Twenty hours of sleep deprivation, bronchitis, and a full heart: the bill for the Folpo Fair.

Six days at the Grills of Bettola Ranch From Noventa Padovana. Only today, after 24 hours of total blackout, can I gather my thoughts on what it really means to share something true.

There Folpo Fair ( https://fieradelfolpo.it) ended the day before yesterday. Yesterday I didn't exist: too much sleep deprivation, too much bronchitis, too much "official" work to catch up on. Only this morning, with a glimmer of clarity creeping into a head full of colds, am I able to write. I'm able to make sense of these six days that have left me with at least twenty hours of sleep to catch up on, a practically nonexistent voice, and a body that protests at every movement.

And yet here I am, with my heart enormously full.

Let's get one thing straight: six days in a row at the Fiera del Folpo in Noventa Padovana, four of which from 8:30 in the morning until late at night, at Bettola Ranch Grills. And as I write this, I'm hoarse, with a cough like a reformed smoker and dark circles under my eyes that could house a small camp.

But there's one thing that no antibiotic can cure and no amount of sleep deprivation can dent: that feeling of fullness that you find inside when you live something true.

Because those six days aren't measured in wasted hours or lost voice decibels. They're measured in something else. In those conversations picked up exactly where you left them twelve months earlier, with people you only see during the Fair but with whom the thread never breaks. No "how are you?", no recap of previous episodes. "So, you were saying that..." And you're back inside, as if six minutes had passed and not a whole year.

They measure themselves by finding yourself among dozens of volunteers who they donate—I use this verb consciously—their time, their energy, their sweat. Freely. Not for a paycheck, not for a personal financial return (all proceeds go to parish activities, especially those dedicated to young people), but for a common interest that has to do with belonging, with building something together, with feeling part of a living organism that breathes tradition, embers, and community, that of Parish of Saints Peter and Paul.

It's that strange and beautiful feeling of working side by side with people who ask for nothing in return. They're there because, yes, because what we build together is worth more than any compensation. Because the common interest isn't written in a contract, but in the looks, in the pats on the back, in the coffee shared at midnight after you've been up for sixteen hours.

But there is one thing that is worth more than all the rest, more than tiredness and bronchitis put together: the young people.

In an era where the dominant refrain is always the same—"young people don't want to do anything," "they're lazy," "they live glued to their phones"—we are living proof that it's all false. Or rather: that It depends on what you offer him.

Why if you convey true passion, If you show that what you do has meaning and value, if you don't fake enthusiasm but truly live it, then you engage them. You do engage them. You see them light up. You see them give their best. You see them become part of something that lasts.

Years of sweat, of hard work, of difficulties overcome together have created a cohesive group where even the youngest have found their place. Not because "we need to involve the new generations" (an empty rally phrase), but because they've seen that things are serious here. That people laugh, sweat, work, and share. That here, beauty isn't a slogan: it's a daily practice. Young people aren't just our future (another phrase I don't like very much), but above all they are the our present!

And this, perhaps, is the greatest satisfaction of all. The one worth twenty hours of sleep and a lost voice. The one that no algorithm can measure and no social media can contain.

Because in the end the beauty—the real one, the one I look for everywhere and try to create when I can't find it—it always has a price. But when shared, that price becomes light as air. It becomes invisible. It becomes pure joy.

So yes, I lost my voice. I lost sleep. I lost my health for a few days.

But I found—once again—shared beauty. The hard-earned kind, the kind that doesn't fit into filters or algorithms. The kind that creates itself, freely, when we all eat dinner together late at night with sore feet. Tired, sweaty, smelly, burned... but smiling and happy.

See you next year, Folpo Fair. Bring another twenty hours of sleep debt.

It's always worth it.