Bus
766, on a cold Roman November afternoon, takes its passengers home.
It is well lit, the seats are almost all occupied and there is a pleasant background chatter, like what can be found in a square.
A girl, heralded by a cascade of black hair, goes up with her racket.
She's wearing tracksuits, she's back from training, she'll be twenty and she's beautiful.
Like all boys of her age she wears earphones to listen to music, she absently looks out at the fast-passing city.
She doesn't seem to think about anything in particular, she has her hands in her lap and is just waiting to get home.
The bus stops at the Marconi metro station.
A man who is about seventy years old,
has white hair, is dressed in a casual way and has a very elegant posture, from another era.
The girl notices him too and immediately gets up to give him her place.
He, placing his hand on her shoulder, politely declines her: "I'll be down in a bit," she tells her, as most old people do when they have trouble accepting an act of kindness.
“Are you going to play?”, he asks her.
But she is listening to the music, and only later realizes that the man is talking to her.
He realizes it and repeats the question: "Are you going to play?".
The girl turns off the music and replies gesturing a little that she doesn't speak Italian.
The man does not give up and begins to speak to her in English, a language to which he gets answers.
"Where are you from? You don't have an American or English accent".
She looks at him in surprise: "I'm from Syria"
, she almost whispers. simple words in a manifesto of kindness: "You are welcome to us, in Italy, in Europe". The black-haired girl opens up in a wonderful, warm smile. Her stop has come: she gets off and again with a smile and with her hand she greets awkwardly who without knowing her has welcomed her in. The man who reciprocates with a nod of the head and, finally, sits down.
(thanks to Sergio Nazzaro for reporting the story)