I love borders. I think that border people are more open-minded, interesting, wackier and funnier than those who live in the places indicated on the maps with a geographic circle.
As it happens on the Internet, where great things appear at the borders, and not in the centre, where Google was not invented by AT&T and Foursquare was not an idea of TIM.
I have lived at the border when I was a kid, without even realizing it, because borders only exist for people who do not live there. I was born in that part of Emilia where the shaded, moist and misty plain designates inadequate provincial streets and ditches - which are not even able to separate a courtyard from another - to delimit places that all look alike (in a way or another we have to draw the border!). These borders are known only by a tiny minority of inhabitants and are remembered just when it's time to get some documents issued. That is when they realize that their neighbours have to go 15 km north and they have to go 15 km south. The dialect gradually shades, the open "e" becomes closed and sounds like an "a".
In this land it is normal that three municipalities punctiliously share small villages like if they were playing Risiko, building the border between the church and the police station, sneaking it in the closet behind the bookstall, spreading it along the bicycle path, leaving the bar of the old and old-born young people neutral, wedging the school between the two lines.
"Mum, where do I live?" were my first words when I was seven. For this reason, then, when city people ask you where you come from, you reply saying you are a bit from Ferrara, a bit from Bologna, a bit from Modena. We are born stateless, and after all it is not a bad thing. We learn not to belong to anywhere in particular, except for carrying inside us a bit of Emilia.