I can't sleep at night. I can't wake up in the morning. Should I maybe settle an ancient question that disturbs me. When I was five years old, I lived with my parents and my brothers in Firenze, Italy. I remember going to my lessons with my mother and sometimes my father. I remember the snow. I remember my teacher, Maestro Edi Perpitch. Last year, We went to see him at his retired village near Rome. I didn't see him since. It took us twenty years to see each other again. But we didn't forget a thing. We had an extraordinary meal, a feast with ten sorts of wine. In the end of this feast, my former teacher asked me: Do you remember who chose the violin for you?? I answered right away: of course, it was me. When I was five years old, my parents asked me "what do u want to play?". I chose immediately the violin. My parents looked at me with a smile. They said it is very cute to think that way but, actually, they pushed me into the violin: Since my big brother was already playing the piano, obviously, (?) I had to play the wonderful violin. My teacher Edi raised his glass of wine in the air and laughed. "It was me who led Michael into violin, isn't that so?". I was troubled. I could sware it was me who chose the violin. Actually, I think I was born with it. But I was the only one to see it until the age of five when all these adults started to take me seriously.
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