Discomfort is a compass.
I learned that on a damp morning in Rimini, my wheels whispering over cold pavement and the sea smelling like metal and salt. My fingers were sticky with espresso, and Fabrizio De André’s “La cattiva strada” was playing softly through tinny phone speakers like a secret passed across a table. I’m simplifying big ideas on purpose, so you can hear the heartbeat beneath the noise.
Three Things We Keep Getting Wrong
We confuse politeness with virtue, like the drum-thud of a parade means peace. The song opens with a man who spits in the eyes of an “innocent” during a military march—an obscene sound amid brass and boots—to snap him out of the spectacle and into his own conscience . On some days, the scent of flags and fuel hides the cost of obedience.
We act as if selling small parts of ourselves is harmless, the way neon feels warm even while it buzzes. De André’s stranger robs a “regina”—a prostitute—and the line bites like winter air, yet the scene points at something raw: trading your voice for comfort leaves a plastic taste that lingers . My palms on the rubber rims remind me what grip feels like when you choose it.
We tell ourselves “normal” love equals justice, as if courtrooms smell cleaner than real life. In the song, he kisses the jurors “a un processo per amore,” and the hush after that kiss rings louder than any gavel, swinging the room from smug certainty to human doubt . Even the wood grain of the bench would feel different after that.
The Song That Argues Back
Here’s the twist: “cattiva” in this ballad often means the opposite—bad for the respectable, good for the awake, like rough wool that scratches you into attention . The music rides three spare chords—simple as a heartbeat under a streetlight—which makes every image land like a footfall on stone . That simplicity clears the smoke so we can smell what’s actually burning next.
Scene by scene, the stranger jolts people out of autopilot: the spit at the parade, the stolen cash from the “queen”, the rigged stars for a pilot, another drink for the eighteen-year-old, the kisses for the jurors—each act abrasive, each act a match struck in the dark . One powerful reading even names him outright: Jesus—the “greatest philosopher of love,” as De André himself said—speaking in the harsh dialect our age understands, not with sermons but with shocks that sting like antiseptic . Volume 8, the record that carries this song, came from De André’s collaboration with Francesco De Gregori, and the pairing feels like a well-worn leather jacket—soft but unignorable .
The closing lines refuse easy comfort: “non vi conviene venir con me…” and yet, “c’è amore un po’ per tutti”—love scattered like rain, even on the unfashionable path . That’s the scent I can’t forget: wet asphalt after a storm, promising fresh steps we haven’t taken yet. Tomorrow’s walk can sound different.
One Statistic, One Takeaway
People swear we value knowledge—books, debate, the slow chew of ideas. Then the numbers slap like cold water: in Italy, average yearly spend per person is €1,583 on gambling, and just €58.8 on books . That ratio smells like cigarette smoke in a closed room.
So the takeaway hits hard: the real “bad road” isn’t the one that offends good manners—it’s the smooth boulevard where we stop thinking. De André’s stranger rigs the stars and forces a pilot to fly by more than glitter, and you can almost hear the cockpit alarms wailing while the air tastes recycled and thin . That jolt is mercy, not malice.
I’m not preaching; I’m practising. I picture the eighteen-year-old with the glass—ice clinking like tiny bells—and I hear the line, “amico, ci scommetto… adesso è ora che io vada,” which is really a nudge to look in the mirror until the steam fades . Next time you feel the itch of discomfort, treat it like a guide rope you can grip.
My Rimini Practice: The “Bad Road” In Daily Life
I roll the lungomare at dusk, the Adriatic smelling like wet coins and algae, and I run tiny experiments that scratch instead of soothe. I question parades, adverts, and even my own takes—the way I’d test a plank by pressing my weight until it creaks—since rationality needs sweat, not slogans . Every click of the keyboard is a footstep on gravel.
When I’m tempted to sell a piece of myself for quiet, I rub the rough edge of a notebook and ask: what’s the price of this silence? I listen for the low hum in my chest—like an engine idling—and choose the sentence that makes me swallow, not the one that slides down sweet. Hard truths smell honest.
On love, I remember that courtroom kiss and the electric stillness after it, and I try to swap judgement for curiosity even when it stings. Labels feel smooth in the hand; people feel messy and warm. Next time my mind grabs a quick verdict, I’ll touch the heat of the moment and wait.
What The Stranger Leaves Us
He vanishes, and the room fills with that familiar split—“è stato un male… è stato un bene”—like two radios hissing at once . He doesn’t hand us a map; he hands us friction, and the skin prickles like after a shave. That friction is the point.
The song is a field guide to critical thinking, framed as a parable that smells of sweat and streetlight, not incense. It warns us about the pomp of parades, the sale of self, the tyranny of “normal,” and the danger of stars that dazzle more than they orient—all cues to build an inner compass you can feel in your bones . Tomorrow needs people who pick splinters out of truth and keep going.
Some listeners see a Christ figure there—De André’s “filosofo dell’amore”—and the reading fits like a handprint on fogged glass: unexpected, human, warming . Others just hear a man forcing wakefulness, one bracing act at a time, like cold air through a cracked window. Either way, the message carries.
Try This Tonight
Pick one surface-level certainty and sand it with a single question until the grain shows. Listen for a sound—your breath, a fan, a neighbour’s laughter—then ask what that sound hides. Small, regular practice beats grand declarations, and the smell of progress is faint at first.
If you need a sign, use this: spend ten minutes with a book instead of the slot machine glow—ten minutes that feel like sunlight on a winter wall. The gap between €1,583 and €58.8 won’t close itself . Next year’s air can be cleaner.
I’m Gerd, President of Free Astroscience here in Rimini, a guy in a wheelchair who’s learned that wheels grip better on rough ground. The “bad road” is rough on purpose, and that’s where traction lives. I’ll meet you there—salt wind in our faces, eyes stinging a little, wide awake.
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