Opinion
Burcu tells us all about her love for Juventus
A Game Begins at Home
Football fandom rarely starts with a grand gesture. More often, it begins in the small, ordinary rituals of family life—on a sofa, in front of a flickering television, in the company of someone who cares enough to explain what is happening on the screen. For Burcu, a lifelong Juventus supporter, it began with her father.
“My love of football started as a child, watching games with my father,” she tells me. “I was fascinated by the passion, the stories behind every match, and the way the game can bring people together. Football is not just a sport to me, it’s a way of life—it’s about emotions, strategy, and the moments that make you jump out of your seat.”
Why Juventus?
Burcu speaks with the calm authority of someone who has long since made peace with her devotion to the game. There is no irony, no distance. For her, football is both personal history and present tense. And at the centre of it all is Juventus.
“I fell in love with Juventus because of their incredible history and the way they combine tradition with ambition,” she says. “Their resilience, the skill on the pitch, and the sense of identity they carry as a club made me a fan for life. When Cristiano—my GOAT—started playing there, I knew I’d be a Juventus fan forever.”
Cristiano Ronaldo’s brief but luminous years in Turin left their mark on many, but Burcu insists her bond with Juve goes deeper than a single player. What holds her to the club is the balance of elegance and grit, and the sense of continuity between past and present.
A Derby to Remember
When asked about her favourite memory as a supporter, she doesn’t hesitate. It is not lifting a trophy or a European night, but a domestic clash, raw and improbable.
“One of my favourite memories as a fan was witnessing the unforgettable Derby d’Italia, a spectacular 4–4 match against Inter last season. Kenan Yildiz came on in the 61st minute when Juventus was trailing 2–4, and with his first goals of the season in the 71st and 82nd minutes, he managed to equalise the game. The excitement, the roar of the fans, and the collective joy at that incredible comeback are something I will never forget.”
The way she recounts it makes you feel the surge of adrenaline, the shared gasp, the release that follows a goal. Football’s theatre is rarely in the result alone but in the possibility of being surprised.
Inside the Allianz
Still, nothing matches the sensation of being inside the Allianz Stadium itself. Burcu describes it less as a venue and more as a living organism.
“Experiencing a game at the Allianz Stadium is extraordinary. The atmosphere is electric—the chants, the energy, the connection with thousands of other fans. You feel every goal, every tackle, every moment right in your chest.”
She insists that everyone should make the trip at least once in their lives. Not to tick off a list, but to be absorbed in something that stretches beyond sport.
“I believe everyone should go watch Juventus play at least once because it’s not just a match—it’s an experience. The intensity, the passion, and the sheer quality of football will leave you in awe. What makes it truly special is the feeling of unity—you feel like you’re part of a huge family. The stadium isn’t too massive, so it feels a bit more intimate and homely, which I absolutely loved. The light show, the Zebra mascot, the flags, and especially the atmosphere in the Curva Sud all come together to create a sense of home. It’s the kind of experience that stays with you forever.”
Turin, the Living Backdrop
That sense of belonging spills out of the stadium and into the city itself.
“Visiting Turin is amazing,” Burcu says. “The city is full of history, culture, and incredible food. Everywhere you go, you see Juventus jerseys—from Dušan Vlahović, Kenan Yildiz to Alessandro Del Piero—which shows how much the city lives and breathes football. I love that it’s big enough to be vibrant but not overwhelming, unlike Munich, my hometown.
The architecture is stunning, with a touch of French influence, and being so close to the mountains makes it even more special. Walking around, you feel the heartbeat of Juventus everywhere, and it all comes together to make it unforgettable.”
The Heartbeat of a Club
For Burcu, Juventus is a compass, and a connection to her father, to Turin, to the thousands of strangers in black and white who leap together when the ball finds the net.
All our thanks to Burcu.
You can follow her on social media by clicking here.
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All words and text by Jönas Zoller
Over the coming weeks, photographer Jonas Zöller will be travelling across South America to capture the heartbeat of the continent — its football and its culture, all on film. From terraces to town squares, he’ll be documenting the everyday moments that make the game inseparable from life here. His journey begins in Chile for the World Cup qualifier between Chile and Uruguay at the Estadio Nacional Julio Martínez Prádanos, where the backdrop of the Andes frames stories of passion, community, and identity played out on and off the pitch.
Santiago. It is just after nine in the morning when my flight touches down in Chile. By the time I get into a taxi outside the airport, the city is still wrapped in mist. The air is cool, maybe ten degrees, and I cannot tell if I am shivering from the temperature or from fifteen hours in the air.
And yet something warmer is stirring inside me when I think of the two months ahead. South America: Chile and its Andes, Argentina and its glaciers, Brazil and its beaches. And through it all, the one constant I came for: football.
The truth is, I am not prepared. I do not know if I will be able to get tickets, how groundhoppers are seen here, or how the police deal with tourists at matches. All I really know are the endless reels of South American terraces that have filled my feed ever since I booked the flight. For now, that feels like enough.
My first stadium is waiting just two days after my arrival. Even before I boarded the plane, I had managed to buy a ticket for the World Cup qualifier between Chile and Uruguay at the Estadio Nacional Julio Martínez Prádanos. I do not know what to expect, so I leave far too early.
The first rush of goosebumps comes as the road bends and the floodlight towers rise above the skyline. Even from a distance, the stadium feels monumental. The whole complex is fenced off, but you can already tell it has nothing in common with the prefabricated arenas of Europe. What really makes my heart race, though, are the Andes standing behind it all.
The closer I get, the more the view fades into what is happening on the ground: armoured trucks, water cannons, mounted police units — all “securing” the area. At the gates, the confusion continues. I do not even need to show my ticket, but I have to hand over my passport twice. Two bag checks, a metal detector, and at last I am on the forecourt, minus my lighter — the only thing I had to give up. Inside, rows of officers in black masks and riot gear stand as if they are about to be sent on a manhunt.
It clashes with the aura of the place. Sponsors run raffles, a brewery hands out samples of alcohol-free beer, and a DJ plays to a square that is barely half full. I shrug — international football — and make my way to my seat.
The moment I step inside, all of it is forgotten: the uneven outline of the terraces, the mismatched stands, and behind it all, the sun catching the snow on the Andes. It feels like a football romance.
The ground is nowhere near sold out, probably because Chile, at the bottom of the table, already had no chance of qualifying for the bloated World Cup in the United States, Mexico, and Canada. Still, the short end behind the goal where I sit fills just before kick-off. At first, the mood is sour. People grumble, shake their heads, and scold every mistake. But ten minutes in, the scene transforms. The terrace moves to the rhythm of drums and trumpets, cigarettes and joints are lit, and I seem to be the only one without a lighter in the whole stadium.
Every through ball stirs a murmur; every whistle against Chile draws outrage. For the first time, I feel a glimpse of South American football culture. Yet beyond the backdrop and the old concrete, it is still only a qualifier that meant nothing on the pitch — a warm-up for everything still to come.
All words and images by Jonas Zöller.
You can follow Jonas on social media by clicking here
By Luke Bajic with 3 Points Travel for The Atlantic Dispatch
When Luke Bajic travelled with 3 Points Travel to Belgrade, it wasn’t just about ticking a city off the map. It was about uncovering a part of his own heritage and experiencing one of Europe’s most passionate footballing cities. The trip was designed around 3 Points’ unique approach: combining football with culture, food, and local experiences you couldn’t simply Google. What Luke found was a city of raw history, vibrant community, and football that is lived as much as it is played.
What Made You Decide to Travel to Belgrade?
Family. I’m half-Serbian. My grandparents moved to the UK in the 1950s, first settling in Bedford before making their home in Leicester – the city where my dad, and later I, was born.
Until this trip, I had never been to Serbia. But as I grew older, I became more intrigued by that side of my heritage – the culture, the history, and the stories of a country that had been through so much in such recent memory.
At home, football was always Leicester. That was our team, our family tradition. But Serbia pulled at me in a different way. I didn’t have a “Serbian club” of my own, but I found myself following the league more closely over the years, reading, watching, learning. It felt like an itch I needed to scratch – to go there, to experience it first-hand, and to understand what football really means in Serbia.
What Did the 3 Points Curated Weekend Consist Of?
After knowing my preference for Belgrade, they did the rest. Football was the core, but the weekend was built around more than just 90 minutes.
The basic package gets you flights, accommodation and matchday tickets. They went one step further – I sampled four clubs across Belgrade, had backstage access and stadium tours with locals who live and breathe it. Off the pitch, it was about proper local spots: food, bars, and the kind of places you stumble into at 2 am.
It’s the sort of trip you couldn’t piece together off Google. That mix of mystery and insider access really impressed me.
What Was the Football Culture Like in Belgrade?
It’s Partizan. Excuse the pun. You’re either red and white, or you’re black and white.
Walk around Dorćol and its Partizan everywhere – murals, bollards, and lampposts painted in black and white. Head south into Senjak and the city shifts – red and white on bridges, restaurant walls, even front doors. The city wears its allegiances openly, and you feel the divide in its streets.
Step inside the stadiums and the scale of history becomes clear. Red Star are European champions of ’91, their museum built around that gleaming European Cup and hundreds of pennants from continental adventures, including two against my Leicester City. Partizan were European runners-up in ’66, Champions League regulars in the 2000s, while Red Star have been flying the flag more recently in Europe’s top competitions.
Together, the two clubs dominate the city. Not just as football teams, but as cultural institutions. In Belgrade, football isn’t background noise. It’s heritage, identity, and history painted all around you.
What Makes Belgrade a Unique City?
It’s a city that pulses with creativity, community, and defiance all at once. Belgrade carries the marks of empires past: Ottoman relics, Austro-Hungarian streets in Zemun, Tito-era brutalism, and the looming fortress where the Sava meets the Danube.
It’s vibrant and human – cafés in leafy Dorćol humming until dawn, strangers striking up conversations on the trams, splavovi lighting the rivers. And it’s defiant – tens of thousands taking to the streets in peaceful protest, pushing for change with the same resilience that has always defined the city.
Recommendations: Things to Do in Belgrade
- Kalemegdan Fortress: Watch the sun set where the Danube and Sava meet, ideally with a can of LAV pivo.
- Dorćol: Explore its café culture in the morning (don’t miss D59B for coffee). Later, head to Dorćol Platz or the Silosi warehouses by the river for an afternoon drink.
- Tram Ride: Belgrade’s public transport is free – one of the best ways to feel the city.
- The Church of Saint Sava: A must-see landmark in Vračar.
- Stadium Tours: Visit both Partizan and Red Star, but also explore neighbourhood clubs like Zemun and OFK Belgrade.
- Eat Local: Try ćevapi – grilled minced meat with somun bread, onions, and kajmak – at Republika Grill or Walter. Don’t miss the city’s markets for colour, smell, and chatter.
Experiencing the Stadiums
Favourite? I can’t choose. Each stadium’s history isn’t hidden in plaques and statues — it’s etched into every creaking stair, ageing chair, every scarred concrete wall. Safe to say, none of the stadia were built this century.
Walking into Stadion Partizana just felt like… football. No “spaceship” stadia, barely a roof. Just concrete and steel, that classic running track around a grass pitch, and years of colour layered upon colour.
Across the river in Zemun, FK’s City Stadium has another running track — this time made of red, earthy dust. A classic Eastern European athletic arena. Official capacity around 10k, but much of it is now closed off. Entry through the intimidating northern gate is reserved only for the ultra group — definitely ne parkiraj. The rest of us use the south gate, plastered with murals and now neighbouring the office of a car rental company. Money at this level is tight.
Obilić, now extinct but once Yugoslav champions, is a real “forgotten stadium,” with grass growing longer than on your local Sunday league pitch.
OFK’s Omladinski Stadion, another crumbling concrete beauty, is mostly standing. The adjoining clubhouse is worth an espresso. This one is getting a revamp while top-division OFK play elsewhere. As with many in Belgrade, the doors are wide open for a sneak peek.
Then there’s the Marakana, Red Star’s fortress. Its nickname nods to the legendary Brazilian stadium, and inside, it lives up to it. The museum that crowns the entry pours history into you, and the staircase bannisters feel like they belong in my gran’s 1970s hallway — warm, familiar, worn down by years of devotion. And that tunnel… more than a passageway, it’s legend. It sweeps beneath the North Stand, accompanied by Delije (Red Star’s main ultra group) graffiti, dim lighting, the roar of tens of thousands above, and the rattling of gates from a few who sneak down underneath. Without a doubt, the most intense tunnel in Europe.
The Zemun Experience
Zemun was different. Warm, welcoming, almost village-like in its community feel. The stewards greeted me like an old friend, explaining that the ticket seller wouldn’t arrive for another ten minutes (classically pointing at the correct hand on my watch). So I took a wander before paying just 400 dinars (about £3) in cash for entry.
It’s a classic community athletics ground, with a few quirks that give it character. Behind the outer walls sits a wide concourse doubling as a car park and, improbably, a tyre storage area for the neighbouring rental company. Step through, though, and the Northern Gate comes into view, next to the sole remaining seating of the old stand, spelling out Zemun, of course. Behind this, the ultras enter.
Families filled the south stand, kids darting around and neighbours chatting like it was a street festival. As I moved pitchside to watch the teams emerge, even the substitutes spotted me and offered a nod and a friendly “Ćao.” The ultras drifted in gradually, migrating toward their spot behind the west goal. Each arrival raised the noise until their presence finally hit full force, just as Milićević (#70) opened the scoring in the 8th minute. A bright flare cracked, smoke rising to blur the distant church spire on the skyline.
At halftime, the same steward who had mimed pointing to my watch earlier wheeled out a table stacked with pumpkin and sunflower seeds for the crowd. By sunset, Zemun were surging — turning a 2–1 deficit into a 3–2 comeback win. When the whistle blew, kids poured over the fences with ease, high-fiving goal scorers and sprinting across the grass as if it were theirs.
And in many ways, it is. That was Zemun: a community stitched together by football.
Why Choose a 3 Points Weekend?
Because the mystery is the magic. Anyone can book flights and a hotel, but with 3 Points, you don’t know your destination until you’re at departures, opening your reveal card. That cranks the buzz up another level.
It takes football travel back to what it should be: new cities, fresh stadiums, and local fan culture. No hassle, no endless planning – just a weekend that throws you head-first into football and culture, often in places you’d never think to book yourself.
How Does Belgrade Compare to Other Football Cities?
Belgrade’s football scene is passion and colour everywhere you turn, shaped by a fierce divide. Facilities may be basic, sometimes crumbling, but the raw emotion more than makes up for it.
This is a city that has produced outstanding football talent for generations, and you can feel why. Football isn’t just played here – it’s lived. It’s in the culture, on the streets, in the conversations – always intense, always on the edge.
Like Serie A, it’s tribal, emotional, and lived at life-or-death levels. In Belgrade, football carries history – flaking paint, concrete stands, graffiti, and tunnels echoing with past triumphs.
The Eternal Derby between Red Star and Partizan distils all of this into ninety minutes, making Belgrade not just another footballing city, but one of Europe’s greatest stages.
All images and text by Luke Bajic
To follow Luke on social media, please click here.
To learn more about 3 Points Travel, you can visit their website: https://www.3pointstravel.co.uk/
Or follow them on social media by clicking here
All words and images by Vitor Melo.
Vitor Melo is a documentary photographer and visual artist based in Rio de Janeiro. He recently covered Flamengo’s latest Copa Libertadores match, producing a visual series titled “How Rio de Janeiro Dresses on a Flamengo Match Day.”
The project captures the city’s distinctive urban atmosphere, showing how Rio transforms and dresses itself to welcome — and amplify — the energy of game day for Brazil’s most beloved club.
Football Culture in Rio
Football culture in Rio has its own charm. It’s built around four main pillars — the big Carioca clubs: Flamengo, their historic rival Fluminense, plus Vasco and Botafogo. Beyond them, there are other traditional teams that play a huge role in shaping the popular imagination when it comes to football in Rio: Bangu, América, and São Cristóvão, which, by the way, gave the world Ronaldo Fenômeno.
These smaller teams have deep roots within neighbourhoods and suburbs — it’s a long story, one that mixes with the city’s own history, landscape, samba, and other forms of Carioca culture.
When it comes to culture, hospitality, and diversity, Rio always takes the lead — and football is no exception. The atmosphere on match days, especially during the big clásicos, is unmatched. Even the Carioca Championship, which is a smaller tournament, carries this passionate vibe — with fans of clubs that might not be in the national spotlight, but who still show up with their hearts on their sleeves.
Rio, in fact, is one of the only states in Brazil where a 50/50 crowd is allowed in clásicos. Supporters hold this very dearly, because it’s such a special part of football. Having your opponent at the other end of the stadium teaches you about life’s ups and downs, and people in Rio value that a lot.
I like to joke that Rio is built on three foundations: samba — especially the rodas de samba and the samba schools — the natural beauty that sweeps you off your feet and makes you fall in love with the Carioca way of life, and of course, football. Together, they’re like the gears that make everyday life in Rio spin in a more beautiful and inspiring way.
Match Day with Flamengo
Rio just feels different when Flamengo are playing. For us rubro-negros, the symbols of the club go far beyond football or love for the game — they’re how we connect with each other and with the world.
Being the biggest fan base in the world, and Brazil’s most beloved club, we sort of multiply ourselves everywhere. It’s like an invisible support network that fuels our daily lives, until the moment the match kicks off and all that energy bursts out — whether you’re at the Maracanã, in a bar with friends, or watching at home. There’s a special feeling in stepping onto the street and seeing someone wearing the Flamengo jersey just like you — and that happens a lot.
People often joke that Flamengo’s supporters are called A Magnética — the Magnetic Ones — because there’s something irresistible about the red and black colours. And it’s true: you’ll see them everywhere in Rio. On delivery riders’ motorbike boxes with the Flamengo crest, on public workers wearing the club’s socks over their uniforms, or simply in the thousands of jerseys walking along the beach on a sunny day.
It’s impossible to imagine Rio de Janeiro without Flamengo, and equally impossible to picture Flamengo without the Carioca ecosystem. The club has grown into a national institution with millions of supporters across Brazil, but it has always kept its Carioca spirit — even among people who have never set foot in Rio. It’s unique, peculiar, and full of the kind of magic only Rio knows how to create.
What You See on Match Day
Being a Flamengo fan means seeing yourself everywhere in Rio on match day. The city is literally taken over by a red-and-black wave — and it only grows stronger when it’s a big game or a final.
Even on an ordinary day without football, it’s almost impossible to walk through Rio and not spot Flamengo somewhere. A jersey on the street, a flag flying from a balcony, a car with a sticker, or a delivery rider with the crest on the back of his box. We like to joke that we’re everywhere.
We even keep an eye out for vultures flying overhead — they’re our mascot and always a good omen on match day. That story goes back years: Flamengo were always seen as the people’s club, popular among the masses and the poor. Supporters of other clubs started calling us “urubus” (vultures), saying, “it’s black and lives in rubbish.” Instead of taking offence, we embraced it. It became part of our identity — we’re proud of who we are, and we always fly higher than anyone else.
There’s even a phrase among supporters: “somos todos menos alguns” — “we are all Flamengo, except for a few.” It really captures the spirit. Just like people talk about the “American way of life,” there’s a rubro-negro way of life. Being Flamengo isn’t just about football — it’s a spirit, a state of being, an identity.
Why Flamengo Are So Huge
That’s not an easy question to answer. It’s really a combination of historical factors, sporting highlights, and a bit of transcendental magic that created the perfect conditions for Flamengo to become the powerhouse it is today.
One turning point was when the club gained national relevance thanks to its massive presence on the radio and TV. Another was when Flamengo truly became known as the people’s club — representing the masses, bringing together layers of society that don’t always mix in daily life, but who stand shoulder to shoulder in the stands, united by each goal. It’s a club that is democratic, socially unifying, and deeply rooted in Brazil’s collective identity.
Beyond that, Flamengo has always been a club that artists are passionate about. Jorge Ben — arguably Brazil’s greatest musician — is a diehard fan. He put the crest on his album covers, wrote a song about a goal, and in his most famous track, proudly sings that he’s Flamengo. João Nogueira, Elza Soares, Gal Costa, MC Marcinho, Alcione, Arlindo Cruz — the list of names who have carried Flamengo into music, literature and journalism goes on.
Then there are the triumphs and the players. Flamengo’s history is full of legendary figures, above all Zico, who became not just a club icon but a symbol of world football. In the end, it’s this mix of history, culture, and sporting glory that created the perfect atmosphere for Flamengo to grow into the giant it is today.
All words and images by Vitor Melo.
To follow Vitor on social media, please click here
All words and images by Gregorio Gastaldi
Match day at the Maracanã is special. It’s very difficult to fill one of the biggest stadiums in the world. But Flamengo wasn’t the exception this time, and Cariocas attended in massive numbers. In fact, the attendance was 71.411 torcedores, the record at Maracanã stadium (and the whole country) since its renewal . People arrived extremely early. For security? Not really. Access to the stadium works very well and is very fast. But the street pre-show is a must. Cariocas love eating, drinking and dancing in the street — any day, any time, and for any reason. An important night like this one was more than enough to do so. Estudiantes’ away fans also came from La Plata (Argentina) and spent the whole day cheering at the beach. Why not? Futebol e praia is a religion in Rio de Janeiro.
Flamengo won and played very well for most of the game. Pedro scored the fastest goal in Libertadores history at 15 seconds. Their start was electric and ferocious. Two–nil in the first half, a difference that could have been much bigger. Instead, in the second half, they got a red card, conceded a goal, and it could almost have been a draw if Estudiantes’ striker hadn’t missed a last-minute chance. An absolutely intense night.
A Trophy Every Club Dreams Of
The Libertadores never disappoints. A quarter-final match is enough motivation for anybody to turn out in numbers. Every team in South America dreams of winning this trophy. Estudiantes have won four titles (only three clubs have more) and remain one of the continent’s most historic representatives, known for their tenacity. Their last win came in 2009, and they had spent a few years without even qualifying.
With one fewer trophy (three), Flamengo’s last triumph was in 2022. They have been a constant presence over the last decade, reaching almost every stage of the competition year after year. The club has invested heavily in recent transfer markets, which has created big expectations and responsibility. Estudiantes, meanwhile, are widely known for their strong identity and reputation as a copero club — a label for those who show resilience in crucial moments. Across South America, this competition is the absolute priority, no matter the team.
Brazil vs Argentina: Rivalry Renewed
In one of the tightest tournaments in the world, what could make a game more compelling than a quarter-final at the Maracanã? An old rivalry between two of the biggest football nations. Every time Argentinian and Brazilian teams face each other, tension is inevitable.
This time, both sides showed mutual respect during the week in press conferences and even in the protocol handshake on the pitch. But that ended quickly once the referee blew the first whistle. From there, it was a beautiful event to witness, whether from the field or in the stands: two different shows at the same time, ninety minutes of pure hostility.
It’s funny, because after all, people from both countries love each other — whenever there’s no football in between, of course.
A City That Never Sleeps
Rio de Janeiro is a city that never sleeps. For many people, it didn’t matter that Flamengo were playing late at night. Across the whole area, families were still selling street food from their own homes, alongside the famous sight of cold beers pulled from bags of ice. Nothing unusual for football fans worldwide.
For others, attending the match meant facing mandatory work early the next morning. Overcrowded public transport, trying to catch the last ride home, is part of the ritual. The crowd was divided — split into two types. The same happened with the mood after the game. Flamengo fulfilled their responsibility at home, but the scoreline could have been much bigger, and they missed many chances.
In the Libertadores, sometimes a single-goal advantage is not enough when you have to play away next time, and half of the torcida felt that. Estudiantes, instead, left with a kind of miraculous relief. It’s the mental side of the Cup — a competition that can take you from celebration to frustration in one second. Only achievable for those who can endure the suffering.
All words and images by Gregorio Gastaldi
To follow Gregorio on social media, please click here
On a late afternoon in Padua, the piazzas begin to thin out as the light shifts across the stone. Cafés are closing their shutters, students drift away from the university buildings, and the shadow of the Basilica of Sant’Antonio stretches further across the square. It’s here that photographer Giacomo Noventa talks about the city that has shaped him — and the football club that has been part of his life since childhood.
“My love for Padua comes both from my father and from that sense of belonging to the city as well as to the team,” he says, coffee in hand. “It’s a bond that, for those who support the big clubs, is hard to understand if you don’t actually live there.”
When he speaks about Padova, the local club, there’s a clear pride in its history. The story isn’t built on silverware but on the players who have passed through, names that went on to shape Italian football. “What makes the club unique is its ability, throughout history, to develop talented young players — above all, Alessandro Del Piero,” Noventa explains. “But even without going too far back in time, players like Perin, El Shaarawy, and Darmian all blossomed here. Even Giovanni Leoni came through all the youth ranks in Padua before moving to Parma and later being signed by Liverpool. Thanks to this and much more, it’s a club that has historically played in Italy’s second division, always hoping for an even brighter future.”
Not every part of the story inspires such pride. The stadium, built in 1994, has long been a source of frustration. Its design included an athletics track, leaving supporters separated from the pitch. “Over the years, this caused problems, especially for the fans who demanded a change,” he says. After years of pressure, renovation work began in 2021 to bring the curva closer, but delays and structural problems followed. The disruption pushed ultras to boycott home games altogether. “In fact, last year the supporters decided not to attend any home matches — unlike the away games, where their love has never been lacking.”
Away from football, Noventa talks about Padua itself as though it’s impossible to separate the city from the club. “The city of Padua is one of the most beautiful in Italy, with the Basilica of Sant’Antonio watching over the historic centre and Europe’s largest square, Prato della Valle. For this alone, Padua deserves a visit, but if you add Giotto’s Scrovegni Chapel and all the historic piazzas, you definitely won’t be disappointed.”
His strongest memory as a supporter takes him back to 2011, when Padova came close to promotion to Serie A. For a year, the city dared to dream, only to see those hopes end in the playoff final against Novara. “It was a tremendous disappointment,” he says, “but at the same time, I cherished for a whole year the dream of seeing my hometown club in the top flight — a dream I still hold on to every day.”
The conversation turns quieter as he finishes his coffee. For Noventa, the city and the club are inseparable. Padua is its basilica, its frescoes, its vast piazzas, but it’s also the curve of the stands, the tension of promotion playoffs, the pride in players who grew up here. To love Padua, and Padova, is to accept the frustrations alongside the beauty — because both are part of belonging.
All images by Giacomo Noventa
To see more of Giacomo’s work, please click here.
Text and Photos by Jesse Ilan Kornbluth
“We must recognise our own responsibility—and power—to protect the environment for future generations.”
THE CAMMINO RETICO
Across Europe, long-distance trekking is everywhere, but the Cammino Retico in northern Italy is one-of-a-kind for its mix of natural beauty, history, culture, local cuisine, ecological diversity, and physical challenge.
What really makes it stand out, though, is its unique origin story and the team behind the project.
The Cammino Retico is one of the continent’s first—and only—community-managed and maintained long-distance hikes (if there are others, I’d love to hear about them).
It was dreamed up by Francesco de Bortoli, a retired Bellunesi factory worker, in the final days of 2023 and brought to life in the spring of 2024 by L’Associazione di Promozione Sociale Carpe Diem, a cadre of volunteers from the villages along the trail—brewers, nurses, teachers, and students.
Despite—or perhaps because of—its independence from corporate sponsorship or central government support, the trail is incredibly well maintained and marked.
EACH VILLAGE FEELS LIKE A SLICE OF THE PAST
At the beginning of April, I solo-hiked the nearly 200 km trail over seven days through the Italian Dolomites, following the path of the pre-Roman Raetian civilisation.
The Cammino Retico is both physically demanding and culturally rich. Multiple starting points along the trail help keep foot traffic to a minimum, even during peak hiking season.
Days on the Cammino are spent trekking over rugged mountains, through scenic valleys, past sprawling fields, and alongside rushing rivers.
Each day ends in a different village across Belluno—except for one night when I crossed into Trentino, where the landscape and architecture changed dramatically.
Each village feels like a slice of the past—isolated hamlets with their own traditions, dialects, crops, and cuisines. The terroir and flavours between villages are worlds apart, though they’re only a mountain or valley away.
PERFECTLY AUTHENTIC, SELF-AWARE, AND UNPRETENIOUS
Beyond the stunning natural scenery, meeting the locals along the Cammino was a true highlight. Every village had a story, and everyone was eager to share their wisdom, work, and wine.
I met Roberto, who crafts furniture from native timber for his village inn; Michela, a beekeeper who brings local students into her apiary to teach them about the alpine ecosystem; Luciano, the retired nurse turned local historian who shared the secrets of his village’s 15th-century church; and Manuela, my de facto guide who—when she’s not teaching at the local primary school or working with the Red Cross on refugee resettlement—feels most at home in the mountains.
“I think trees communicate through their roots,” she told me. “The way the natural world communicates is beyond our understanding.”
Over the course of my week on the Cammino, those words echoed loudly.
Every day brought a new landscape and adventure. One of the most memorable was the 30-ish km trek between the villages of Aune and Lamon, wandering through valleys carved by wild rivers in shades of blue and green I’d never seen.
Around 5 km in, I was invited to learn about a 600-year-old church built atop ancient pagan tombs, and then for coffee at the churchkeeper’s home before heading back on the trail.
I crossed mountains with shrines dedicated to local mountaineers carved into the rocks and came across an abandoned alpine village—where I shared my prosciutto cotto sandwich and orange cake (baked by Manuela) with a family of wildcats now occupying the empty stone houses.
I ended the day in Lamon, a small village with just one operating pub—Stella d’Oro—which serves as an osteria, hotel, café, and community hub.
It’s the kind of place where generous servings of vino de la casa are poured from a big glass jug, and the day’s menu is scribbled on a chalkboard: perfectly authentic, self-aware, and unpretentious.
Dinner was the local speciality of grilled Lamonese lamb with Lamonese beans—both found only in the hills surrounding Lamon—all lovingly washed down with a carafe of imported wine. And by imported, I mean it was delivered from the next village over.
I THINK JUST ABOUT ANY COLD BEER WOULD TASTE LIKE SWEET VICTORY AFTER A WEEK OF HIKING
The communities along the Cammino keep their traditions alive through self-sufficiency and a focus on native agriculture, hardly surprising, considering their emphasis on cultural and environmental conservation.
I spent every night in small local inns, where each meal offered a little lesson in history and the delicious rewards of eating local.
To cap it all off, I ended the hike at the legendary Pedavena Brewery, where I was greeted by the leaders of the Carpe Diem Association.
I think just about any cold beer would taste like sweet victory after a week of hiking, but the brews were truly exceptional. I’ll have to make a return trip without the hike to confirm. For my research.
Hiking the Cammino Retico is the kind of trip I could never get sick of, and I know I’ll be back soon.
The Cammino’s volunteer association has just launched an auxiliary four-day route that follows an even more challenging trail—the Cammino Retico Southern—which I hope to complete soon. (There’s also a bicycle route.)
THE TREK BEGAN TO TAKE ON A GREATER MEANING
The peace and reflection I found on the trail reminded me of the supremely powerful combination of physical challenge, solitude, and nature—a feeling I’d forgotten about for too long, and one I’ll continue to chase as long as I’m able.
In the moments when I’d had enough of my own thoughts, I popped on an audiobook (The Overstory and Olga Dies Dreaming were my choices for this trip).
Charley Crockett—a friend I often photograph on tour—had released a new album several weeks earlier, Lonesome Drifter, and I had waited until the Cammino to listen.
It turned out to be the perfect soundtrack for hours traversing rugged trails with beautiful views, without encountering another soul.
Reflecting on what I had experienced and learned on the Cammino, the trek began to take on a greater meaning.
As communities across the globe are increasingly faced with the perils of climate change, environmental degradation, food insecurity, and global trade tensions, the importance of grassroots, community-driven conservation and supporting local businesses becomes even clearer.
With corrupt politicians increasingly selling off natural resources for corporate interests, more communities will need to step up to safeguard natural landscapes.
The Cammino Retico’s unique, bottom-up approach offers a blueprint for similar initiatives, especially in places where government support is lacking.
We must recognise our own responsibility—and power—to protect the environment for future generations.
I’ve seen similar projects take shape to great effect in areas where the authorities have neglected the natural landscape or local population—in Puerto Rico, Colombia, India, the American West, and beyond.
You don’t need to spend a week hiking through the Dolomites to come to this conclusion—but it sure helps drive the point home.
What to Know Before You Go
When to go:
Early spring to early summer. I went at the end of April. The weather was perfect, and the inns were mostly empty. Camping is an option as well. During peak summer, the days are hot, trails are more crowded, and accommodations are more scarce. Late summer and early fall are probably great times to go as well.
Must bring (all available at Decathlon in every major city in Italy):
- A backpack with good support
- A great pair of boots
- Wool socks and quick-dry clothing (I washed my hiking clothes in the sink every night)
- Blister tape
- A packable waterproof windbreaker
- Hiking poles
- Italian honey energy gels (they actually taste good) and snacks
- CamelBak (most days you won’t find anywhere to buy snacks or water on the trail)
- The AllTrails app. The association has developed an offline map layer so even if you miss a trail marker, you’ll be able to follow the path.
- Where I stayed and ate:
- Night 1: Croce de Aune
- Night 2: Lamon
- Night 3: Castello Tesino
- Night 4: Fonzaso
- Night 5: Seren del Grappa
- Night 6: Cesiomaggiore
- Night 7: Pedavena
All text and images by the wonderful Jesse Ilan Kornbluth
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