We arrive at a traffic light when the red turns green for the cars speeding by. We wait for them to stop again. Green for us, red for the cars. We cross along the pedestrian crossing. I am careful to only step on the white areas, avoiding dark spaces, just as my instinct tells me to do. On the third strip, however, I stop and, overcoming my instinct, I put my foot on a dark space, then I continue avoiding the strips, until I conclude the crossing. I did it, it wasn't that difficult; I breathe a sigh of relief, and St with an attitude that is somewhere between amused and worried tells me: «Bravo, Rich».
About two hundred meters behind us a walker proceeds quickly, hopping and playing a flute; he brightens the atmosphere with a melody that seems to be from other times; then, he joins us and
