Lorenzo's sky

I had the pleasure of meeting Lorenzo Barone thanks to Marea, an event dedicated to the world of travel and cycling, where he was a guest speaker.

I was the one who was supposed to interview him, and as always, to avoid gaffes and prepare for a genuine and constructive dialogue, I began researching him. Videos, podcasts, and especially his book—which deeply impacted me. Not just for what he says, but for how he does it: I believe it authentically reflects his personality.

I'm not usually fascinated by extreme travelers. They intrigue me, sure, but I've never really dwelt on the deeper reasons for traveling, for living outside the paradigms we grew up with. Perhaps due to a flaw in my own thinking, I've never explored the meaning of breaking the mold, of gently disobeying a life already written.

Lorenzo is a young man. Younger than me, yes, but not by much: we grew up in the same era, under the same sky. And that's why I see myself in him. A boy with the same background as many of us: school, choices for the future, the typical experiences of adolescence.

At eighteen, I dreamed of a car. Emancipation, freedom, finally being able to sign my own driving licences without asking my parents' permission. For me, that was the symbol of independence. For others, it meant much more.

Lorenzo, on the other hand, embarked on his first great journey at eighteen. A bicycle, savings, and a heart full of energy. Months away from home, uncertain, but with a direction. We're not talking about an extreme context or a unique situation. We're talking about a boy like many others—like me, like my friends—who decided to do something that, at his age, I wouldn't have even imagined.

In her book, she candidly describes what it truly means to leave: detaching yourself from everything, starting over every day, adapting to situations without fighting them. Changing, evolving, learning. A silent revolution made of small gestures, slow pedaling.

During that weekend in Marea, we were his "situation": his temporary friends, his cycling companions and his chatter companions. I often found myself observing him, curious to hear his answers even to the simplest questions: "Where are you from?", "What do you do for a living?", "Do you really live here?" And his answers were even simpler: simple, essential, yet never banal. Rich with that profound meaning that makes Lorenzo a rare person, at least for me.

Some have said he lives in the present. Some have called him crazy—in the most affectionate sense of the word. Perhaps that's also true, but for me, it's more than that: Lorenzo is the simplest answer to terribly complex questions. He reminded me of "Occam's Razor," that philosophical principle that encourages us to choose the simplest explanation, the one that requires the fewest unnecessary assumptions. And perhaps, indeed, it's true: the truest answers are often the most essential, even if we do everything we can to complicate them.

I asked him how he manages to trust, to knock on strangers' doors, to sleep and eat with people he's never met before. He replied casually: "If you approach things simply and sincerely, the world will respond in kind."

It has freed itself of everything that seems indispensable to us. And I don't want to indulge in banal praise of technological detox, which has now become as fashionable as its opposite. That's not the point. The point is that we often no longer have the desire to reach the top. We know that something—or someone—will carry us up anyway.

But Lorenzo has conquered that summit. Many times. By living a life outside the norms I thought were immutable. Now he's preparing a new journey, which I invite you to discover. He told us about it with such simplicity that, for a moment, I actually thought I wanted to follow him. Even just thinking about it, for me, is a challenge in itself.

I'm happy with my life. I accept the limitations and benefits of what I do. I always try to improve what I can, but I don't pretend to change everything. However, Lorenzo, I thank you, because that weekend spent with you left me with something. A gentle invitation to simplify, to let go of useless worries. To believe that sincerity and simplicity can be our compass, our starry sky.

From now on, in my own small way, I'll try to share that sky with you every now and then. After all, it's not that far away.

Words: Fabio Conti

Photos: Alessio Ghiselli (talk) - Valentina Savio (talk) - Marco Casadio (bike ride)