final exams ... sometimes they come back. Those 
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Not that it's great news, yet put in the potpourri of seasonal scoop completely useless, the proof bikini, tourists with their feet in fountains, to the elderly because of the heat gun (this year latita) via exciting dog racing - pride of 'the nfotainment typically Italian, who gave birth to several media minotaurs, with tits Barbara D'Urso and the head of Augustus Minzolini - well in this agenda packed with media and cyclic non-information, each year, these days, someone reminds you that tens of thousands of young Italians fantamilioni prepares to support the school-leaving examination .
That one, training and professional odyssey, whose degree is simply the first cry, I never think to their maturity. Except that we see the face of Vaporidis , sighs sadly and continues its busy bustling about, trying to forget forever the face of that Vaporidis. Then, pouring out Vaporidis to girls as sex symbols and borders on the immoral speculation shows a clear failure on cognitive minds too young.
However, every year, these days, you go to comb through the Internet, is looking for traces of the themes, there are questions about what you might have to choose. Then, systematically, it is thought to their maturity.
You remember distinctly that the day before the start were very quiet. He had no fear on first test because confident that, whatever had come brilliant track, you'd managed to throw down half a dozen columns (the verb "imbrusare" in Taranto, the art of divination that allows you to talk / write knowing very little, but with a look that seems as if you do know enough to deserve an 8 or 30).
the eve of the second test - mathematics - were equally quiet: you could only copy, I had nothing to complain about, any benefit to be expected of yourself, you had left school by the end of the fourth year, the pace along Your existential journey in complete mathematics unconsciousness, bare minimum of analytical skills that any person who is often a daily high school - including the janitors - would have, if only by osmosis. But you, instead, were simply in the hands of god, like much of the class (16 people out of 17). [Not that we were a bunch of goats, is that we had a fundamentalist math professor, who wanted a lot of good but, in fact, an extremist with fetishism Taylor's theorem that do not know anything except that demonstration - 4 pages - was too long to be learned].
For the third test you began to harbor a rich dose of anxiety , sublimatasi, finally, close to orality. I distinctly remember the tears on the phone with your classmate, desperate, as if that vote determine your future or if it changes your past.
Since you when you dress, look at the schedule from the shoes, for oral departed from the maturity of the photographs (taken in Berlin and Dresden) and from there derivasti the rest of the essay.
The the essay you did for your own free will, not mandatory, but you were firmly convinced that if I had impressed the committee with the job, would not have dug much in your ignorance. It was not the case.
But, somehow, sostenesti your mouth and when you came out (again in tears ... it is interesting to remember how we felt shit although whimper all the time), was over and, in fact, was went well.
anxiety was unparalleled, the hearing of maturity, never experienced, even for the discussion of the thesis.
Your brilliant academic career - a number fluctuated between 9 and several 3 - and ended in 100/100, after a few days, you and your strong partner bank you went to greet the prof. You do not fool you did that, before entering the school, saying he would burst into tears, which was a putrid shamelessly sentimental nostalgia (on the other hand, were best friends), making you a mockery of the whole pathos of those goodbyes disguised as "goodbye."
Then the unexpected happened imponderable.
Professor of Italian, greeting, you gave him a pinch on the cheek and you smiled.
Your girlfriend left the school seraphic.
You, sobbing.
E 'that you do not expect it.
With your Professor of Italian hybrid was a relationship between sympathy and antipathy.
was able to assign a theme for punishment and give you 9; accuse you of not to study literature, but to plant a 8 for a presentation on Dante and interrogated for months, was able to get 5 and 1 / 2 on the first task of the third year and then by admitting them to maturity with 10.
5 and 1 / 2 more education of your memory. A 5 and 1 / 2, which shook the most deeply hidden chords of your ego sixteen year old - used the most votes since the time of the placenta when writing essays on the walls of the womb of your mother - to the middle school teacher Italian invented a special voting for your themes: "commendable", that was more than "very good", which was the maximum, because "very good" according to her was not enough ... and these things are harmful to psyche of a 13 year old.
And then, as all high school prof will lavish praise on the surprising combination of your skill and your modesty, he accuses you, the first year of being a narcissist .
E c'aveva reason.
"You can not invent the words" - "You have to write more easily, or I do not understand you" I said, his provocative statements and accompanying these with a grin. A grin precisely the same. Always the same.
When, finally, the superasti tragic resentment against him and that You decided to listen to his advice, rather than masturbate on his corrections (which however did not happen before the fourth year), crescesti. And the second task of the fifth above, prof gave you 10. The third, perhaps, of his long career. Without fuss, without ceremony, which had a certain reluctance, Professor, congratulations to you, given your narcissistic nature.
And today, while you were at work, even while you were smoking breaks at work and thought, smiling at these things, you sent a text message to Professor , of \u200b\u200bwhich, with great surprise, your sim still kept the number.
You gave him the address of your blog. You thought you liked to give him and you thought he might like to receive it.
After leaving office he called you and you smoked a cigarette for five minutes talking with your "old" Professor of Italian. Tell me where you are, what you do, what others do, who see, who does not see.
"I guess in Milan"
"Yes, work here, are exploited and underpaid "
" Oh well, common destiny, which is given to anyone ... but what do you escape? "
" The press agent "
" Preview "
"No, I will change, are being developed ... How are you?"
"Broken, more and more broken, the situation ...", in general without going into details, you know what I mean indendesse.
"But he retired?"
"No, not yet ... still teach for a couple of years I think ... and others? Do you see them? You hear them? "
" Yeah, well, all have graduated, Pepo except that he graduated October in medicine "
" Pepo ... how did the last name, Frifecchio, Frificchio do not remember "
" Frificchio ... "
" And you've posted something new? Of paper ... "
" No Professor, unfortunately no, I'm waiting for the publisher of my life "
He laughed.
Then you said, in effect, he thought he had passed 3-4 years after your maturity.
"I have passed 6 ...", you said.
Time flies. You know.
Finally, you have avoided saying that your man was living in Rome at home with his son, you felt a Carrà mba country.
You gave him the "you" throughout the call and not because you can not give the "you", but just because you wanted to give him "she" and calling him "Professor."
"Okay, so I'm going to study a bit 'the blog ..."
"Be merciful, I recommend"
"After reading more I can say I had a good student to write ...".
You laughed.
not disprove the years, it's nice.
In closing, you concluded by saying that in times of examinations maturity, all happen to rethink the time of school and, for this, you've written. You must have told him, ironically but not too much, that sometimes the prof remain in the hearts of students (not just yours, but also in your friend's).
That was not a pimp.
Because your "old" prof who read Dante with poetry, but it forces you to understand and, if you wanted to spend time in the toilet, I made her go; Professor who came to class with The Republic under his arm and the post- Scazzi sessantottino against the company consumerist, capitalist, pro-American and para-Vatican him; Prof. caused you to improve yourself, you teased and then leave you to do, well, that prof, perhaps unintentionally or unwittingly, was one of those that you have made it grow more, what you love and what it always do.
Although the literature does not know and still do not know.
Once, months away from maturity, you wrote that it was happy to be your teacher for 3 years. You did not you ever answered that she was happy her pupil for the same three years.
Neither you never said that quote always saying, "Although head lice can be done on the poem - you do not care whether its a sentence or if the prof quote someone else in turn.
"I was pleased to hear"
"Me too, I embrace you, hello"
"Goodbye Professor!"
