Nando, We’re Home

It’s been weeks now that a moment from my life keeps coming back to me. We were in 1993, and for the launch of a revolutionary shaving system for that time, my father and I flew to Washington. He kept asking me if I was happy, and he smiled. I didn’t see him like that often, and it intrigued me — as if he were waiting for the right moment to tell me something important.

One afternoon, after work, we were walking along a pier by the river. He grabbed my arm, pulled me closer, and said: “Nando… we’re in America. Nando… we’re home.”

He was happy — eyes full, almost emotional, almost ready to cry. But I was too young to understand what he really meant beyond the words.

Today, I can’t forget it. It’s been almost seven months that this memory keeps returning, cycling through my mind. Thirty-three years have passed, and he’s been gone for one. But his signal is loud and clear: he wants me to understand that I must be ready to leave again — to go back home. The home that didn’t receive me 61 years ago only because of a FedEx stork error… but that’s another story.

Here in Italy, I feel like I’m stuck inside a fruit crate — confined by something that never belonged to me.

How I’ll get there, I have no idea. My 70 USD a month are my only resource, and I don’t chase anyone for money. I only chase beautiful women — if they’re intelligent. Not a vice, a passion. A debt of gratitude to the one who never needs advertising — the woman who exists even when she stands alone.

And when I finally walk into some room over there, I’ll have three Calabrian chili peppers in my pocket. I’ll introduce myself by saying: “This is the fire — the only thing that keeps us alive and keeps us from getting sick. It starts in the mouth and ends in the ass. Just don’t ever let the opponents know.”