Livorno, in my memory, is tied to two unforgettable characters: two Livornesi who once filled the late‑night TV of the 1980s. She — short, stout, peroxide blonde, with a panettone of hair and rings on every finger — perched behind a desk; he, her son, a strange sidekick. Together they televended furs, with a cacciucco thrown in as a bonus.
I remember those nights because I couldn’t sleep. For nine months straight, insomnia kept me company, and the TV became my distraction. And there they were: Roberta Pellicce, aka Mamma Franca, mother and son, selling dreams in fur coats.
Back then, I thought Livorno would one day give me back my lost sleep. And indeed, when I finally conquered my steady public job as a teacher, I wrote that I would rest easy, reclaim my time, enjoy the perks of permanence: sick leave, sabbaticals, paid holidays, even the mythical thirteenth salary. I believed security meant serenity.
Last famous words...
Because six years later, I discovered that security without freedom is a prison. That a “cattedra” can weigh heavier than insomnia. And so I quit. I rejected the job that silenced my voice and clipped my wings.
Now Livorno returns to me in a different light. Not as the promise of rest, but as a place of stories — a city of irony and rebellion, forever antagonistic with Pisa, my main hosting ground. Leghorn is no longer just a memory of late‑night TV; it is a stage where I bring my “alternative” guests, to walk its soulful streets, taste its soulful cacciucco, and hear the legends of rivalry and resilience.
