I'm a curious person, and for a long time I believed that was a virtue. Now I'm starting to doubt it. Not because curiosity is bad, but because I let myself be persuaded. They say, "Shall we go?" And I say, "Let's go." Without asking too many questions. Without examining the emotional contract. I've tried everything. I've had astrological charts since before I knew what to do with them (my natal chart is in Placidus, with an ascendant I never quite remember). I've done past-life regressions and learned with considerable accuracy that I was a nomadic shepherdess in the Himalayas, Marie Antoinette's maid just before she was beheaded, and more recently, a Moulin Rouge dancer who met great painters, especially that poor, adorable little man, Toulouse-Lautrec. They told me all this with enormous seriousness. And I listened respectfully. Attentively. With that neutral expression one adopts when one doesn't want to be rude to the universe. I was never an accountant. Or a librarian. Or someone who led a quiet life. I was always someone interesting. Intense. Tragic. Artistic. International. My past lives, taken together, had a grueling schedule. It's no wonder I'm tired in this life. In the middle of all this, contemporary wellness emerged, operating like an all-you-can-eat buffet. A little meditation to lower anxiety (guided mindfulness, intermediate level). A little yoga because it's trendy and my friends go (Vinyasa Flow, sometimes Ashtanga, depending on the day). A little gin… sorry, gym, and the trendy exercise, the kind that involves jumping around like a kangaroo while someone yells “Let's go!” from a Bluetooth speaker playing a motivational playlist. But it's not enough. So we added Reiki (Level I, gentle channeling, Usui lineage). Because someone said my energy was blocked. Then came family constellations, where I discovered that perhaps the problem wasn't mine, but my grandmother's. Or my grandmother's mother's. Or some great-aunt I never met, but who had clearly left unfinished business in the morphogenetic field. The Akashic Records also appeared, which have always amused me in a particular way, because nobody seems to know exactly what they are, but everyone talks about them with admirable certainty. It was a relief. It wasn't me. It was the lineage. At some point, I began to feel like I was dreaming. I dreamt I was floating on a cloud while someone shouted at me that, based on my body constitution, I was either Vata… or Pitta. I don't remember exactly which, because while they were explaining the Vedic astrological charts to me, I kept falling asleep. Literally. My eyes were closing. Obviously, I was dreaming it. Or so I thought. Just two months ago I returned from a retreat in Chiang Mai. We meditated in a Buddhist temple with my best friend. I came back floating. Convinced I had found something. A truth. A lasting peace. That happiness lasted me approximately… until last week. And that's when I understood something essential: it's not that these practices don't work. Many do. Others are entertaining. Some are good for spending a Saturday night together. The problem arises when we make the mix and start shaking it hard, hoping that life, once and for all, will start turning. As if by shaking it enough, the rhythm, the meaning, the background music of our favorite film will appear. Perhaps it's because, deep down, we feel a little unhappy, like Bridget Jones, but with the calm and somewhat optimistic certainty of overflowing with charisma. A little of this. A little of that. All mixed together. All shaken up. That is The Shakerada Life. Maybe we don't live surrounded by Shakespearean souls, maybe I'm the only Shakespearean one. A curiosity that knows when to stop. A sincere quest that confuses movement with depth. And yet… But in the end, I must confess something. Against all odds, I stopped beating. I stopped turning. It seems I've found something. I'm not going to say anything more. Within nine months, I promise to tell you.
The practical guide to living with a well-educated Italian observes cohabitation and culture clashes with humor and a touch of irony. It addresses relationships, family, and everyday misunderstandings, but also two Italian classics that don't always come together: the omnipresent mother and the bambolone, that perfectly functional adult who, nevertheless, continues to behave like an only child even after moving out. It's a book about intense affections, habits that are difficult to negotiate, and that gray area where culture, emotional intelligence, and personal quirks become more intertwined than is advisable.
It doesn't begin with a clear idea or a conclusion. It begins earlier: in that instant when something shifts without us quite knowing what or why, and the mind is already traveling. It's not a revelation or an epiphany. It's an image that appears, a memory that persists, an association that didn't ask permission. Nothing seems important, and yet something shifts. This text pauses at that threshold: the instant before choosing, when everything could still be something else, and the mind is already traveling even though the body hasn't moved.
News · Travel Experiences doesn't propose destinations or urgent lists. It proposes detours. Books, films, and experiences that function as portals: they don't always take you far in kilometers, but they almost always shift the perspective from which we view things. Because sometimes the journey begins before you even leave—and other times, you don't need to leave at all.
The Shakerada Life
Curiosity as a starting point
Past lives, intense identities
The contemporary wellness buffet
When nothing is enough
The relief of not being oneself
The illusion of lasting calm
Life as a cocktail shaker
An unexpected pause
Confessions of a Curious Soul
To Maru, with love
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A practical guide to living with a properly educated Italian
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