I am what I am

I am what I am.

The tic tac of the clock;

The lyrics to "Alexander Hamilton";

A day of sun;

The posters on my wall;

The flowers in grandma's garden;

The german books from school;

All the lines in "My Best Friend's Wedding";

The piano songs;

The plays and poems;

A musical number in "La La Land".

I am where I am.

Chicago;

Berlin;

The classroom on the second floor;

The stage;

São Paulo;

The whole Italian peninsula;

Charleston;

New Orleans;

The bookshop in the mall;

My street;

Starbucks;

The states of Maine and Massachusetts;

The Brazilian Northeast;

Zurich's airport;

The Millennium Park;

Boston's Beacon Hill and the Museum of Fine Arts.

I am who I am.

Keira Knightley;

Grace Kelly;

Romeo Montague and Juliet Capulet;

The Crawleys;

My best friends;

Anna Karenina;

Leonardo DiCaprio;

Robert DeNiro;

Brie Larson;

My crushes and teachers and colleagues;

Jane Austen;

Elizabeth Bennet;

Don Drapper;

My sister and mother and father and brother.

I am what I am.

A storyteller.

An almost-woman.

An undecided teenager.

A human doubt.

A walking cinema encyclopedia.

A failure in the looking in the eyes matter.

A dreamer.

Perhaps a little bit of a hopeless romantic.

A critical body.

Sometimes and unfortunately,

a sucker for cliches.

Always an activist for originality.

24/7 feminist.

A person and living creature.

I am.

What, where, who.

I am.

Our last childhood breathe

As the boys argued in the WhatsApp group about what to wear in the graduation ceremony, I suddenly realized.

It is, truly, once and for all, over.

There will be no geography classes ever again. There won't be any uniform. There won't be any 5 hour long multiple choice test. There will be no "good morning" from the 15 incredible and exquisite human beings who survived the last four years with me, and who dealt with my daily drama.

And the boys went on and on, talking about how cool suits are. How they felt good using it, how they should be all dressed up with ties and everything. Again, a new conclusion.

When did I stop paying attention to the passing of time? How did 4 years go by so quickly, and without warning? How come were those boys, who once tried to be the furthest away from ties they could, now defending not only the use of it, but the color coordination too?!

It came like a stroke. Those weren't boys anymore. I was witnessing men defending suits.

On the night of the fourteenth, I saw women walking in their high heels and thanking their teachers. I saw men standing up and applauding the choir. I saw women entering the auditorium in their graduation caps. 

As I stood in line, waiting for my photo to be taken, I couldn't do anything but laugh with a bit of an early nostalgia. The 17 year old man behind me asked the whole room, if anybody knew how to properly arrange a tie. The 17 year old woman in front of me suggested him to check a video on YouTube. He told us he watched three at home, but still couldn't do it. 

His friend helped him, said he had to close all buttons in his shirt, including the one near the Adam's apple, to use the tie. 

And I just stood there, watching the development of the argument about how wrong the choice of shirt in that case was. It was too small, too dark, too so many things.

I thought of my father. My brother. My uncle. My best friend's cousin. All the other students graduating with me. And I looked once more at the man who couldn't tie a tie.

There stood a man right after his metamorphosis, alongside all the other undergraduate adults. 

New born adults, with so, so much to learn.

I saw adults, right after our last childhood breathe.

Free, at last

Free, at last
Is what's on my mind

To graduate
Is to feel as a bird
Which has been caged for years
And now
Suddenly is able to experience a little bit of what it is like to fly

It is to finally reach
That good state of mind
To throw the books in the darkest corner of your room
And never ever reach for them again

It isn't a sudden rush of joy
But an endless peacefulness
in which no application or deadline bothers you anymore
And life feels light

Just like it used to be, in kindergarten times

What a dream.

And to see it come true

Teenage Miracle

Isn't it awfully good to suddenly understand something about a person and then see him or her in a whole new way?

Amongst those who I've been studying with for at least a third of my life, who bully, and party, and drink, and complain, I realized the existence of something I call 'teenage miracle'.

A teenage miracle is that one moment when you get to experience a glimpse into the soul of a teenager, and the kindness that comes with it. You can almost see the future adult this young man or woman will turn into surfacing from the depths of all teenage character. And that made me see that, actually, teenagers are way more than they seem to be. They aren't 100% cliché and predictable, and, what I find most beautiful about it all, is that adolescents are, sometimes, more human and empathetic than anyone else.

Teenage miracles are the few seconds I feel as amazed as Louis Armstrong and think to myself "what a wonderful world".

To hear "Sophie, you shouldn't worry about the presentation, you already got an A because you are really intelligent, and no bad group can change that" from the cleverest person in class; to have a classmate who you never really talk to hug you when you breakdown, and offer you some water; to see a student who is the complete opposite of yourself lay on your table, just to stop someone from stealing your place in the classroom and say "I refuse to let you sit on Sophie's chair, go get another place"; to start singing the first line of a song and hear the rest of the pupils continuing it, with rhythm and everything; to have a distracted teenager recognize your test because "she's the only one who draws a circle in the counter clockwise way"; to receive a text apologizing for the joke someone shouldn't have told; to see a whole class united to sing happy birthday to a teacher, and bring him a cake; to experience all students (girls and boys) telling the coordinator the advertisement shown in class is sexist, and shouldn't be part of the school's material.

It all made me wonder:

Aren't we incredibly lucky to get to experience teenage miracles?

Senior in High School

A Reflexion/ Brainstorm-ish text in two parts

PART ONE

For every student, the end of the school year is basically hell. Endless projects and exams, thousands of nights without sleep and deep into big books with really small letters. And in some point, as we approach summer holidays, we catch ourselves thinking "I was so much luckier last year, why did I even complain about essays then, they weren't as hard as this year's".

The thing is, senior year is that way, every day.

Senior year is to sleep five hours a night, when you don't have tests the next day. It is to prepare good presentations in record time (Michael Phelps would be jealous) and act like you took forever searching for everything, when you actually procrastinated a lot.

It is to feel the world on your shoulders and to think that nobody has ever been through that in the history of humanity.

It is to have many revision exercises given on one day and to read 30 pages of a thesis written by Foucault.

It is to realize that the person you started calling your friend when high school started actually was never there for you - or never there in the way you needed.

It is to see who really stands by your side when you're stuck with horrible team mates in your group project.

It is to have nervous breakdowns every four days, and to consider not finishing school, because it is too much for you.

It is to feel the world conspiring against you, and to cry alone before falling asleep- so that no one can hear you and your tears.

It is to feel powerless and small and egoistic because you know, it could be worse. You could be a fugitive from Syria, or a victim in a terror attack or have someone dying in your family.

Girl, and you can't even manage to keep up with homework, shame on you.

Senior year is to be the one person trying to hold your friends' group together, and trying to consulate everyone, while looking like the strong person - when, in fact, you're screaming inside. I MEAN WHY DO BAD THINGS HAPPEN TO GOOD PEOPLE AND I WISH I COULD JUST GO BACK IN TIME WHEN THE BIGGEST OF OUR ISSUES WAS TO CHOOSE WHICH TV CHANNEL TO WATCH.

To be a senior is to wake up at 4am before exams to go through the subject.

It is to have almost no weekend at all, and to basically abandon Netflix, because there isn't any time to binge-watch young Leonardo DiCaprio's movies.

It is to have more than 300 videos in your "to watch later" YouTube playlist.

It is to crave for summer on the third lesson of the first day of second semester of senior year, right after winter holidays.

It is to abominate futility, and everyone who doesn't seem to mind about serious issues.

It is to have patience with your computer, and stop yourself from yelling at it after it starts updating and you can't use it/ you lose the whole written essay.

It is to try to do everything you did before, but with almost no free time at all, and to somehow still do well at school.

Remember when you dreamed of prom? It isn't really the biggest of your interests anymore.

Graduation day? Well, you still do dream about it, but it isn't the same thing. It may still be exciting - but it also means the beginning of your future life as an adult. And that, for a senior, is really, really scary.

It means you no longer are a teenager - and you've been able to, in so little time, make yourself comfortable with that 'in-between' limbo that adolescence is. For some of course, that limbo was worse than for others, but even in some little way there's always something you'll miss from these years (even I - the most unteenage of teenagers will).

I used to have a teacher who said that, if you could manage to finish senior year with an average grade of nine - out of ten points - you'd be successful in life.

(Fun fact: only two of the almost 500 seniors in my year managed that. And no, I'm not one of them, but I was able to get pretty close.)

Anyway, it doesn't really give us a nice perspective of what's to come, because, you know, senior year of high school is all the problems in life which somehow manage to emerge and seem worse at seventeen.

Senior year is to, once and for all, try to hug the whole world with your arms, and let go of nothing or no one.

Our eloquent silence

“Silence is the residue of fear. Silence is the Rwanda genocide. Silence is Katrina. It is what you hear, when there aren’t enough body bags left.”

- Clint Smith

To say nothing

And remain quiet

Is a powerful thing.

It may be one’s sentence to death

Or one’s sentence to jail.

Silence is

As eloquent as any good speaker

As loud as any scream.

Silence is

An answer just like any other

A ‘yes’ or a ‘no’

And all the arguments that explain a decision.

Silence is

You in a confrontation

Ignoring those whose voices are muffled

By the influential ones.

To say nothing

Is more

than saying too much.

Silence is

To reduce yourself to nothing

To be afraid to speak up your mind

And to shut yourself from what happens around you.

Silence is

To accept any form of slavery

To maintain the world as it is

And to exterminate words.

Oh

All the things we wanted to say

 but never did.

From now on

Let silence only be

The sound of peace at dawn.

Almost feels like dying

You just start doing something for the sake of doing it. You just start. You just wake up someday and someone (or yourself) decides that you’re going to start drawing, or writing or performing.

You do it regularly, as a ritual, sometimes as if it is a mechanical action of your body. As if it is your refuge from the world, from what other people tell you to do or not.

Then almost by accident, you just start looking at situations and objects and people and realize, this or that is linked to that thing you started doing, sometime ago. It soon becomes your hobby.   Then from the moment you wake up you start craving for that magical hour in which you’ll be able to do it, and be free again.

Free from routines, from anything that makes you unhappy, or miserable, or tired.

You just can’t stop thinking about the moment when you’ll be able to do your hobby again.

And, then, it is no longer a hobby. It just keeps coming to your mind, and you can’t see yourself NOT doing it. You start to practise as often as possible, and your dreams are even filled with that marvellous thing you were blessed to be able to do.

It is, now, what you inhale and exhale, what you think about to make yourself happy again after a sad cry. You can only see beauty in it, and just can´t understand how there are people who aren’t interested in it.

It becomes your passion, and it is impossible for you to not be in touch with it.

Oh God, no.

Being apart from it almost feels like dying.

A Recipe

Ingredients:

A good amount of anything you like

Some patience

A handful of nice people

Directions:

Blend every single bit of life in a cake.

(Re)build broken hearts

Carve some pumpkins for fun

Check if everybody’s fine

Chop the grief away

Close it in a safe place

Cover faces with cheer

Cut revenge out your life

Decorate your soul with affection

Divide moments with others

Drop a spoonful of sunshine everywhere

Fold your secrets and keep them somewhere safe

Follow yellow brick roads

Insert new people

Leave pain alone

Make friends

Melt joy into ice cream topping

Mix the sad and good times in a bowl

Open your mind up to new experiences

Pack everything together and travel

Paint the smiles you saw

Pour some laughter in

Prepare yourself for change

Push away what made you cry

Raise a glass to toast life

Reduce the tears

Reheat passion

Replace sorrow

Salt the sweets

Season your routine

Separate what is right from wrong

Spread love

Sprinkle sugar and cinnamon

Stuff your heart with tenderness

Surround yourself with good people

Taste different, new things

Tie yellow ribbons

Twist and shout

Warm some cookies until they almost melt.

Finally,

Wrap everything up with some gift paper and place it under the Christmas tree.

Thank you for the company

I’ve never met you. I mean, I have, but not truly in person. Moreover I know you have no idea of who I am.

I’ve never really talked to you, but I’ve heard your thoughts, I imagined what you were feeling, how would I act if I were you.  I, many times, disagreed with your decisions; found them stupid, because maybe I knew how everything was going to end up.

I may, at first sight, have fallen in love with you, because of how you looked – I know, superficial, I shouldn’t judge anyone based on looks. Or because of something you said, some song you sang, an act you acted. I somehow connected to you, or felt I was your lost twin, or lost soulmate, or maybe because we are almost the same. We agree about the same things, because we think the same things, and, as time went by, I thought we would be inseparable.

However, depending on who you are, I may also have misjudged you in the very beginning, because you didn’t look pretty, or you didn’t have a British accent, or because I just thought you weren’t at all good, since I couldn’t see the whole you. Furthermore I may have then wished you would be dead. Sorry for that.

I mean, I spent days talking about you to my friends, my family, even to unknown people. I didn’t sleep, just so I could see you. I sometimes waited almost two years to meet you again. One year. Six months.

Then, we met weekly. Or daily, when I could literally see you anywhere.

However you, out of nowhere, suddenly disappeared from my life. It wasn’t me, it was you. You just simply decided you should move far away from here and live happily ever after. Or you killed yourself. Or you were unfairly killed. Or you just simply asked someone to tell me you were gone. How could you abandon me so easily?

How could you, after months, years, leave me with nothing, but the sweet memories we had together? How could you?

I’ve always wished you well, looked up to you.  Now I won’t see you ever again and it breaks my heart, because you made me cry and laugh like nobody else did.

So I’d like to thank you, for all the good moments, when you made me stop in time, or travel through history and for all the times you cheered me up.

For the reason that there are just a few pages left for the book to end or because the season finale is tomorrow.

Thank you Emma Woodhouse, for all your matchmaking, your scheming, all your erroneous thoughts, which I could so clearly understand when you couldn’t.

Thank you Matthew Crawley and Lady Sybil for your sweetness, changing nobility’s habits and for making me immerse in your gorgeous blue eyes. I thank you Dowager, for your irony towards everything. Thank you Mary, for making me realize I’m exactly like you, but in the same time so different.

Thank you Pi,  for all your observations about boats and stuff.

At last, I’d like to thank you, beloved character, who is reading this and wondering why your name isn’t here. The thing is, I love you just as much as the ones who were previously quoted, as well as the ones who weren’t. However, the problem is, this small farewell would turn into a bible of goodbyes, which would lead me terribly to an infinite sea of tears.

So thank you, characters of all types, shows and chapters. Thank you for all the company you keep, and the space you’ll always have in my heart.

Lost Generation

Broken by History

She crossed the border illegally and went from princess to worker in a few days. She saw her house burn and her dolls turn into ashes. She lost a father because of jealousy, and went to another place to run away from two powerful uncles.

He lost his family in a shipwreck, and sailed through the seven seas from India to Canada. Before that, however, the Indian economy wasn’t doing well, and obliged them to sell their zoo.

She left a beloved home, a beloved country, a beloved past memory to run from the Nazis, because in their mentality, the way she prayed wasn’t the right one. So she had to move to LA as fast as she could, even though it meant to leave her ill father and a dazzling Gustave Klimt’s portrait in Vienna.

He saw in buzzling New York a new life he would never know in a small village in cold Russia. And the children of his cousins saw, in a balloon, a possibility to flee from Eastern Germany.

She spent months in the middle of nowhere, trying to get anywhere, because China didn’t really seem like a brilliant future for a grandmother, a mother and two little girls.

He never made it to Europe, but his body did, floating in the Mediterranean. He broke millions of people’s hearts. The Earth cried blood and salty tears, as it never cried before, for the boy who lived a little, and moved lots of cold individual souls.

Pieces of History’s infinite puzzle. Missing pieces, molded in a way they would never fit in their original place ever again. The edges would never fit, and all of them would be forever outsiders, lost between Mexico and the US, New Delhi and Montreal, Austria and California, Minsk and the big apple, Hong Kong and Sidney, Syria and the EU. Lost all over the world.

Children's fates, brutally taken away.

The forces of destiny have never been so cruel.

Teenage whims

"All young people would have their little whims"

- Mrs. Weston, “Emma”, Jane Austen, 1815.

To get a whole pizza to celebrate, and Nutella in times of sorrow;

Never wait for the cookies to be ready, eat the fresh dough;

Be as impatient as a child; ambitious as an adult.

Selfish and unselfish

To break things and legs

Live in drama and comedy

Tears and laughter

Skip gym to watch Netflix,

Skip classes to fall in love or study before tests.

Immersed in boredom, but always busy to stop for a while.

To look forward to a party, and spend it in a corner, with a phone in hand;

Criticize society and do nothing to change it;

To see everything in black and white and ignore what’s gray.

Match summer with ice cream;

Winter with Starbucks;

And forget about salad.

To be blind and have eyes opened;

To shock and be shocked,

Laugh continually.

To complain about everything and generalize;

Find excuses all the time;

Love more than it is possible, and hate intensely.

Have hope when nobody has faith.

See magic in little acts.

To exaggerate and daydream.

To see what’s good in people and quickly believe them;

Be naïve and spontaneous.

To let things go and hold on to them

To be and not to be

To shout at the sea, and cry when no one’s looking,

To judge and be judged,

And face men, women and children as equals.

To understand diversity and embrace it.

To be, at the same time, lost and found in reality.

Bucket lists

Scent of a Woman

Wearing a black hat and a long coat, her eyes sparkled like Christmas lights.

In winter she smelled like fire. It was a mixture of new books, cinnamon, orange, raw writing and sunflowers that made everyone smile at her. She contrasted with the white landscape:  she never smelled like snow.

Sitting on a bench, the figure ignored the sights which announced that spring was here: flowers and birds weren’t interesting at all. The crux of the matter was the museum’s newest exhibition about Mary Shelley and Lord Byron. She then smelled like ice, satin and pears; an uncommon scent for an uncommon person, who refused to wear anything floral in April.

In July, she was the exact opposite of summer breezes: she enjoyed high temperatures with freezing air conditioning, which spread her warm scent in the air. Basil, lilies and burgundy lipstick; dark stripes and round sunglasses, paired with gladiator sandals, because she was more dramatic than classic tragedy.

Autumn, then, came as a surprise. She wore white almost every day, as a protest against “season’s color pallet”. NYFW wasn’t the only fashion dictator there was. She competed with it every day, with her raspberry and lemons smell. A touch of washed hair, smoothie and mascara, and she was ready to fight the world.

Her great-grandmother used to say “Don’t forget to smell the world”.  That was now her mantra, her life-decisions guide, which she religiously repeated every day, while brushing her teeth.

Her life goal was to show everyone that Carolina Herrera was too démodé.

Where my heart is

"No one realizes how beautiful it is to travel until he comes home and rests his head on his old familiar pillow." 

- Lin Yutang

Somehow, these words fit me well yet seem like strangers to me.

I guess it's always good to be back home, to sleep in your own bed, to hear your mother tongue. It has always been that way. However now, it all seems boring, and it feels like nothing in my room is really mine. It's not my city anymore, it's not the blue sky I remember seeing through the airplane window.

People say home is where your heart is. Mine is somewhere, across three tropics, a rainforest and innumerous islands. My heart is in pieces, that are scattered on every sidewalk I walked, every gift shop in every hotel lobby and museum I entered, every airport I felt anxious at. These pieces are at the Hollywood Walk of Fame, the American Museum of Natural History's gift shop and Fort Worth International Airport.

Home is that feeling I get when we land in a foreign country, that feeling I can't stop having, of belonging there even though I just don't. The feeling of endless happiness, excitement, of looking forward to every little or great adventure to be.

My heart is in every line of every music, every movie and every book about the places I've been to, the places I visited. My heart's with 'I left my heart in San Francisco', with 'Breakfast at Tiffany's' and even with 'Divergent'. Its pieces are even in places I've never seen, but dream to someday see. The fragments of my heart are with 'Midnight in Paris' and in every Ed Sheeran's song. They're near Parthenon, and Venice's Canals.

My heart is not here anymore. My heart's in Washington, Boston, Monterey and in Chicago. It's in New Orleans, Barcelona, Munich, Marrakesh, Santorini and Sidney. It's everywhere. And nowhere around here. It's not in my chest anymore, and it hurts. It hurts not to be where my heart is.

Untitled

It started with drawings, balloons and nap time. The world was red, yellow and blue; cookies and muffins, teddys and dolls, marys and johns. The very hungry caterpillar.

Then, there was cursive, and handouts, and jelly, and

Mrs. D

Mrs.I

Mrs. F-F-I

Mrs. C

Mrs. U

Mrs. L-T-Y.

Mrs. Homework, Mrs. Bicycle, Mrs. Ma-Til-Da.

It became more purple, green and orange; more reading, more writing, more tests, more parties, more music, more dancing, more teenage - understanding.

It turned into salad, and Fitzgerald, and Dickens, and Plato; It was exchange, and kisses, and crying, and drama, and powerpoint, whatsapp, and gym.

The mess finished, for another one to start: straight aways and gap years, unis and lectures, career and choices. Only carry ons, and not a single “put off”.

Nice to meet you, Mrs. Life.

Possessions

I don’t know, but I feel like most people’s favourite things have a sentimental meaning: we all love a certain piece of clothing, a letter, an old ring. Well, I really like one of the walls in my room.

It started like this: a small Indian-like girl enters a recently opened book shop in December of the past year, holding quite a nice sum of money, because the cinema ticket was way cheaper than she thought. She was immediately attracted to the DVD section on the ground floor, and started looking through the movies. She found one, her father always said that he loved, and decided to bring it home. Yup, that’s me. And yes, that’s how my (now composed by something around 50) DVDs collection began.

Then, there’s the boredom of summer holidays, when everything possible to do has already been done. Christmas and New Year’s had already passed, my piano songs were all learned, school stuff was bought, books were read, movies were watched, travels were travelled, potatoes could be still called potatoes. My summer days were still full of emptiness, when, going through the internet (on a site called weheart it, that is now my absolute love), I found some pictures of idols of mine, of favourite actors, actresses, directors and movies. I had to have them printed, they just couldn’t remain in an abandoned folder in the cellphone’s gallery. Luckily there was a wide, blank, ready to be filled space, between the two book/DVDs’ shelves in my room, perfect for a photo collage. It was the end of my music playlist and bored and long hours, with nothing to do. Now, I have all of my famous best friends (you may also know them as Robert Downey JR. and Keira Knightley, among others) in my bedroom, making it more colourful and happy.

Every time I look at that wall, I feel serene, calm. I feel excited, nostalgic for all the movies I can’t watch right now, and even for the ones I haven’t watched yet. I feel like I can do anything and I am amazed, with how movies changed my life.

I feel happy, just like an ordinary person, loving their vintage ordinary favourite ring.

About time

“We're all traveling through time together, every day of our lives. All we can do is do our best to relish this remarkable ride.”

- Tim Lake in About Time, 2013

There is something about romantic comedies that makes me want to watch the movie over and over again. I don't mean the regular romcoms, because those make me feel like the most cliché person of all time. I'm here referring to the ones that make me want to travel to where the story is set, or to live the characters' lives. I like the movies that keep you thinking after they have ended.

I may confess it is rare to find such a movie. When I do, I make sure I get a DVD copy as soon as I can, and to place it on the shelf in my room.

"About time" is one of these rare cases. I know I'm probably not the best person to talk about it, as I am a big fan of Rachel McAdams, who plays Mary in the movie.

Reading the summary of it, on the internet, I thought it would be a pretty silly movie, about a guy that travels in time. I have to tell you, it is definitely not like that. It's not silly at all.

Before I watched it, I only wanted to see it because of her. However afterwards becoming totally surprised by the unexpected script, I swear, she turned into my last reason to watch it again, something I obviously did.

Imagine yourself lying on a beach, the sun kissing your skin. Imagine a cup of tea. A huge spoon of Nutella. An amazing book. I honestly felt like that with "About time".

It makes me want to go to Cornwall, and London. To have the ability Tim (Domnhall Gleeson, who I absolutely adore now) has, to realize what he realizes by the end of the story. To live each day as if it were your last. Not like doing crazy stuff, but to appreciate every second of life, even the ordinary ones. There's something crazy in every moment, something to remember. It's all about time.

I'll be there for you

I have just finished watching the ten seasons, the 236 episodes of F.R.I.E.N.D.S. And I just don't know what to do.

I'm speechless. There are tears rolling down my cheek, and hundreds of ideas in my head that could become possible episodes for the next season (which unfortunately won't happen).

I already miss Chandler's jokes and his sweetness when around Monica, Joey's dumb questions and sentimentalism, Phoebe's strange ways to solve problems and her musical talent, Monica's cleaning vices and amazing cooking, Ross' love for dinosaurs and his children, Ben and Emma, and Rachel's ironic answers and style. I miss Mondler and Rosschel, I miss Grandma Geller's apartment. Above all, I miss how they were the best group of friends I ever watched, and how close the characters and actors were, on and off screen.

That's why I decided to search for behind the cameras photos (that is my favorite kind of photography) of the series. These are the spontaneous moments, when you can see how people really interact with each other. The images are my favorite, because you don't see a character, you see the real person there, being him or herself. Moreover, I can't really see the difference between the characters and the actors. For me, they are just the same people. They are a very funny ensemble of friends that love each other, no matter how much time they have spent together.

The thing is, I couldn't resist some episodes and staged pictures, so I separated these too.