We landed in Milan. Gentlemen in grey suits (when looking at passengers in the business class, I cannot help but suspect that human cloning has been going on for a long time), nervously putting in the secret codes of leather suitcases and searching for their indispensable boast number two (unlike in the boast number one, the following rule applies: the smaller, the prouder the owner – editor's note: this is no longer true today).
The first tones of the mobile symphony sound through the airport hall. All of these original jingles, anthems and motifs would certainly inspire Janáček after half an hour of listening to compose a new opera (birds at Hukvaldy are complete losers compared to this). And everyone has a wish from their magical phone. One would like to take a look at a tooth of a certain Cropaccini, another is asking whether Jonathan is finally treating his secretary well and the notably winking customs officer, who addresses all the members of the fair sex from the age from twelve to fifty-five with the greeting "hello, beautiful", it probably seemed originally that there are not enough cats, so he is calling it out loud so that there should be a million of them. He probably cannot believe the dreamy bosoms of the innocently giggling blondes, otherwise I cannot explain why he would need sunglasses in the dark cubicle. Or does this fashion accessory perhaps belong to the necessary evidence of the manhood of a true Italian? I respond to all attempts at flirting with an expression of a relentless bulldog because since I got off the plane I have been haunted by the vision of my suitcase coming up on the belt but somewhere in Kuala Lumpur. I do not admit to the version at all that it is lost forever or is not coming up anywhere because I believe that some noble motive is necessary in this country for stealing. I now mean that idea of class equality. It can be seen, for example, in Milan taxi drivers. They submit the prices of their service to the philosophy defined long before them by their Prague colleagues that says: "whether you're poor or rich, from Holešovice railway station to Wenceslas Square it will cost you seven hundred". Or take the familiar slogan, family – the foundation of society. If you prove to a local thief, who stole your car, that your aunt used to exchange love notes with his dad in third grade and were it not for the unfortunate situation, when his dad had to go to reform school for a few years, who knows, maybe he would not be talking to his cousin now, he will return everything honestly, will put it back to its original condition and to make peace with you he will refresh the interior of your car with the scent of berries. Would you perhaps prefer vanilla? ...and the voice in the phone said: "Well, as you please."
