FOR THE ITALIAN VERSION OF THE POST: HERE

My first encounter with Richmond was not that fine. I would be lying if I said otherwise.

I’m arriving by train from Washington DC, 102 pounds of stuff in three different baggages, sweaty, tired, and with my beautiful European mentality.

Big mistake: you are in the United States, do not think as an European.

But I go ahead: – “There will be dozens of taxis waiting for me at the station. I’ll go out, and in ten minutes I’ll be in hotel” -.

Foolish and deluded.

I get Richmond and it starts raining. There’s also a pretty strong wind, and dust flies everywhere.

The train has taken something like 20 minutes to approach the station, covering the last five kilometers at a speed about 10 kph. I study Law, then my calculations are approximated, don’t bother.

The controller, a guy in his forties, extremely sweaty, and with the zipper open, stands leaning against the door with that appearance a man’s got when has been cheated by his wife recently.

The Richmond station is very nice, retro, so clean. Desert. Shit, at least give me a homeless. From the loudspeakers, I can listen to some Britney Spears’ song, played at a rathe high volume. Yes, I know, I should have stopped and turn back.

Had I arrived in Belgrade, I wouldn’t have fooled myself, and I would have run out armed to the teeth, shouting: – “Arkan was a fag!” -.

But I’m in Richmond, and I can not cry the same about Michael Jackson since he was so.

Anyway, there are no cabs. Not even an unauthorized one, or at least a Chinese in a cart, nothing.

The other passengers walk away, or get to their cars parked nearby.

I’m left alone. It’s raining. Strong wind, dust flies everywhere. I’m tired, sweaty, and I carry 102 pounds in three different baggages. Britney Spears can be heard even from here.

Welcome to Richmond, greasy wop.

Now, Life usually offers you two roads to take.  One is ok, the other one is not. So easy.

Sometimes to take the right one is just a matter of luck. Sometimes, of intelligence. Often, just simple common wisdom and very basic logic. Translation: a retarded 6 years-old kid,  a chimpanzee, or some breed of dog can guess it right with no worries at all.

So, on the one hand, I have a road leading down to the downtown, with its skyscrapers and, I am sure, the lights of some Starbucks Coffee. On the other hand, I have a steep road which leads to a neighborhood of seedy houses, damaged roads and, I am sure, the glint of knives in the shadows.

I said bye to the six years-old retarded child, to the chimpanzee, and to the dog walking over to the downtown, and I walked up the hill.

Let’s speed up the story, before the suspense might take you off your appetite.

After fifteen minutes, a couple appeared in front of me. I stood over any possible way of escape. They were my only hope, I would have killed rather than let them go. And I think the residents of the neighborhood would have helped me to hide the corpses.

I’m kidding.

They have been both very helpful, and called a taxi for me. In very truth, it was not such a simple undertaking. In Richmond, to get a taxi in a slum is almost impossible. After eight, I swear eight calls, they finally managed to find a free taxi for me.

I spent fifteen minutes more waiting, then the taxi arrived.

Oh no, what happened to the funny afro-american taxi drivers from Washington DC? The driver is Arab, Muslim, and does not speak English. I do not as well. It was going to be tough.

Now, I’m not racist. But I don’t have great sympathy for Muslims. I might say I don’t have either for the southern Italians, for the fascists, communists, Berlusconi’s supporters. So, yes, I’m not racist, and in any case I do like the remaining 15% of people on Planet Earth.

Mr. Akbar Allah is stressed and hysterical

I may understand that: he spent all his Life raising five times a day his ass to the sky, drinking sugary drinks instead of beer, slaughtering lambs and let them bleeding out till the very last drop.

He is rude and aggressive.

I cannot accept that.

I tell him “Holiday Inn”, and he understands I’m in Richmond on vacation. He got pissed off because he understood I am on vacation, instead the name of my hotel “Holiday Inn”.

Idiot.

I repeat “Holiday Inn Downtown,” and he began running throughout the downtown aimlessly, pissed off because he was driving around aimlessly.

Idiot twice.

At last, we arrived at the Holiday Inn, he slammed the hand-luggage on my foot, I hit his foot with the huge check-in baggage (hitting my foot too), but right before a war between civilizations begins, I am on my way to the entrance of the hotel.

Everything is doing great now.

I’m in a fairy-tale campus, I live in a fantastic apartment, with an American flag plus an Iraq flag on the wall.

But this is another story.

FOR THE ITALIAN VERSION OF THE POST: HERE

First of all: not all the Americans look like that.

However, many do.

To be precise, I was fascinated by the amount of people of all ages, I’ve seen running, jogging, training in Washington DC, along the National Mall.

Of course, I found Washington DC a real runners’ paradise, but as a Eden, it was a really crowded.

Running

Running

United States know no half measures. On the one hand, sleek sportsmen, in an outstandingly good shape. On the other hand, pachyderms drown in their own fat.

Oh, just a quick note: in huge majority, the characters from the first category are white. The others, black.

A Society of equals seems to find its best outcome at the Burger Kings, KFC, and at some other rubbish, spitting on History and its revolutions.

There is still much to do.

Landed in Washington DC I have my first encounter with the part of the American Society with whom I had the most intimate contacts: the taxi drivers.

This is a job I’ve been always fascinated of. Taxi drivers are the real bosses of their cities, since they know them step by step, and the human fauna living there has no secrets for them.

Hours and hours of their lives spent driving from corner to corner, taking from time to time heroes, villains, or pokies, with their stories, fairy tales, tragedies, or just mediocrity.

The taxi driver is the first human contact that occurs to you after traveling so many hours, and the first key you get for disclosing the secrets of your next destination.

Me, with the American taxi drivers, especially the black ones, I do have a special relationship.: I talk about football.

Now, you know I do not know anything about football. I stopped following it so long ago. Secondly, neither the Americans know anything about football. They’ve never followed.

So then ours is a dialogue between very ignorant people, a conversation between deaf ones. But it is very nice, friendly, they usually have a very good feeling about me, and seem so sorry when we get the destination and the conversation has to come to an end. Moreover, each time, I get some very valuable advice on the city and on the creatures living there: the US men and women.

Oh, I did not find the strength to say to one of them that Roberto Baggio stopped playing. If it happens you to meet him, confirm Baggio is now playing in Bologna.

I like Washington DC. There’s much of Europe in the air, and were it not for the huge number of homeless down the street (and the smell of fast junk food), I could think of being in some European city.

Pay attention, I said city, not metropolis.

Indeed, in the Capital of the most powerful nation in the world, (take the finger, China), you may breath the air of a provincial town. For instance, there is no Skyline, since it was established that no building can exceed in height the Washington memorial, a sort of erected penis facing the sky.

Washington's virility

But then you made a couple of steps on the National Mall, and instantly get overwhelmed by the importance of place you are in. The National Mall is a flat area several miles long, where symbols and memorials celebrating the history of American Democracy, and its founding fathers, have been built one next to the other.

The scenario leaves you breathless, but when you’ve accomplished the visit, you might perceive a feeling of annoyance over the exreme monumentality of the place.

In short, it’s like if the Altare della Patria in Rome were replicated six times, one after the other.

Furthermore, the rhetoric is another thing that shocked us, pragmatic Europeans (except some French who masturbates  in front of his flag). Everywhere there are hymns and praises to Freedom. Freedom, Freedom, Freedom. Reduced to a brand, a logo, a trademark.

Americans praise Freedom, as the Communists praise Marxism. Oh, sure, the Americans wear jeans, drink pepsi, and can say and think whatever they like.

I do stand for Lincoln, Lenin stays out.

Mr. Abraham Lincoln

In summary, the monuments of Washington DC are great, and beautiful too. They cannot leave you indifferent.

Unless you’re from Vicenza.

Palladio has clearly spread much of his semen in Washington DC.

Nine-hours flight to see how Americans conceive the Palladian Basilica, holding a Starbucks Coffee.

Only if you are Italian, and you come from one of the few Lands on the Planet, besides Somalia and maybe Mozambique, where there is no Starbucks, you might understand how special sipping Stuarbucks coffee is.

Now, random notes.

Just get out the Hostel dall’Ostello and walk down the street: America immediately will sweep and overwhelm you

A few steps and I am in the middle of a demonstration by residents of the district, protesting against the loss of value of their homes.

Afro-Americans, noisy and loud, they dance and cry slogans, insulting the students of the George Washington University passing by.

A girl is particularly crazy, especially when she notices that I’m taking pictures, as you can see. (She has a condom in her hands).

Afro-American way of flirting

Truly, in the United States there is always someone demonstrating for something.

For instance, this grandma, who waves his protest in front of the White House.

After all, this is the land of Freedom of expression.

Grandma vs Obama

One thing to remember about my days in Washington was the phrase a lady, to whom I asked to take a picture, told me.

After listening to my future months in the States, she smiled and said: – “Welcome to the United States” -.

You need words like those ones, when you’ve begun a long journey.

(The black crazy girl of the previous pictures, was screaming to me: -”Suck! Suck! Suck!”-. Well, not exactly what I needed).

FOR THE ITALIAN VERION OF THE POST: HERE

The Roads not taken... yet

After many months spent writing random topics, finally tomorrow I will be leaving to Richmond, and this blog will maybe have some reason for existing.

So, this is not the first time I am moving abroad for an university exchange, and so I expected me to be pretty experienced and prepared to face the moment of departure.

On the contrary, I ended up overestimating myself, and now Mr. Excitement and Ms. Fear are enjoying an intercourse inside my head (and they are doing not too bad, I would say).

Leaving home is never easy. But I like leaving.

I do remember perfectly the giddiness during the preparations for my nine months-journey in Finland. Two years on, but that is a feeling you just cannot forget easily.

Joy, madness, fear. And the eager for leaving grows, rises up, it steals you away.

And you’re alone with your euphoria, which feels like the song you sing crying your lungs out, while your car flies across the night.

Such a pity, then you remember that there are still all the clothes to be prepared, and various documents to be checked. So, let’s fly back to Planet Earth for a while.

Whatever. Tomorrow I will go to Richmond, Virginia, United States, for five months.

Maybe I’ll never learn the proper way, but I like leaving.

With the good bastard luck of having an Italian mamma who helps me with my clothes and my stuffs.

While I’m still trapped in my car, kicking some song out of the weirdest tune, spitting my euphoria here and there.

FOR THE ITALIAN VERSION OF THE POST: HERE

We get involved with Sport, its players with their exploits, not just for boredom, not only for conformism, but because Sport is a concentrate of both innocent and sassy feelings, a mix of desires and hopes, illusions and delusions.

Sport is, all in all, also history, but that one sculpted by our emotions. Those that make us jumping on the sofa, that make us screaming against the television, dancing with strangers, toasting with foreigners, those that leave us exhausted and moved.

(I know you might reach the same effects with either alcohol or weeds, but Sport on TV sounds much healthier).

I am easy to emotions, but a sports triumph or a disappointment hardly get me moved.

But once it happened to me. No, it was not after the victory of the World Cup in 2006 although it was a great party, full of fun and madness. You better not waste tears for the beasts like Materazzi.

In 2000 in Suzuka Michael Schumacher brought Ferrari the world title after more than twenty years of fasting. I was a fat teenager, sitting in front of the TV at six o’clock in the morning. Michael Schumacher was painting the trajectories raising his legend, and I was there. Good smack, that one. I wept like a fountain (or like an idiot, like a girl, you may delight yourself with a lot of comparisons). Had I known Michael the Great was going to reign undisturbed for the following four years, perhaps I would have kept more composure.

But yes, who ever cares. My tears have accompanied Schumacher who wrote history, which is also mine a bit. (Sounds like a predation. Italian job always leads to big plunders).

Sport is also fable, imagination that exceeds reality. And, talking about overtaking, King Michael know perfectly how to go about it. So, he is back. In Ferrari. Schumacher.

However, you may already listen to the owls: this move is just marketing, he’s done it for money. And certainly this Ferrari looks more like a truck car. I bet a Fiat Punto would have better chances to win something.

But yes, who ever cares. You cannot get your childhood back, they say. Nor you cannot get your youth back, we’ve been told. You may not have your virginity back, unless you enjoy a considerable income. Nevertheless you can for real have Michael Schumacher at the wheel of Ferrari once again.

See you in front of the TV. Who knows, perhaps you will find me in tears jumping on the sofa (I’m anyway much thinner now, so I guess the sofa shouldn’t get damaged). Meanwhile la Rossa writes more pages of that jistory, which is also mine a bit.

FOR THE ITALIAN VERSION OF THE POST: HERE

All we go for "Sun, Beach, Love"

There are Countries, in the World, there is nothing to say about, being difficult even finding some triviality to comment on.

If you were already turning up your nose, then I’ll challenge you! Let’s list three distinguishing characteristics of the following Nations: New Zealand, Slovak Republic, South Korea

So, some of you have surely thought about the “Lord of the Rings”, while all the others remained silent, right? This is just the way it is: many places are not so popular.

This is not the case with Italy. My country is among the most widely discussed, criticized, mocked and stigmatized, but at the same time envied, praised, hankered, and loved on all over the planet.

Few lands in the world arouse a similar avalanche of contrasting emotions, and have the same ability  to be either love or despised so strongly.

Italy has beauty, history, and a galaxy of unique features both wonderful and tragic.

And what about the Italians?

Italians are those individuals who, because of either fate or choice or a mere damn luck, have to carry the weight of these beauty, history, features, wonder and tragedy.

Since ages they have always been put through clichés and prejudices, the most cruel and funny ones, like perhaps no other people on Earth.

Hence, I’m now addressing to foreigners: when someone shakes your hand and says: – “I’m Italian” – an universe opens in front of you, which can be filled with all the prejudices, the superstitions and beliefs you may have heard about the strange men and women from the Boot

(On the other hand, I’d expect from you a blank look if somebody would say: – “I’m from New Zealand, or Slovak Republic, or South-Korea” -).

The raising question is: what is true and what is false about stereotypes? Are they reliable, can you trust them, or they are merely urban legends without foundation?

This post is a short outlook on some of the most common stereotypes associated with Italians.

Five are discussed below as those that, in my humble opinion, are very close to the truth.

Nevertheless, I do hope to be able to write the same post about the Americans.

All in all, it’s less than one month before going to Richmond

Stereotipo: ITALIANS EAT TONS OF PASTA EVERYDAY

TRUTH: 70%

Bigoli, typical egg-made pasta from the Region of Veneto

For those allergic to the gluten, Italy might be a harsh Country to live in.

Something that truly breaks Italians’ heart when they are abroad, especially those ones not used to travel, is abstinence from pasta.

The pasta in Italy is a daily ritual of life, it means art, culture and tradition. The grannies who wake up early in the morning to prepare the home-made pasta fresca, between clouds of flour and turning the rolling the pin all around, do really exist.

What in truth many foreigners cannot get is that “pasta” doesn’t mean merely “spaghetti” and “tortellini”. There are hundreds of regional specialties and an enormous amount of seasonings to try with. The possibilities for varying your flavour are (almost) infinite, and all of them are so unique and delicious.

It’s hard to get tired, unfair to blame us. Rather, envy our grannies.

STEREOTYPE: THE MOST WIDESPREAD RELIGION IN ITALY IS SOCCER

TRUTH: 90%

The triumph in the World Cup on the 9th of July 2006 was not the biggest thrill of my “sporting” life. Schumacher and Raikkonen’s Ferrari gave me many more stronger ones.

But I’m gonna remember that night my whole life. Because it was an explosion of collective joy, irrepressible, unstoppable, never seen before in my Country. A raving and frenzied celebration, in which truly all the people run down the street to celebrate and dance crazily until dawn. An orgy of collective bodies hugging, singing, and rolling together. Amazing.

It really goes this way: Italians are not Catholic (if some claim he/she is, often behaves hypocritically). The true Faith is soccer.

Unsurprisingly, over 70% of Italians declare to be supporters of some soccer club.

The victory in the World Cup has been the most remarkable expression of homeland pride and national unity since… the victory in the World Cup of 1982.

I played my part too. My time of maximum football fervor exploded during the World Cup USA 1994. The one we lost in the final after penalties, against Brazil. And I’m somehow truly convinced it’s better to loose with Men such like Roberto Baggio than winning with beasts such like Materazzi.

In this video a glimpse of Naples in the night of the World Cup’s victory. (I’ve chosen on purpose the most passionate of Italy!).

STEREOTYPE: AN AVERAGE ITALIAN’S CONVERSATION CONSISTS ROUGHLY OF 8 WORDS AND 30 GESTURES

TRUTH: 70%

Ours is the show of a body that speaks, vibrates, throbs, moves feverish. Stretching hands and arms keeping on twisting. Passionate and theatrical: those Italians who are prey of a strong emotion, either joy or anger, are unable to refrain, exploding in a gesture that probably has no parallels in the world

Just try to stop and ask for a direction. My Country-fellow will accompany the information at least with large gestures of the arm.

The reason for such a peculiar way of communicating may have different explanations. Such like the fact we are “Mediterraneans”, sensitive, impressionable and excitable.

Maybe. But I do prefer another one.

Italy is a Promise Land for artists, inventors, painters, sculptors, architects. In one single word: makers. We are creators and manipulators of the surrounding reality, with our hands, with our sweat. Hence, the need to express ourselves as if we really wanted to grasp and disrupt the real world.

However, does an Italian body-language really exist?

In the very rare clip below, excerpted from an Erasmus in Finland, Berkley’s Professor Matteo Brunelli is teaching a foreign audience. (You can skip the final par showing a Mexican girl trying to speak Finnish)

STEREOTYPE: ITALIANS LOOK LIKE HAVING MEMORIZED SEVERAL FASHION CATALOGUES

TRUTH: 80%

Italian Fashion

Italians, especially the Italian girls, are extremely fashionable. Style, neatness , elegance. Plus, also and above all, brand.

You won’t see us with a single messed hair, any clashing nuance, or any slovenly detail. Just go to the main squares of the city-centres on Saturday afternoon or to the clubs on Friday night, but even go to the libraries and to many university faculties: you’ll notice plenty of boys and girls who look like on-sale products of the star system.

Here the care of your appearance is meticulous, but at the same time effortless and spontaneous. We do that with great naturalness. In very truth, it is far less morbid and manic than it might seem.

The Italians hold the unshakeable conviction of being the most stylish people of the whole Universe. Nevertheless, the examples given by tourists and foreign travelers have contributed, year after year, to remove all doubts about it: the flighty combinations of colors worn by the Brits, or the white socks on Germans’ feet (now the Czechs’) have left unforgettable memories you may still hear about.

So much love for him/herself, however, can sometimes be a little odd, especially concerning guys. An Austrian girl once told me: – “Italian guys are very good-looking. Such a pity they all look like a bit gay” -.

And then, unfortunately, there is the tamarro. An weird creature, widespread in the cities of central-south and in the northern countryside. You may be able to recognize it immediately, since it looks like escaped from a zoo or, at worst, from a lunatic asylum (where there were still asylums).

The tamarro has no elegance, neatness or style. But, alas, in an attempt to acquire them, it stuffs him/herself with fashion brands without any rational logic. The tamarro’s typical look, besides a disturbing hairdo and an overdose of sun-lamps, consists of a belt with the huge D&G brand well shown up, Rich jeans worn to the knees, massive sunglasses covering all the face. Often you may see some abnormal piercing or some tribal or gothic tattoo (although the tamarro has no clue of what means “tribal” or “gothic”).

It’s not been yet discovered yet what a tamarro eats, but scientific studies have proved it is absolutely harmless to humans. (Referring to the previous topic, a conversation of a tamarro is made of 1 grunt and 3 mimic or gestures).

STEREOTYPE: IN MAMMA WE TRUST

TRUTH: 100%

Mamma's Love

Italy is not a land of poets, saints, sailors, and Berlusconists. Italy is a Country of mums, and sons/daughters of mamma.

Let’s consider a manager who returns in his/her hotel-room after a business meeting, a student who goes back to his/her flat after an exam, or a soccer-player who leaves the stadium after a match, or even a Mafia’s hitmen who runs back to his hiding place after committing his crime. All these characters have something in common: while I’m writing, they are, all of them, calling mamma at home.

The Mother is the pillar of Italian society, the backbone, the Northern Star. The strength of the relationship mother-son/daughter cannot be detected anywhere else in the world.

She is an immanent presence, permanent and transcendent. Even when, apparently, she’s not around you can feel her watching you. Because she is thinking about you, dreaming of you, she’s talking about you with other people. You definitely feel her gaze on you.

One of the phrases that you may often hear by Italians, especially in sinful situation, is: – “If my mum could see me right now!” -. That is: get angry, Guardian Angel. But, please, don’t tell mum.

And it’s true that, in some way, Italian kids’ childhood is extended indefinitely. Every time going back home, they will find their favorite dish, the shirt ironed, the bed tidied up with clean sheets.

Therefore, I feel forced to say again what I claimed before: it’s hard to get tired, it’s difficult to blame us. Rather, envy our mums.

Nevertheless, so much love might lead to objectively questionable behaviors. Only in Italy, mamma buys the underwear for her teenage sons.

]]> http://torichmond2.wordpress.com/2009/07/13/surfing-across-the-italian-stereotypes-what-is-partially-true/feed/ 0 tospanv All we go for Sun, Beach, Love Bigoli Italian Fashion Mammas Love http://torichmond2.wordpress.com/2009/06/26/the-man-who-danced-the-moon/ http://torichmond2.wordpress.com/2009/06/26/the-man-who-danced-the-moon/#comments Fri, 26 Jun 2009 01:48:58 +0000 tospanv http://torichmond2.wordpress.com/?p=88 ]]>  

FOR THE ITALIAN VERSION OF THE POST: HERE

Michael Jackson, the King of Pop in the 90's

I’m most likely among the first people in the world to have heard the news of Michael Jackson’s death (it was up-to-date by a minute since I got to NYT website), and the occurrence struck me with a range of feelings. 

The point is, I am not a fan of Michael Jackson. He doesn’t belong to my generation. On the other hand, I listened to his music millions of times in millions of different circumstances, and I cannot deny sometimes I danced it. But the years even the zombies were shaking and rolling with the “Moonwalk” I was not born yet, or I was just as big as a penny. 

The story of Michael Jackson is a stern warning that the gift, the success, the fame, the myth, are no guarantee of any happiness. Rather worse, they are poisonous snakes that can destroy you. Can tear you in pieces. 

His life teaches a hard lesson that heaven and hell lie alongside each other. 

Who’s dead was not just a beloved and controversial figure.

Who’s gone was one of the most brilliant and spectacular, crazy and wretch creatures who has ever ridden the stages of our Lives. 

Between abyss and apotheosis, ecstasy and despair, Michael Jackson has made us dance, jump, sing, love, go crazy. 

Wiggling his hips on the world, unleashed, cheeky and unstoppable. And the world used to love him so much, everyone enchanted by his brilliance, ravished by his magic. The figures speak clearly: more than 120 million copies sold with Thriller, the biggest selling record of all times.

Then suddenly, he slippered down that world or maybe he was tired, or maybe who knows. 

Leaving us confused, disoriented, shocked, and outraged. And at the end, we started laughing at him, exasperated by his eccentricities, his obtuse paranoia, his childish madness. 

Take his rejection for the color of his black skin. A heresy at that time, a blasphemy today in Obama’s America. (Tough, there are several evidences that Micheal, in very truth, was affected by an illness called vitiligo). 

The billions wasted in the illusion of changing himself, forcing the Nature, cheating her. The result was something that Nature itself would never create, not even paid for that. 

So Michael Jackson’s tale seemed going to end on his face, or what was left: a blank and repugnant mask.

Black...

...White

This fable with a bitter taste, couldn’t have but a striking last chapter.

Such like the sales of his last scheduled tour in London: sold out in a bunch of minutes. Many feared, in very truth, he would never climb on those stages. Apparently, never underestimate Michael Jackson. 

Nothing as much as premature death can return you to glory, to Legend. What might a World Tour instead do?

Did we really think we would have stared at the pitiful effort, carried on by a tatty fifty-years-old man, of picking up the pieces of a career, around the stages and the arenas?

Fables turn different pages.

Michael Jackson died lonely all on his own , he’s gone as a loser, a damned. So then the crowds will again hold him on their arms, carry him to triumph, cheering in exultation, praise and exalt him.

They will forgive the madness and the paranoia, will forget the blank and repugnant mask. Then they’ll shout how much he was wonderful, beautiful, invincible, will sing about the times he made them dance, jump, fall in love. 

And he will be missed, by everyone. The sincere ones with the hypocrites ones, who used to be a friend with the enemies, all united in his Legend. 

The moon is walking, Michael, and keeps on moving.

We have to quit too, our own little show must go on. 

But your music, sometimes, will keep us company. We’ll dance it brightly, with a tingle of melancholy.

As we do with Elvis, Freddie Mercury, John Lennon, and the other buddies up there.

FOR THE ITALIAN VERSION OF THE POST: HERE

With a feeling of morbid pleasure I’m watching Berlusconi drowning in despair, among the spirals of the scandals caused by his own lifestyle. 

I don’t deny this is a cruel show. 

I’m standing at the window while the naked king is wriggling on the shoreline, like a fish out of water. 

I feel a bit like the authors of those documentaries who stare beside the buffalo while the lions are tearing it. 

This could be the only possible ending for us, the Italians. 

The reality show whose our young Prime Minister is either competitor, author, director, host, judge and analyst (Showgirl? No, that obviously not. But if he had the tits, maybe he would), was intended to reserve us, as doped audience, a finale with fireworks. 

The abyss of trash, vulgarity, moral and cultural famine where we’ve been thrown after 15 years of berlusconism, suddenly is close to swallow even its own creator. 

Italians do have a problem: they always overestimate themselves. 

We thought that our Country was laughable but sufficiently serious. We used to assert that, under the blanket of Power, there certainly was something frightening, gloomy, and dangerous.

And so we kept on wasting breaths and words, year after year, about the conflict of interest, mafia, corruption, masonic lodges. 

Not at all! 

A herd of young and siliconed bodies, wearing heels or not even those. This is what has kicked the power down to its knees. 

We used to talk about the mafia, poor us, deluded ! Even the mafia in Italy doesn’t have the force held by the vagina. 

I’ve never been a fan of Berlusconi. But now I wanna raise a glass to him. 

The details of his private Life, summed up, are a hymn to the empyrean virility of the Italian male. 

Give way, Hugh Hefner. Playboy, who? Maison, what?  Playmates, who needs them?

Italians do it better. 

How do you say? Ah, yes, here it the core point: Hugh Hefner is not the President of the United States. 

Furthermore, according to my theory, Hugh Hefner and Silvio Berlusconi, in very truth, would be brothers. Look at these pictures showing the two gentlemen, when both were young. 

Sivlio Berlusconi young

Berlusconi brought back to the top the myth of the great Italian cinema, overcoming the figure of Fellini. 

Neither JJ Abrams and the scriptwriters of Lost could conceive a plot so murky, exciting, absurd. 

[A President who appears to a barely eighteen girl's birthday party, in the worst neighborhood of Naples. She calls him Papi, but they have never met. Indeed yes, but no. His father was the former socialist leader's driver. Indeed yes, but no. She is struggling to enter the world of entertainment, and she's still a virgin. Moreover, consider the holidays in the villa in Sardinia, abusing of tle state flights. Indeed no, but yes. And Mr. Topolanek, former Czech Prime Minister, among the naked women. Indeed no, but yes. And the girls paid to go to parties, ending in the young leader's bed. Indeed no, yes indeed... ]

Breathtaking. 

So much that the scriptwriters of Lost have been called to try to find an explanation and a solution, as it is shown in this extraordinary movie.

Money, power, luxury and sex. Put them in the order you prefer. Here is where is (was?) based the myth of our Dear Leader on.

Far be from me the idea of criticizing that poker of aces! Who wouldn’t like to enjoy having at least one?

I want to be clear to those who are wondering how it’s gonna end for Silvio Berlusconi, in precarious balance between the nodes of his lurid Life. 

Don’t delude yourselves.

There are many more chances in Iran for Moussavi to oust the Ayatollah Khamenei, than for us to see Berlusconi resigning. 

But then, all in all, does Berlusconi have a problem or not with Democracy? 

Yes he does, because She hasn’t given it to him.  Not yet.

FOR THE ITALIAN VERSION OF THE POST: HERE

They really don’t do much to make you feel comfortable

-‘It’s strictly forbidden to bring any electronic equipment. I repeat, any type. Mobile Phones, cameras, iPods: banned “-.

It’s a monologue, not a conversation at all, moreover rather intimidating. 

- “Do not go with too large or cumbersome bags, take with you only the papers you need to. And I firmly recommend you the punctuality, like clockwork” -. 

Indeed, the very first words been pronounced to the handset were at the same time peremptory and mocking: – “Do you pay by Visa or Mastercard?” – 

I beg your pardon? I’ve never experienced the thrill of a phone conversation when the first thing I am asked is about my credit card-number. 

- “Yes, to book an appointment costs 15 Euro. Visa or Mastercard?” – 

15 Euro, just crumbs of course. Trifles  to grease the insatiable bureaucracy of the frontiers. 

I could have replied I had already paid a consular fee, I could have added I also paid that new robbing tax (created on purpose for this procedure) called SEVIS. I should have pointed out they might avoid behaving like predators.

But unfortunately, as an applicant student with a real need of the visa, I am rather insignificant. So I could just bow my head to the borders’ bandits: – “I’ll pay by Mastercard” -. 

Now, visa held in my hands, papers ready, flights booked: it seems at last I accomplished the bureaucratic path to enter the United States.

The last act has been consumed in Milan at the US Consulate, as set by the officer on the phone. 

So I came realize the voice dictating orders to the handset seems to belong to a character who either:

1. has no idea of how the procedure for issuing visas works through the Consulate; or

2. is fully aware of that, but somehow his personality disorder leads him to frighten the unwitting applicants without reason. 

Firstly, “like clockwork” is a negligible precaution. In front of the door of the building, watched by an Italian guard, there is a long queue of people, all come together at the same time to obey the order “like clockwork”.

Then I also understand how is simply a heresy to require people to come without any electronic devices.

Nowadays, the mobile is an appendix of our body, a kind of bulging protuberance into our pockets or handbags: it’s impossible to get rid of them.  A girl standing in line even had three. 

At the Consulate of course they’ve realized that, and provided some cash-boxes in the office of preliminary check. 

Anyway,the same is not for those 15 Euro, they don’t give you them back.

Now that I finally hold the visa in my hands, over two hundred Euros later, I can state with confidence and satisfaction: it’s truly possible to fulfill all procedures and the practical matters necessary to obtain the visa. 

On the other hand, spice yourself appreciatively and emptied your pockets. Around the borders is crowded with vultures and they are hungry, very hungry.

FOR THE ITALIAN TRANSLATION OF THE POST: HERE

Anyone who has traveled to San Francisco in the summer of 2006 could see, along the large highway connecting the downtown to the international airport, a large billboard where few lines were written down:

- “Be nice to tourists. Soon you might be a tourist too “- 

A peremptory command, almost an imperative, astonishing in its simplicity and intelligence. 

Such a pity the opportunities to put it into practice are scarce or missing at all. 

The modern tourist, equipped with his/her Lonely Planet and his/her digital camera, might need only a simple direction to get a monument or a restaurant. But even these last fearless prophets equipped with a city-map are intended to extinction, threaten by the spreading of GPS and navigation systems. 

Nevertheless, we should always keep in mind the good teachings, because sooner or later the opportunity to put into practice could finally occur.

Since a few months in Verona some wireless areas have been created, where you can connect to the internet for free after using your username and password (you can get both at the town-hall or at the public library).

I will refrain to express triumph for the spreading of a technology whose rise sees  Italy among the last places in Europe. Actually, this is truly disappointing when compared to the performances achieved by the heroic little Estonia. 

In that bonbonnière known as the capital Tallinn – in a permanent balance between high tech and fulminant development, the glorious age of the Hanseatic Old Town, and old Soviet dust – Skype has its citizenship and has its headquarters.

Furthermore, a network of 365 wi-fi access points, for the most part free of charge, covers the whole urban area. 

If these were no enough reasons to make you curious and intrigued by this small Country, just know guys your stereotypes are real: Estonian girls are astounding.

One of the areas of Verona, where it’s now possible to connect freely is Piazza Bra, the core point of this magnificent town, surrounded on each side by the Arena, Palazzo della Gran Guardia and the City Hall. 

Hemmed in this amazing outlook of pure beauty, I’ve taken the habit to sit on a bench by the shadow of the large trees in the middle of the square.

And then, keeping on surfing with my mac, surrounded by the colorful humanity you see in such cities full of art, and overwhelmed by the euphoric excitement you feel in the everyday-life of an Italian city when Summer is going to come soon.

Piazza Bra seen from the Arena

But in the evening what is beautiful turns into prodigious. 

The Arena stands majestic, immovable, the square seems so great. And the euphoric excitement turns into relaxed cheerfulness among the people passing by brandishing ice-cream cones and slushes, and among lovers hugging tighter.

The Arena by night

Last Tuesday evening I went out to write some e-mails, and so I was seating next to equestrian monument of that dumb moustached Casanova who used to be Vittorio Emanuele II. 

I got used to ignore people’s glances of wonder. For many seniors – the dominant anthropological category in Verona – the vision of a boy, right there in the middle of the square, skiping via internet is simply unconceivable. Not a few are those who, fascinated, come some steps closer to check what the hell I am doing. 

So at the beginning I haven’t noticed the shadow approaching me. Only when he was a span from me, I lifted my eyes up and I saw a young man, about thirty, dressed in an untidy manner and with a large backpack on his shoulders. 

Intimidated. 

The the conversation started with a short exchange of words.

- “Excuse me, can you speak English?” – 

- “Yes” – 

- “Is this a wireless zone?” – 

- “Yes” – 

- “Is it for free?” – 

- “Yes, it is” -.

Then the untidy-dressed young man won his shyness, explaining me in a torrent of words he had an urgent need to use the internet, because tomorrow is going to Padua and the Hostel has canceled his booking and internet cafes are closed and he must find a place to sleep immediately otherwise tomorrow he’ll be lost 

Who knows what the inscrutable walls of the Arena were thinking behind this panting and breathless stranger, appeared in the middle of the night begging to use my mac. 

I had no many doubts about it: – “Of course, take a seat” -.

Shortly, after a thorough research lasting twenty minutes  the  guy had managed to find a good hotel near the center of Padua, taking carefully notes of the address, contacts, and directions. Next to him, I had been giving informations on locations of the various hotel, telling a variety of tips and anecdotes about Padua. 

Then it happens that, now soothed and calmed, he invited me for a beer at a pub nearby. 

And I stood up and went, because everyone on this planet – even those with the most seemingly insignificant Life – has an interesting story to tell. Perhaps it’s not longer than a handful of words, but it’s our own one.

So I met Marcel, who is German, and he works as a waiter, he lives in the eastern Germany where there is no work – he complained – and he likes to travel across Europe by car. it’s not that he’s afraid of flying, but he prefers journeys at a slower pace. Above all, he says convinced, the place you are gonna visit may be understood a lot by the easiness you achieve the goal of parking your car.

FOR THE ITALIAN VERSION OF THE POST: HERE

Pulcinella is a mask of the Commedia dell’Arte, the form of improvisational and vulgar theater developed in Italy in the XVI century .

Like perhaps no other cultural expressions has been able to grasp the profound aspects of Italians’ personality, and then show it on stage. 

Pulcinella, for its part, is a servant who stands out for being a mean and paltry character, but endowed with a wide grin and a vile and diabolical cunning.

Am I perhaps insinuating something? Me? Never said that. 

Then it happened the 12th May an independent newspaper, “Libero” (ironically, it means “Free”) published the following editorial initiative, under the diligent supervision and the straight back of Director Vittorio Feltri.

http://www.libero-news.it/pages/berlusconi-tale-quale

The declared purpose is to achieve the beatification of the unfairly criminalized and defaming Prime Minister. 

Am I perhaps insinuating something? Me? Never said that.

There is nothing strange, nothing ambiguous or suspect in the publication of hagiographies to give the folks. 

In strong and probe People Democracies, they are typical Dear Leaders’ bountiful gifts to the masses. 

Moreover, the world is full of such masterpieces of propaganda, and crowded with skilled professionals of proselytism. 

Look at here.

Kim Jong Il's Biography

Am I perhaps insinuating something? 

I certainly don’t insinuate in Italy there are journalists with their back bent like a hairpin, like pets in front of the power. 

I surely don’t insinuate Italians enjoy to be like servants in the same way as Pulcinella, anyway sooner or later they will end up perky and cheerful in some beach or Pizzeria. 

However, I don’t insinuates but I do tremble when I see pictures like this one.

The beasts should not be hugged, and some ignominies should not be exhibited on the front cover.

 But, please, let’s forget all my whispers quickly 

I think otherwise than the Pulcinella tricolori, thus – according to their logic – I’m a dirty communist. 

Indeed, Mr. Obama, we are both, aren’t we? 

I’m so happy to come to you for five months. 

You don’t have any four-legged courtesan, do you?

Even better, Mr. Obama, why not coming here now for a while? 

In summer, along the Boot every Pulcinella is tanned and so nobody will make a fool of you. 

Come to admire a beautiful carnival of pizzas and beaches and a lot sun, as they like it so much.