Whilst South Africa was having a public holiday (16th June) from the other side of the world I accessed the applications I run for key clients … relief, all well!
The location independent project is complete, the development of geographical associates nurtured and done.
I am here, they are there, it is business as usual other than being offline the day before.
From here, there can be anywhere else in the world, and from anywhere else in the world, there can be here.
It is a decade almost since my son and I looked up at the Ponte Del Diavolo (Devil’s Bridge) from the boulders of the river bed down below, smoking our Savinelli pipes and tobacco.
The dream as we looked up at Ponte Del Diavolo was to ensure location independent revenue streams …
Legend has it that the townsfolk of centuries ago asked the Devil to build the bridge – he agreed provided the first soul who crossed it was his.
Trouble is that the Devil forgot to specify the nature of the soul so the townsfolk sent a goat across instead.
Business operations depend substantially on both luck and technology … and some careful planning, down to the very last detail, a mistake the Devil made.
So the sense of satisfaction I have helps me imagine the delight of the townsfolk of Cividale.
After all it is the extension of Forum Iulii, (hence the name Friuli for this region) a Roman fortification to help stop the barbarians sack Aquilea, the fourth largest Roman city of its time.
Attila did sack it, but he disappeared quickly, like the waters of an angry flood, the river bed remains, just like the resilience of the Friulans.
After Attila there were more, including the Longobards with their metal skills who made Cividale their capital and promoted what we now know as duchys, and dukes and duchesses …
They too were absorbed, especially their blue eyes, and this is a corner of the world full of blue eyes – but Friulan now, no longer Longobard.
The rough derivative of Latin that is Friulan is embedded with the metaphorical wisdoms needed to survive, to keep going, no matter what …
Looking through the window from where I write, where the trees sort of look similar to where I come from, the birds sing the same, and my ninety three year old father is pumping up his bicycle to go shopping in the village and meet up with everyone makes me feel both humble and triumphant.
Sometimes the Devil that Life can be can only claim a goat …