It was the end of a heavily hot afternoon here, yesterday, when the doorman of my building - a man deconstructed by the boredom of his work - grimaced at me, lazily, to get close. Although not in a sunny corral, seen from the outside the scene could have been the prologue of a shoot out of a John Ford or a Sergio Leone western movie.

I get close to his box, looking at him, while he just kept looking back at me, both sweated and plagued by heath.


Not a single word came out of his mouth, framed by a three days' grown beard while I was staring back at him, trying to guess his next move.

He then slowly draw his arm from his side to the shelf and from the shelf towards me, holding a small brown box.

"For you" he chewed.

"Sir...", I replied.

He grunted something I could not understand, more meant to be the last word of our unrealistic standoff than a proper "welcome".

Half an hour later, sitting in front of the fan, I remembered the box.

Opened it... nothing but awesomeness was left.

Editor's note: this is an excerpt from an email sent to us by one of our customers in Torino, Italy. We are honored and delighted. Thank you, Emiliano.

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