As soon as I finished the post about my mother, I felt the guilt for not having one about my father. I asked the Universe for inspiration. As always, the Universe did not disappoint.

As we were all in the car, listening to music from a playlist I made for last year’s holiday, inspiration hit me. In the form of Adriano Celentano and his unmistakable voice. Whenever I listen to his songs I think of my dad. Only today did I realize that I associate him with music, amongst other artsy stuff. Let’s be clear. My father is an engineer, no artist whatsoever. But he is the most knowledgeable person I know.

As a kid, he used to put on a vinyl with classical music and we used to dance. I remember to this day how we danced on Prokofiev’s Dance of the Knights and how he explained the visuals Vivaldi was trying to describe with tunes in The Four Seasons. During the summer holidays, we used to play with my dolls, he made figurines out of play dough, we made up a living room football competition and when he took me to his workplace I used to feel like a star.

Another fond memory of mine is when he picked me up from piano lessons. We strolled through the city center, he would buy me a donut or a pretzel and then we would go to the antique bookstore and get some books. Ah, books. My father’s greatest love story is with them. He taught me how to appreciate them, how to choose them, how to take care of them and how to love them. For many years, he used to read me bedtime stories or poems. It was our routine during primary school and I loved it.

As I got older, my artistic education continued. With every holiday and every roadtrip, I discovered a new musician. From Tom Jones to The Beatles, from Eric Clapton to Adriano Celentano, from Salvatore Adamo to Jacques Brel, from Edith Piaf to Dalida, I could recognize them all and sing along, even if I didn’t speak the language they were singing in. So, classical music, check, books, check, foreign musicians, check. What’s next?

Well, movies, my greatest love story. Each high school summer holiday evening was filled with movies suggested and downloaded by my dad. From Natural Born Killers to Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner, from Star Wars to The Godfather, from Bonnie and Clyde to The Usual Suspects, I’ve seen them all thanks to him. To this day, he downloads and sorts movies and TV series, he has external hard disks full of them, sorted alphabetically and according to the year they were launched in.

To this day I love the smell of cigarettes because of my dad. It gives me a sense of comfort, of security, that I associate with him. He used to help me with my maths homework and whenever he would take a break to smoke, his hands would smell of cigarettes. I loved that, still do.

As I grew up, I started to notice his flaws. My knight in shining armor was knight no more. He was just a man. A nervous man, an immature man, an unpractical man, a scared man, an introverted man. Nonetheless, there has never been anything I wanted or I asked him to do that he didn’t do. Even if that ment facing his fears or being annoyed or doing something unusual, he did it. Every time, no exception.

He is my greatest supporter, my biggest fan and one of the people in my life who understands me the best. Joking with him, discussing movies and listening to him talk about history and literature are one of the greatest joys of my life. He taught me that someone who’s not perfect can be loved to bits. Because I do love him to bits. Even when he drives me crazy.