I had come to see the old workers’ village of Panzano, in Monfalcone, the place where my great-grandparents worked a little over a hundred years ago. And as I looked at the houses, the lighthouse at the entrance to the shipyard and the lines of bicycles ridden by workers speaking exotic languages speeding past me, a strange feeling of temporal confusion came over me. I quickly felt that this was one of those very particular places where time folds in on itself, and that the ringing of bells and the clicking of spokes were the active ingredients of a time loop that has lasted for a hundred years.

Here, time seems to have come to a standstill, even as people around me tell me how much the city has changed due to the strong migratory pressures of recent years. I could feel the scent of worry and bitterness in their words, even though when I arrived in Monfalcone I felt that vibration born in cities that simmer with diverse cultures.

I don't really know how to explain these contrasts, but glancing back at the past, I get the sense that the Panzano area and its shipyard lie at the source of a space shaped by ongoing migrations  where physical, temporal, and mental borders constantly overlap and blur.