On the night between December 15 and 16, 1978, I woke up at some point. I don’t remember much, except that my sister, who was sleeping in the same room, was quietly buzzing. I was 14 years old and she was 12. We lived in Campobasso, Italy, in the Molise region, where our parents are from; about 4 years earlier we had moved from Rome, the birthplace of my sister and myself, as well as my mother’s adoptive city. We lived in a street which at the time ended up in the countryside with 4 buildings of 4 floors that enclosed a courtyard where we raged every day with our games together with many other kids. The buildings stood along the railway that led to the Adriatic coast, on a large garage that served as a shed for heavy vehicles of the largest construction company of the place, Molinari, well known also because its owner was then the president of the local football team.
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