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Chapter 0 - Ride To Smile

RideToSmile is, above all, a dream. It's the union of two inseparable passions: photography and writing. And it's not just that: RideToSmile is the coming together of two souls that you rarely meet in life, with whom you feel an innate compatibility. You know those relationships where words are unnecessary? Those connections where a glance, a joke, or a handshake make you feel at home? Those that, while you're experiencing them, make you think it’s not your first encounter, as if there were a belonging stemming from a past life. Well, for Mirko and me, it went exactly like that: we didn’t choose each other; we found each other.

A year ago, we met by chance: thinking back to those first days, it’s incredible how much understanding and connection we felt, the ease with which we communicated from the very beginning, and the shared ideas about life that led us to plan a trip together. The memory of how we arrived at that decision is vivid in my mind, cherished like the warmth of morning coffee in a moka pot. It was a warm Monday in mid-June, and I had just returned from a work trip. Mirko came over for an aperitif, as he had been doing for a few months. The scent of jasmine, wet from summer rain, filled our nostrils while the taste of our cocktails delighted our palates.

But let’s take a step back. Mirko and I had plans to open a venue in Tenerife, in the Canary Islands, and that’s what led us to the idea of traveling together to test our cohesion. Perhaps caught up in the haze of alcohol, or driven by an affinity that might have originated, who knows, from a past life, and certainly fueled by a mutual desire to explore the world, we agreed on the destination: Vietnam.

Mirko is a seasoned traveler, with a wealth of experience beyond the city walls. I was curious: I felt that there was something more around me, something to discover, and I needed to embark on a journey that would grant me freedom. I relied on his stories about Thailand and Southeast Asia, and intrigued by such a fascinating and exotic destination, I enthusiastically embraced the choice.

Mirko already had a plan: to ride motorcycles from Hanoi, the current capital of the beautiful country I will soon tell you about, to Ho Chi Minh City, the old Saigon, for those who still have the haunting images of the terrible war that ravaged a nation fighting for its independence after years of French dominance, internal division, and American subjugation. The journey promised to be perilous, amplified by the fact that I had never ridden a motorcycle before arriving in Vietnam, only automatic scooters. Thanks to Mirko’s often elementary advice, I learned to navigate. I remember his comforting words: “It’s easy: first gear down, and all the others up.” Even clearer in my memory is the determination in his eyes, able to reassure me, as if he wanted to share a trust with me. So, empowered by those words, I steeled myself and accepted his reckless proposal.

The months leading up to the departure were a whirlwind of emotions: during this time, and I say this with regret, I damaged relationships with very important people in my life. Work was giving me great satisfaction, but within my soul persisted a strange unease, as if I appreciated what I was doing but didn’t truly feel it was mine.

I felt almost like a stranger in that context to which, whether I liked it or not, I belonged. The evenings at the bar, the parties, and everything that encompassed my existence no longer matched the ideal of the person I had in mind. I felt like the Shinigami from those ancient Japanese tales: I hovered bored between two worlds, the real one, to which I no longer felt I belonged, and the ideal one, which I couldn’t realize. I felt alone and saw loneliness all around me. My family and friends were all worried about me, and I could perceive their state of mind.

Looking back to those moments, I realize how much that unease stemmed from my lack of self-awareness and consequent low self-esteem. Nothing can make a person sadder than dissatisfaction with their own actions.

A few days before departure, having just returned from a work trip, I spent some time at home with my family. It was during the days of Typhoon Yagi and its terrible devastation across Southeast Asia. My anxiety was palpable; in my mind, the thought “I’ve never ridden a geared motorcycle and now I’ll have to do it in the midst of such a storm?” undermined my determination. I trembled at the very thought, even though I tried, with little success, to hide it from those around me. My anxiety faded when I saw the fire in my travel companion’s eyes, surely as agitated as I was but able to master his nerves.

The death toll from the typhoon was rising, and terrifying videos of the storm sped from my acquaintances’ phones to mine. I pretended not to care, but in reality, the fear of dying haunted me, especially due to my terror of flying. The night before departure was spent trembling with fear of a journey into the unknown, vainly searching for encouraging news about the floods tormenting Vietnam.

I finished packing, and my backpack was filled with Western clothes, still unaware of the fate they would meet in just a few weeks. I spent my last night in Italy sleepless, continuing to think about what awaited me the next day. That night was particularly rainy; weather apps predicted storms for the following morning, which only added to the fears in my restless soul. I fell asleep in the early hours, a light slumber devoid of dreams, without REM sleep.

Upon waking, on departure day, I received the first of what I like to call Signals from the Universe, a term I borrowed from one of my favorite authors, Paulo Coelho, meaning warnings the Universe gives to humans to guide them on their established path, which only those directly involved can read and, above all, follow.

That morning, the rain, which had been pouring until then, had stopped, and a few rays of sunshine peeked through in the city of Milan. The dark clouds that had tormented my night had been swept away by the wind, but not just them: the Föhn had blown away my fears as well.

Before closing the door of my house and getting into Mauro’s car, Mirko’s father, who would drive us to the airport, I recalled the words of a person I respect and am very grateful to, who once told me: “To manage fear, you simply have to transform it into adrenaline.” So I did, and I decided that from that morning on, I would no longer face my life with the fear of making mistakes but with the determination to win. It wasn’t a realization stemming from rational thought, but rather an inner push born from the will to not lose and to live my experiences to the fullest. I was no longer intimidated by the unknown, nor by flying, nor by renting a motorcycle.

My mother often repeated that she gave birth to me to be offered to the world. That morning, I understood the meaning of her words.

I left my home door behind and decided that I would never turn back.

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Chapter 6

Chapter 6

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Chapter 5

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