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Jun. 29th, 2005 09:23 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
malsperanzaAhaha, 2 weeks with no internet access (mysteriously, I have not missed it) and now a keyboard with everything in the wròng plàcè'ç° §.
Viewed from the other side of the ocean, the U.S. looks completely insane. And not in a good way. No way am I going back. *strokes EU passport*
Note to self: Find job somewhere in greater Mediterranean basin, purchase house, car, enroll in obscure ineffective left-wing formerly communist political party. Sell US apartment, cancel NY Times delivery.
I long ago got used to being addressed by my friends as Voiamericani, as in: Mal, what is fucking wrong with Youamericans? To which the correct response in Italian is Boh, which is the verbal equivalent of a perplexed but slightly impatient shrug. Or else Mah, which is more or less the same thing, only with a touch of sarcasm. Or of course Beh, which is more like I have no idea and it's too hot to try to figure it out. And there are some excellent hand gestures as well. But the real answer is that I no longer really know what to say, other than, Basically, we are fucked. In Italian this is rendered as: Mah, stiamo nella merda fin qua, or WTTE.
Massive heat wave requires much sitting about on terraces with geraniums and lavender and jasmine, drinking wine, and/or sitting around in medieval courtyards with wisteria and fig trees, drinking coffee, either way staring with glazed eyes at cats, who stare back blankly from their shady lairs under the laurels. One could do worse on vacation. Come to think of it, some of my friends have managed to make a career of this.
Note to self: Find out how this works. Ask Claudio how to apply for welfare.
Through the miasma of this impossible heat an image flickers into being: Friendly, decent people, sitting around the table at dinner, slicing melon and cheese, peeling peaches, we shrug and say, How did it happen? We weren't paying attention. By accident, we elected some awful people. We didn't mean to, but after all, patience, his lot will only be in power for a few years and then we can sort it all out when they're gone. Meanwhile, the cost of living is going up, the world's always in a mess, and I am worried about my family, my job. There are all sorts of problems, and I'm tired tonight. Let's talk about something else.
Italy, 1926. Germany, 1932.
Boh.
Viewed from the other side of the ocean, the U.S. looks completely insane. And not in a good way. No way am I going back. *strokes EU passport*
Note to self: Find job somewhere in greater Mediterranean basin, purchase house, car, enroll in obscure ineffective left-wing formerly communist political party. Sell US apartment, cancel NY Times delivery.
I long ago got used to being addressed by my friends as Voiamericani, as in: Mal, what is fucking wrong with Youamericans? To which the correct response in Italian is Boh, which is the verbal equivalent of a perplexed but slightly impatient shrug. Or else Mah, which is more or less the same thing, only with a touch of sarcasm. Or of course Beh, which is more like I have no idea and it's too hot to try to figure it out. And there are some excellent hand gestures as well. But the real answer is that I no longer really know what to say, other than, Basically, we are fucked. In Italian this is rendered as: Mah, stiamo nella merda fin qua, or WTTE.
Massive heat wave requires much sitting about on terraces with geraniums and lavender and jasmine, drinking wine, and/or sitting around in medieval courtyards with wisteria and fig trees, drinking coffee, either way staring with glazed eyes at cats, who stare back blankly from their shady lairs under the laurels. One could do worse on vacation. Come to think of it, some of my friends have managed to make a career of this.
Note to self: Find out how this works. Ask Claudio how to apply for welfare.
Through the miasma of this impossible heat an image flickers into being: Friendly, decent people, sitting around the table at dinner, slicing melon and cheese, peeling peaches, we shrug and say, How did it happen? We weren't paying attention. By accident, we elected some awful people. We didn't mean to, but after all, patience, his lot will only be in power for a few years and then we can sort it all out when they're gone. Meanwhile, the cost of living is going up, the world's always in a mess, and I am worried about my family, my job. There are all sorts of problems, and I'm tired tonight. Let's talk about something else.
Italy, 1926. Germany, 1932.
Boh.
