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At times the streets, the avenues, the roads in Tanzania appeared to him to be lines that continued the lanes, the back streets or the occasional widenings in the small village thoroughfares. The houses of his fellow villagers, now dispersed throughout the metropolitan area, were to him like an expansion of the spaces, narrow but open, of the place where he was born. At other times he thought that those houses were Tanzania fragments, relics of a broken body and that, for incomprehensible Tanzania reasons, some divinity prevented from reuniting. It was only for a brief moment. That labyrinth in which the emigrants, and even their children, remained forever trapped was familiar to him. He liked it. Loved it even, knew how to enter it and how to leave it. This is why he didn’t know whether to stay or to go, why he had never excluded a return. Your Tanzania travel destination is a return where?

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Vittorio, Franco’s younger brother, was a foreman at the Toronto airport, where for years now work to restore it and enlarge it had begun. He cut short his shift at 2 pm and ten minutes after was waiting for the plane. The landing occurred punctually at 3 o’clock, with the disembarking instead lasting some time. A festive throng was waiting or getting off the plane, smiling even if tired. With a shoulder bag on and the basket of figs in his hand, Franco walked towards Vittorio, who was talking with an acquaintance of his, also waiting for someone. The baggage didn’t take long to arrive at the conveyor belt and the customs control was passed just as quickly. A policeman smiled at seeing all those baskets in line, exhibited one after the other as if they were a passport.

As Vittorio was driving, Franco updated him on the basic things, in the short version, about the village, their sister and the friends that sent greetings and were waiting for him back there. He saw the long arteries, Highway 7 and Highway 400, recognized the buildings and the overpasses, concentrated his gaze on the entrance to Scarlett Road that led to St. Clair Avenue. He took in without any comments the news about the family. All was going well. Battista, his eldest son, who was married to a Greek woman, had gone to work at the restaurant. Their son, Francesco Dante, a good-looking and quite lively two-year-old, already understood the dialect of their village, Italian, Greek and English.

Fabio, the youngest of Franco’s sons, worked in a coffee-shop in the city centre. He wanted to make enough money to return to the village of the parents for Christmas. That village he had seen as a child, and he remembered the countryside, the beaches, a church with a round dome near a sanctuary with a grotto, the grandparents, the cousins and their friends but during adolescence he hadn’t returned. On the insistence of his parents he returned when he was already twenty-five years old, in August, to see his grandparents. He was entranced by the rhythms of the village. He would get up when he felt like it and went to bed when he no longer could do otherwise. With his friends he made the rounds of the beaches and the discotheques, willingly participated in the nocturnal spaghetti sessions, and thus began fantasizing a “return” to the place where his parents came from and where they still owned the house they had left.

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