Back to Salò

Back to mum and dad after so long. A flight from Madrid that I thought would feel longer — suspended between places, between lives. The village awaits, quiet and familiar. The lakefront shimmers under the late afternoon sun while tourists stroll slowly, their reflections rippling in the water. At Bar Italia, nothing has changed: spritz, olives, taralli, cipolline, peppers, chips — the ritual of homecoming. Everything in its place, just like it used to be. Only I have changed, and through the lens, I see it all again.