless. But sand is sand, the rest is a social construct, a psychological construct. But the sand is the sand, come on, Fab, I also told myself in English, my second language. I have to overcome these social constructs, build new ones, I told myself. Anyway, it will only be for a few days. You will survive and tell the story. You will survive and write it. You will survive and bear witness that one can rise from the deepest abyss. Someday someone will read me and will not have fallen lower. And if I rise, I will help them rise. Strength, Fabrizio.

Thinking that I had to bear witness to my failures and that someday I would write and set an example for someone filled me with strength. Even with spirit. And I even felt proud. What a privilege, then, to wander as a homeless person on the beach in front of Palermo.

Let’s get to work, then. The first step to getting back on my feet was to organize the bicycle business and find a place to leave the suitcases. Sleeping at night was the least of my worries, I had decided: the beach. For the suitcases, I left some things at a neighbor’s house at the hostel where I was friends, and others with the Ukrainian. I chained the bicycles together, and for that, I relied on the support of a great friend who is always there when I’m in the biggest messes, Kasha, who sent me money for motorcycle chains.

The first night on the beach, I couldn’t sleep, staring at the sky. The second night, very little. And the days were total suffering. I went into a library to set up the bicycle website because I wouldn’t have the captive audience of the hostel. My daughter insisted on paying for a few days at a different hostel. I did a little of that, spent some of what she sent me on the business, and went back to the beach.

Leaving the bikes chained together seemed imprudent because it was inviting theft (or for the police to confiscate them), so I started scattering them around the city. But I soon discovered that wasn’t possible. The shopkeepers told me not to put the bikes there, that I was blocking their customers’ way, covering their business, etc. They tolerated a bike for a few hours, or a night, but then that sidewalk was theirs. So, I had to move the bikes from place to place. During the day, I spent my time moving bikes from one spot to another, noting where they were. And so, when someone called to rent a bike, I looked for the nearest one to the person’s hotel. The effort to manage a small bike business without a place to store them is ineffable. I think I’ll write a story about that.

Then, I gave up. I gave up and accepted that I couldn’t stay under the stars and the sun. I gave up because I didn’t know where to go to the bathroom. I gave up because my daughter, on the phone, made me understand that she couldn’t bear the idea of me being homeless in Palermo. And I gave up because I was alone and went

 to the municipal government office and explained my emergency situation. They already knew about me because I had presented myself on a previous occasion for some health procedures that I don’t mention in this story. So, they interviewed me there and immediately referred me to a shelter, a temporary shelter. I stayed there for two weeks. The truth is, I was very impressed by the shelter.

I stayed in that shelter for two weeks, and the physical quality was impressive. The bed was clean and made, the mattresses were good, the room was clean, the shower was clean, there was soap and shampoo. It was almost like being in a hotel. The only downside, which was significant for me, was that I had to leave early in the morning at 7 and return at 7 sharp in the evening. Arriving a bit late meant losing my spot. And I couldn’t leave things in the kitchen, so I had to organize my lunch outside while running from place to place to deliver a bike, receive another, and above all, change the places where I chained them. In my few free moments, I went to the library to set up my business.

It was a mess. I spent all day running from one bike to another. I, who am disorganized and can lose keys inside my room, had to organize myself not to lose ten bikes scattered around the city. Each bike with two chains and two locks (one to tie the bike and one wheel, the other for the other wheel). Each bike with its two keys. Twenty keys to confuse and clarify. Plus the spare keys. In short, what does a homeless person do with forty keys?

One of the biggest difficulties was punctuality. But of course, when a client told me they wanted the bikes in a certain place, they weren’t necessarily there on time. If I had a business, they would arrive at the business, and arriving ten minutes before or after, or half an hour before or after, wouldn’t make a big difference. But if I had to be on the street waiting for one person and then deliver the bike to another in another part of the city, and had to fetch a bike that was in another part of the city, everything became very inefficient and unmanageable. And I ran and ran with my bike and my forty keys.

In short, to avoid that disaster, I ended up hiding the bikes in an abandoned church that was about to be restored because the roof was falling. By paying 50 euros a month to a local mafioso, he didn’t mind me leaving them there, as he was in charge of taking care of the place.

I eventually accepted that the best thing I could do while at that shelter was to do nothing with the bikes. Just wait for my new place. There, I would talk to a social worker who would surely sympathize with the fact that I wanted to create a business to be independent, autonomous, create my own job, and maybe someday employ someone. Meanwhile, in this place, the best thing I could do was sleep and eat, and improve the website I had made. And that’s what I did. I waited 15 days without anything significant happening, only learning to do nothing, to wait.

The frog in warm water, the Centro San Carlo.

Fifteen days passed, and finally, I went to Centro San Carlo, the best of all shelters. And certainly, the quality of the shelter was very good. We were about five or six people per room, with bunk beds. It offered an Italian breakfast, meaning a pastry and coffee. You had to leave at 8 in the morning, but at noon, you could come in to eat, and then you had to go out again. Every other week, you could stay in the afternoon for a nap, and you could always come back in the evening at 6. I thought, this place is very good, the quality is very good.

It was perfect to carry out my bicycle project. Being there, I could have managed the bicycle project and continued writing the novel I had been working on for years. But there was a regulatory restriction that made everything difficult. Despite having plenty of space to store the bikes, they told me I couldn’t leave them inside, that it was a place for the homeless, not to run a business. The bikes had to stay outside. For a few days, I tried, but running around the city was too cumbersome, so I had to decide between starting to be autonomous but sleeping on the street, which was even worse, and of course, I didn’t feel strong enough at this age to do something so radical, or accepting reality and thinking of a different strategy to survive that didn’t involve the bikes.

text added on Aug 6

 The Community Bicycle Project

How sad. The dream of creating a business was shattered. Not only had I failed, but I also understood how difficult it is for others who fall into misfortune and depend on charitable help. The word "charity," which some repeat in Latin as if to cleanse it of the perverse dependency it reproduces, was tainted in my mind.

 

"I want to rise from nothing, create a business, and I couldn't. How is it possible that the institution that gives me a place to sleep is the same one that doesn't make a small adjustment to help me become autonomous and independent?" I thought as I walked through the streets of Palermo, looking for a bathroom or a bicycle. It made me angry that the rules were applied so strictly, preventing me from advancing in my project.

"Don't they realize that they betray Christian principles and the sensitivity of those who pay the taxes that allow them to work? No, of course not," I reflected as I walked down Via Maqueda, full of tourists and attractions. I passed the place where I had left my favorite bicycle, in front of a Bangladeshi food place.

 

They stole it, damn it. -Another bike stolen. Another one! How infuriating.

 

"It's okay, Fabrizio, some of them will get stolen. That's why you bought those super chains for motorcycles. But here, on the busiest avenue at night? Why?" I wondered. "Surely because it bothers those selling Indian food in front. They don't like it occupying their space, just like the Sicilian businesses. I'm sure they contacted the local thieves, and someone in Ballaró has the special tool to break those locks. Fabrizio, learn. Every day you have to change the position of the bicycles, the nine left for rent, and the one you use to get around."

 

I reflected on the fact that never in my life had I had so many things stolen as now, when I am poorer than ever. Poverty makes you more prone to being a victim of all possible crimes, that's clear. Poverty makes water more expensive or requires much effort to access free water. Everything costs a lot of effort; everything is vulnerable. "Damn those from Caritas, damn it, they don't let me store the bicycles in the courtyard where there's nothing or in the abandoned church next door, where there are only rubble. Rubble!"

 

I thought about selling them. I went to Via Divisi, an alley with several bicycle shops, where I went to repair them. "That's how Palermo is, sorry," they told me. I realized I could only sell them at the price of stolen bicycles. In the end, for 10 bicycles, I was going to get no more than 150 euros. "What do I do?" And the chains and anti-theft locks, well, those I won't have a way to sell, even though they cost more than the bicycles. Once again, poverty and its vicious circle. If I had a house, I would store the chains in any corner, put an ad on Facebook, and wait. But on the street, no. Everything is more complicated.

Life Rewards Movement and Initiative. "I will keep trying and find the solution. I always find a solution," I thought. I tried to gain allies among the center's staff, and they were certainly supportive with their words. Every time someone showed understanding, I got my hopes up, imagining how I would finally lift my bicycle business. But from there to challenging the sacred authority of the center's regulations to let me store the bicycles in a safe place, it was a no-go.

The director of the center, always friendly and understanding, was emphatic: 

“No way” she said.

 "Be patient," I told myself. "Eventually, they'll understand that my project is different from what they're used to. They think that to leave the dormitory, you need to get a job, not start a business. But they’ll understand. I have to present my bicycle project to them later, explain it step by step. Be patient, let a few days pass."

And a few days did pass, while I adjusted to the routine of the center and the craziness of renting bicycles to the few tourists, running to hide them, changing their locations, carrying the chains, and navigating the mad traffic of Palermo.

I made numerous attempts to make them understand that my project was a micro-enterprise. I spoke personally with each of the staff members, dedicating more than a day to each communication plan. I mentioned the micro-enterprise promotion program that was so successful in Venezuela and India. While it was a coffee conversation, everyone understood. But when I tried to formalize my plans, they were met with the disease of "it-can't-be-done-ism," an ailment that seems to affect Italians when they start working in government agencies. And I always left with the impression that there was something more than their ignorance preventing them from understanding me, perhaps "it-can't-be-done-ism."

In the end, I spoke with almost all the staff at the center, looking for allies, but always reached the point of "it-can't-be-done-here" and "this-is-Sicily." Until only the director of the center remained. Nothing. Days passed. I brought more bicycles, tied them up, ran through the center of Palermo. Nothing.

I didn't let myself be discouraged by the indifference of those who didn't want to understand. I waited for the staff in the afternoon or evening. In the mornings, I went to a café on Via Maqueda that seemed to be the only authentic one, not made for tourists. There, I had a coffee and went online. I spent time writing the famous story of Sofia, which I have been writing for years. I also did things online for the bicycles, and when they called me, I rushed out to deliver one to a tourist, taking the opportunity to move those that had been tied up too long in one place.

During those exhausting rounds through the city's historic center, I discovered the Calsa library. It was a fantastic place. Through the alley that crosses the historic center, skirting old buildings and balconies that showcase many complex and contradictory architectural styles, typical of an ancient city, down by Piazza Magione and walking along cobbled streets, you pass almost unnoticed by an insignificant gate in a city where everything seems magical and old. Upon opening it, I saw a garden that is like a large patio, a haven, which you don't even understand well what it is. There are ruins with columns whose origin I don't know, orange trees, mandarin trees, and fig trees. It is beautiful. As soon as I saw it, I thought: "Here I can combine my rudimentary existence in the dormitory with a writer's life. Maybe I won't have to convince anyone at San Carlo to carry out the bicycle idea."

That Garden-Courtyard was Part of a Convent. After a political maneuver among neighbors, the convent, and the municipality, which is not worth detailing, a collective ended up managing the library and the garden. The adjoining building, which faces the garden, was recently modernized into a library. It is the most beautiful community library I have ever seen. It has a large room with children's books and bean bags for users to settle in, even lie down. Everything in a clean, orderly environment, decorated with a minimalist yet cozy style. The library area has another room intended for an adult audience, with a large table for meetings. It does not have a vast number of books, at most, a thousand, much less than I had in my house in Caracas. But they were the typical books someone with my sensitivity would have read in their teenage and university years: leftist literature, sociology, political science, left-leaning orientation.

"This is my Italy," I said to myself. Being inside, I forgot that I had become a homeless person with bicycles. "I will come here to write. Here I will finish my novel. Here I will meet the people I need to start my life over." The first day I went, I did not take care of the bicycles, nor did I worry about them. I began to browse the books they had.

The first one I saw was Italo Calvino, one of my favorite authors. And I saw so many authors that I read when I was a sociology student. The moment came when I had to go to the bathroom; I am old and have to go more frequently than I would like. Going to the bathroom is my biggest frustration when I have moments of admiration towards Palermo: always filthy, always with a black stain at the bottom because they are not cleaned well. They are disgusting. But this bathroom was spotless, shiny. And it had a bathroom on the upper floor and one downstairs, extraordinarily clean. "No more suffering to find a bathroom outside the dormitory." Of course, I couldn't read anything for more than a few minutes. I was excited. I had found a space that was obviously built by people like me.

Downstairs, there is a large office with a round table where people sit to work. And a very large kitchen with a microwave, dishwasher, and refrigerator. A room where there are objects that can be borrowed, such as blenders, screwdrivers, or vacuum cleaners. They call it the library of objects. And in that same building, there is something called a cycle workshop, a bicycle repair shop.

The atmosphere in that library was so welcoming that I could make significant progress in the novel, which deals with grim, depressing topics that bring me back to Venezuela and the loss of our democracy. I was able to write the chapter that describes Sofia's torture, inspired by Ana's story. Only in such an environment could I write something so scatological without being overwhelmed by depression. "Definitely, here I will finish Sofia's notebooks."

Although I intended to meet the people behind the project, I didn't rush. For a few days, I dedicated myself to writing, without paying much attention to what was happening. But one day, I found out online that there was a community bicycle project right there. People can come here to repair their bicycles, to exchange things with other cyclists. How wonderful. How proud to belong to this culture. "Here I settle, this is my starting point." The atmosphere felt full of young, alternative, fresh, joyful people. "Here I will find people like Antonella, here I will discover people with my same sensitivity, but who grew up in another country. Finally, the land of my nonna."

I told myself, "What does it matter, Fabrizio, if you live in a dormitory? How many talented writers and artists lived in poverty? I am poor, yes, but I have the privilege of intelligence and a privileged education. This allows me to take advantage of everything life gives me, things that would go unnoticed by others, like the marvel of this library. Here you will make friends, build the social relationships you lost in Venezuela, here you will write Sofia's novel, you will become the writer you want to be and leave behind the mediocrity of bureaucratic life. Here you might meet the woman you will fall in love with, an Italian lover, how wonderful. You will stroll in that garden, eat those fruits, contribute to these people, and, as they don't know me, I will introduce myself. I will show that behind me is a fighter who helps build a better, alternative world."

And I had a great intuition: "I will start by setting an example, I will donate all my bicycles to them without conditions. Or rather, I will ask them as the only condition to lend them to people who will return and take care of them. When they see what I'm made of, I will become part of their projects." I began to fantasize about the idea of donating the bicycles and managing the cycle workshop.

I would enter the reading room, working a bit on the novel, and a bit keeping an eye on my bicycles. I let myself be carried away by daydreams, my great misfortune. I thought: "Maybe I can rent one or two or three bicycles; that way I will earn some money while I write. I think they won't be able to resist such a good, positive proposal. It will be good for them because they can use the bicycles, lend them, grow their cycle workshop project, and it will be good for me because I will rent two or three bicycles a day, earn my 20-30 euros that I need, and resume writing." I let myself be carried away by daydreams, and there was no doubt in my mind that I could bring here the spirit of the project we wanted to develop in Venezuela, in the Catuche project, with Joseíto.

I remembered the library in Catuche, the library system in Venezuela before Chávez destroyed them by politicizing them. I remembered the libraries in the projects where I worked in Fe y Alegría, which were places where community development projects were cooked up. "Well, now I will make this proposal to them, I will tell them about Catuche, about the projects I carried out in Venezuela, and surely I will be able to build a life here." I indulged in daydreams about how my reception and the reception of my experience would be. "The truth is that living in a dormitory dependent on public charity is the least of it; what matters is starting to rebuild."

I looked at the bulletin boards and posters on the walls and saw that they talked about and invited events on migrants, African migration, solidarity, law, women's rights, and domestic violence. In short, I realized that I had arrived in a political environment with which I could easily communicate. I saw books by Gramsci, Coletti, Bobbio. There was no doubt that I had arrived at the right place!

While my projects with Caritas were not advancing, I kept going to the library and writing my novel, despite the interruptions of going back and forth with the bicycles around the city, a considerable effort because of my need to change their location. The effort to hide them, move them, deliver them, and receive them from customers continued to be immense. I have to be realistic: I can't run the bicycle business from San Carlo.

Finally, I gathered the courage to go downstairs from the second floor, where the reading room was, and spoke to the person who seemed to be in charge of the center. I said:

—I have ten bicycles; I want to give them to you.

 "Why do you want to give them to me?"

"Well, I'd like them to be part of a project and somehow be linked to this library project. Perhaps I can earn some income by renting out a few bicycles, but fundamentally, I want the bicycles to stay here with you, for you, and to be lent out to the community. The details can be worked out later, and you can decide on them. Just take care of them. Lend them to those who will return them. Let this become an 'us,' and our bicycles become a community bicycle."

It was difficult to talk to her because she was shaking her head from the beginning. Until she interrupted me:

"No, it's not possible."

"But why?"

"It's not possible because this is not for business."

"No, well, it's not a business," I replied. "It's about having a project that aligns with the cycle workshop, with what I see is the spirit of this community library."

"Yes, but it's not possible," she interrupted.

"But why? This is within the philosophy of what I've read on the website."

"No, it's not possible because it's a business. This is a non-profit initiative."

"Okay, but it's not a for-profit idea, I just don't want it to be a losing proposition," I said, and she kept shaking her head with a horrified expression. "The important thing is that I want to give you the opportunity to have a project where the community can use the bicycles, and tourists can rent them, and the rental to tourists..."

"Look, I don't have time to talk right now," she interrupted me, "but this is a crazy idea, it's not possible. It's simply a business, your business, and this is a non-profit organization."

In the end, her rigid spirit prevented that fantasy from becoming a reality. Her typical leftist prudish hypocrisy enraged me. I couldn't help but notice that the organization is non-profit, but she surely received a salary for being a librarian. Her salary, yes, my income, no. "Your fault, Fabrizio," I told myself. "It's obvious she would think that, they're not used to micro-enterprise ideas. She sees me as just another businessman. She doesn't understand the spirit of my project, she doesn't understand who I am, what I represent."

I went the next day, or another day, I don't remember well, to talk to her again, but once again found the doors closed. She told me:

"Look, I can't change the rules of this place, this is a collective. In any case, I can send the request to the collective, but they will say no because this is not a business, it is non-profit, don't insist."

I tried to explain to her that I was not a business. I tried to earn her solidarity by exposing my situation. I told her the truth:

"I am homeless, I am a Latin American migrant and I want to settle as a writer. I started the bicycle business by pure chance because I was in a hostel but I don't have resources and circumstances allowed me to start with the bicycles. But I'm not really interested in bicycles; they are just an excuse to have some money to survive. What I want is to write, I am a writer."

Thankfully she didn't ask me what I had written because I haven't published anything yet, and at 60 years old, being a writer and having written nothing doesn't sound good. But she wasn't interested in that, which I was expecting, but I also thought that by saying I was a writer, or one trying to write, a Latin American in Palermo, it would immediately attract her sympathy and solidarity.

Nothing awakened her solidarity. Maybe it would have if I had been a woman or if I had been young and handsome, but an old man who comes with some bicycles and who is all ragged doesn't generate interest, or at least that's what I felt. Why isn't she interested? Why, if they have a bicycle project, isn't she interested in my proposal? I thought and remembered all the people involved in community, social, humanitarian projects, who don't really have the vocation to be in those places, who were simply attracted by the vanity of the projects, but who still have that capitalist, exploitative, rapacious, bureaucratic mentality.

"What I have to do is circumvent her authority with actions," I told myself, "what I have to do is create a crisis. The people who devised this project will be enthusiastic about the idea; I have to bypass her."

So I became a little more aggressive. I said to her:

"Look, I'm going to leave the bicycles here inside."

"Well, we can't have them here inside."

"Well, I'm still going to leave them here inside, I'm going to chain them up, I'll give you the keys, and you decide if you want to throw them out."

"No, that's not how it works, we can't throw the bicycles out."

"Well, I'm not going to throw them out either."

"Why don't you sell the bicycles?"

"Because I don't want to sell them. I don't want to earn 150, 200 euros and have only a small benefit for myself, solve just a few days of living expenses, and then what? I'll still be here with nothing. So I'd rather leave the bicycles and have a project and be part of that project and commit to your projects, write my novel. The bicycles are secondary; they are a resource to live, I don't live for the bicycles."

"Well, it's still not possible," she insisted.

I waited for her to settle into her office with her head buried in her computer screen to carry out my threat. I entered the garden with the bicycles, one by one. I tied them all inside a small house at the back, where the things for repairing bicycles were, at the back of the courtyard, and she came to complain. She told me they couldn't be left there because it was a "pericolante" building (I don't know how to say it in Spanish), that it was unsafe to enter. However, there were things inside because it was obvious they used it for some things; there were tools. So I put the bicycles there, gave her the keys, and said:

"We'll talk tomorrow."

But tomorrow never came. I went to the library many times. I think for more than a year I was the most frequent visitor to the library. And for some strange reason, everyone made friends with each other, except me. I don't know why. I suppose it's because I'm old, I've reached 60. Young Italians are victims of Italians my age and older. Is that it?

The bicycles remained there for months. There were other attempts at conversation not worth remembering. There was even a proposal from her to sign a document where I donated them and committed not to rent them out, which I accepted. She told me she would send the proposal by email. It never happened.

I couldn't carry out the bicycle project. It became increasingly obvious that I encountered restrictions everywhere. At the Calsa Library, to my surprise, they hadn't accepted them, and here at San Carlo, they couldn't let me keep them either. Slowly, other opportunities presented themselves, and as always, I take advantage of what life offers me.