The Other Me

This is the image recorded on my retina: clumps of men dressed in Renaissance garb, talking eagerly, vehemently even, into tiny telefonini. Oblivious to the world around them – low reddish fascist era buildings, Tudor like scenery – and gaping tourists, they pursue their own dreams, more intent on putting points across via electromagnetic signal than on slipping into the required period mood.
My hands start to itch as my whole mind, my whole body screams “Photo!” but the guide is watching us closely. No pictures allowed, no disturbing actors; this is the strict condition under which we are tolerated here, regardless of how much we’ve paid for the visit.

( This is Cinecitta. The dream factory. )