Story of how my entrance became the sports cemetery

The cemetery of the sportina is in a corner of the entrance, and if you do not speak Bolognese at this time you may wonder what a sportina is, but if you were at my entrance you would recognize it, because every house now has a cemetery. of sports.

The esportin was once, in the box of Bologna supermarkets, what in Roman supermarkets is called “a bag” (in Milanese: “a bag”). Now I have imposed a semantic change on it: the little bag is that of the cloth, which in a few years has gone from a fetish to a nuisance.

We were all young enough to get a trial subscription to the New Yorker just to get free coverage. I will confess it so as not to leave you alone to embarrass you: me twice. Yesterday morning, having to pack a suitcase in a hurry and not find any of the cloth bags that are offered with expensive shoes just to pack them, the New Yorker’s green bag is good again: with culture maybe not you eat, but you can at least keep your shoes from getting dirty.

I even have a Monocle one: I don’t think I’ve read Monocle in my life, but I have an obvious predisposition to more sophisticated newspaper cases than I do. I am mistaken that if I buy them using them, I will at least project an image of someone who has read Knausgård.

Which (the expense, not Knausgård) leads us to the beginning of this deception. It was 2007, and Whole Foods (a chain of American grocery stores) was selling a little more than a sports bag (it had more structured handles than every cloth bag now gives you anywhere you buy anything, even all diapers), with the inscription: I’m not a plastic bag.

It was so bad that even I, who followed trends like the boring thirty-five I had, refused to buy it. In the following years, however, I bought two small bags from Whole Foods (not cloth but a cloth unlikely to be made by recycling caps, or something similar), and last year I moved. to retrieve them from the rubbish where the young men insisted on throwing them away.

There not a plastic bag it was ugly, but it started a collective illusion: the bags are eco-friendly. An illusion that the American press has repeatedly tried to dismantle: the New York Times cited a Danish study from 2018 according to which, as cotton needs a lot of water to grow, to cushion the environmental impact of a bag of cloth you should use twenty. a thousand times, every day for fifty-four years. Which is impossible because: the cemetery.

In addition to being the fake eco-friendly option of not putting another plastic bag in circulation when you go shopping, in fact, the bag has become everyone’s favorite gadget. Yesterday afternoon I arrived at a cultural festival, and with what tribute did they receive me? A can of coffee contained in a small bag. At every festival I’ve been to over the last year I’ve been given a sports bag, as well as many of the things I’ve bought recently (sheets, for example) come in their good bags. Is a new TV series starting? They send you the bag. Does a publisher want you to instagram a book? He sends it to your bag. From here: the cemetery.

At my entrance, the cemetery of the cases is adjacent to the boxes of my books, the copies that the publisher sends me when a new book of mine comes out, and of which I never know what to do: I refuse to pay. tribute to my friends, if they don’t spend money on me, they don’t like it. The corpses, in the athlete’s cemetery, have one thing in common: they are free.

The festival, the TV series, the sheets – are their bags less beautiful because they’re free, or I can’t appreciate them because I didn’t pay for them? Of all the girls who go to the fairs with the New Yorker bag, how many have forgotten to cancel their test subscription in time, and yet that bag will have cost them two hundred or how much is the annual subscription?

He was very jealous of the pink and black sports bag a friend was wearing: he had been sent to the opening press conference of a Bologna museum. The first time I went to visit the museum. That is, visit the museum store to buy the sports bag. I alternate it with a gray and yellow one, which I bought at a London cheese factory. People fill me with free sports bags and I, ungrateful and polluting, let them rot in the special cemetery, and I go around with paid sports bags.

Now, I have to point out that I use organic: the New Yorker and the thicker cotton cheesecake hold the weight of the gaps very well when I have to lower the bottles to pick up the glass. . It was worth cultivating cotton to cushion it in fifty-four years, to throw away empty bottles with an elegant bag.

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