August ends, and mentally, summer ends. And these articles end, thanks to everyone who has kept the author company. Finally, a personal obsession. I'm ready to engage in a dramatic duel to defend this theory: no one knows how to enjoy summer like Italians do. Nowhere will you find as many cultural references to summer as in Italy. All the great singers and artists have devoted their attention to it, making summer the protagonist of songs or films. Although in reality, Italians also have a tourism sector in something of a crisis, with a heated debate about the mania for privatizing beaches and rising prices, summer occupies a central place in the collective imagination across the country. That's why I still hear the song that used to play around the house because my grandmother liked it: Sapore di sale, by Gino Paoli.

I have a love-hate relationship with Amsterdam. Some people seek an idealized, clean, orderly city with perfect houses, clogs, and tulips. And others seek drugs and seeing the prostitutes in the red-light district. I don't like either of those. I'm embarrassed by those groups of men standing around in front of shop windows, joking about whether or not they're going into a hat shop. I also don't like this idealization of the Netherlands as an orderly, methodical place where everything is more beautiful.

Surely we all have memories of a vacation that didn't go quite right. A tour guide who was a disaster, a small hotel that seemed lovely but turned out to be falling apart, a missed train, a canceled plane, a stomach ache from buying food in the wrong place. And, years later, when you look back on that summer... Often you don't know how it happened, but you remember it with a laugh. If you're a person with a sense of humor, you have more options for surviving a bad vacation.

Right in the yolk of Salvador de Bahia's egg stands a blue house. It is the headquarters of the foundation dedicated to Jorge Amado, possibly the most beloved Brazilian writer. The authorities rightly decided that his figure should be remembered wherever it belongs, right in the center of Pelourinho, the city's beautiful historic center. Every day, hundreds of people visit the building, but unfortunately, many enter only to go up to the top floor and see the views, ignoring what's on display. A serious mistake, because Amado has a magnificent body of work that helps us discover this fascinating region of Brazil.

Many people have the memory of a family member putting on an old vinyl or CD and playing it. The four seasons by Antonio Vivaldi on a weekend morning. Many people have learned to play an instrument thanks to the Venetian's compositions. And you don't have to be an expert in classical music to recognize his spring.

Ah, those postcard-perfect cities. Places like Lübeck, in northern Germany, with its bridges, pointed cathedrals, and wooden houses with a thousand and one details. Later, you discover that many of the buildings were rebuilt, since Allied bombs destroyed them during World War II. But they had the good sense to rebuild the center exactly as it was, more or less. So, unless they tell you, you might believe that downtown Lübeck has remained roughly the same for centuries. It's not true.

If I were rich, maybe I'd do that stupid thing. I'll tell myself that it's stupid, no need to tell me that. Anyway, I'll never be rich. The idea would be to spend a few nights in the house where James Bond was born. If you have money to spare, that doesn't seem like a bad idea. Ian Lancaster Fleming, the creator of James Bond, had money to spare. He came from a good family that owned properties all over the United Kingdom, he had studied at Eton, and he had served as an intelligence officer during World War II. At the time, the British trained their elites so well that they could be good spies: they spoke different languages, were extremely knowledgeable, and had surrounded everyone.

I admit it. For years I didn't understand that Guantanamera, the famous Cuban song, referred to a woman in Guantánamo. It seems obvious, but sometimes it's hard to see things. In fact, almost everyone reading this article knows the song. But if I ask what the song is about, can you tell me?

Born in Bosnia to Croats, the writer Ivo Andric died in Serbia, where he was buried. He wrote in Serbo-Croatian and considered himself Yugoslav. He won the Nobel Prize for Literature, and many people say he was one of the great storytellers of a state that no longer exists: Yugoslavia. It's true that Yugoslavia no longer exists and that today it's difficult to find people who speak Serbo-Croatian, but we must bear in mind that his stories are immortal. He used to write stories of the past, from the years of Ottoman rule, and he remains a good travel companion through the Balkans, regardless of flags and borders. A land that seems impossible to unite. He believed it could be done, perhaps that's why in his great book he speaks of a bridge.

Do you cry at movies? I always cry at the final scene of Cine Paradiso, when the protagonist can see for the first time the kiss cuts from films censored by the priests. Ennio Morricone's music plays, those kisses appear on the screen, and I start to cry. I can't and don't want to stop it. Many people are seeing it for the first time. Cine Paradiso It left a deep mark on us. Sicilian Giuseppe Tornatore's delightful cinematic homage is poetry. It's a beautiful, sweet film that moves us so much.

I would have liked to have met some of those Liverpool residents who, in the late 1950s, complained about those kids with strange hairstyles. Those people who, in 1960 or 1961, still denied being from the same city as those four youngsters who had created a musical group whose name seemed absurd to them. When a trend is born, there are always people who oppose it. Do they get off their high horse and apologize? Or do they remain critical for life, even though today one of the big reasons to go to Liverpool is the Beatles?

Tokyo isn't a city; it's a giant ocean of endless buildings. A place where the future and the past seem to coexist in balance, where everyone can find an alleyway with a corner to hide in. A place that overwhelms and seduces, that you never quite understand and never stops, with surprising corners that make you rethink the concept of space. Here, a hotel has its reception on the 78th floor of a skyscraper, a bookstore is hidden in an underground parking lot, and an ancient temple has been placed inside the courtyard of a shopping mall. In Tokyo, you can also read the books and listen to the vinyl records that writer Haruki Murakami personally bought. Not a copy, no: the originals.

There are artists who polarize: You either love them or you can't even stand them. We fans of Finnish film director Aki Kaurismäki defend him without listening to the criticism of those who want to send him to the stake. Kaurismäki has been making films in his own style for decades, with serious actors, rockers with impossible hairstyles, and a gray Helsinki. He argues that he only makes films to feed his dogs. Dogs always appear in his films. A good sign.

Tourist. One of the words of the moment. Almost all of us are tourists, and almost all of us suffer from tourism. Almost all of us want to be tourists, and at the same time, as Pulp sang, we hate a tourist when we find one in our home.Tourist It's also a song by Bad Bunny, the trendy Puerto Rican singer.

There are many ways to travel to cities. One is to let yourself be guided by the people who live there, to get to know them well. To understand what their reality is like today. And another equally interesting way is to explore to see if anything remains of what was. To try to smell the traces of other times, often in the virtual company of someone who has already died. In London, a good traveling companion is Virginia Woolf. Or if you prefer, you can opt for Mrs. Dalloway. One of the most successful characters created by the writer.

In the late 1980s, film director Bernardo Bertolucci appeared in Tangier. Few people in the city were surprised; they were already accustomed to receiving curious people who seemed to be fleeing from something or seeking inspiration. Bertolucci was looking for the American writer Paul Bowles, who in 1949 had written The protective sky in Tangier in the midst of an existential crisis. He had imagined a tale of loss and destruction about an American marriage falling apart in Morocco. A harsh and magical tale that would fascinate millions of people. One of them, Bernardo.

The beach managers have put up a giant sign and two photographs next to it: Zorba's Beach. The sign is a bit tasteless. And, in fact, the beach's real name is Stavros, but many tourists ignore this. When you travel around Greece, you could make a list of restaurants, bars, businesses, and spots named after Zorba and you'd come up with hundreds.

"The stranger passes by and the people sitting in the café look and smile maliciously," wrote Giorgio Bassani about the streets of his hometown, Ferrara. In Italy, people-watching is still a national sport, despite the distraction of screens. In Italy, you should always try to find a good, century-old café, one with professional waiters who love their work and who prepare the drink the Italian way. No giant tubs of coffee in the Americano, no. You order a cappuccino. or one latte in the morning. And then, a solo coffee. And you play at trying to be Italian, looking at the strangers passing by.

It's probably one of the movie scenes that people have imitated the most. Just a few days ago we talked about people jumping around an Austrian meadow, imitating Julie Andrews in Smiles and tears, Today we're going to talk about someone who climbs an ordinary staircase and celebrates by pumping his fists. Every year, thousands of people run up a Philadelphia staircase to imitate Sylvester Stallone in a legendary scene from RockyIn fact, there are people who come all the way to the city just to climb these stairs.

A few months ago I visited Birmingham and was surprised by the number of people boasting about being the city where heavy metal was born. And they kept recommending that I take a picture on a bench located in a canal area, where a few years earlier the City Council had held a tribute to the band Black Sabbath. It was full of people of all ages taking pictures. I did it too, amazed at how the city, with a reputation for being gray and tough, was reclaiming that group of fat young men who scandalized everyone in the late 60s and early 70s. Little did I imagine then that a few months later the band's singer, Ozzy Osbourne would die just a few weeks after giving his last concert at Villa Park, Aston Villa's home.