together they read the article published in 'International', an article by Stephan Faris, published in 'Time', American weekly current affairs.
you read the article that was titled in Italian Goodbye Italy.
And the lead was this:
"It's not exactly the kind of advice you would expect from the director of a university elite. In November of 2009, Pier Luigi Celli, director of the University Luiss University of Rome, wrote an open letter to his son: 'This country, your country is no longer a place where we can stand with pride (...) For this reason, his heart is suffering more than ever, my advice is that you, your studies finished, take the road from abroad. Choose where to go have a value loyalty, respect, recognition of merit and performance.
Article on 'Republic' continued:
'probably will not be all gold, not that. Also happen that often, you take the nostalgia of your country and, I hope, of your old. And you will try to come to terms, to do that for which you have prepared for years.
Listen to me, this is a country you do not deserve. We wanted it to be different and we have failed. Us too. You have the right to live differently, without asking, for example, if what you say or write can disrupt some of these mediocre that count, the risk of being placed in the viewfinder, even subtly, and are left excluded not understand why '.
We are three in the kitchen. We just finished dinner, it's cold outside, the courtyard is scary, the lights are all gone and I'm in the premenstrual phase.
He is tired and yawning every two minutes.
She smiles, but she too is tired. We read together and our laughter just before they are silenced by this cell (which he would take them there money and should be the last to speak).
I finish reading the article and silence falls. We are all three a bit 'more sad.
The backyard is even more dark and cold. For several days I have the impression that my building is unoccupied. Even the neighbors look out more.
She did not want to leave any Lecce to come to Rome, to be honest. Every now and see that the visit of his daily Puglia and law, law and subsequently moved when he dies Uccio Aloisi, singer historic Pinch. He studied political science. She loves what she does. Every time you see instead
incredulous, as she reads what's happening in the world or in Italy and is naive when he raises his voice and eyes expressed his dissent. Sterile dissent.
He says it should go from here. She works ten to twelve hours a day as an intern in a studio architecture without a salary or receive a refund or costs. He has a sense of duty spiccatissimo, is smart, curious, capable and has the potential to achieve his goal. But on the other side. Not here.
The silence after a while 'leaves room for questions and puzzled looks. Better not to think too much.
'How much you spend each month here in Rome?'
'In all, I think € 750, including rent'
'I think so'
'Yes, it is so. But you know that I pay 15 euro per night in that house? I would cost much less than a hostel. And there are no outstanding charges in hostel '
' What an absurd '
' And I do not buy clothes at least three years, with old shoes where it enters the water, and T-shirts with holes '
' But even if my professor came to class with sweaters with holes! What can you do, do not complain. For now there is a crisis'
And then
'What will you do after the internship?'
'I'd like to live in Berlin, working there. I do not know. Mando curricula everywhere. I go everywhere. Outside Italy, however. And you? '
'I do not know. I just do not know '
After a while' forget it. We want desserts. Then she gives me a yellow and cream pan orange. I put in the oven and the dough does not rise either. It turns out a bad cake to see and eat. But at least we have the fears and anxieties deposited somewhere. In a poisoned cake, which is still whole.
I am a provincial. My friends are all of the country and, without trying to generalize, people do not like big cities.
The thing I miss most since I moved to Rome is the light of my grandmother's living room in the morning and her sweet face smiling at me suggesting that it will be a good day. I miss that house near the station of Palermo, which became a prison when I needed it, Sunday morning at home with my parents who come back from the promenade, with hot bread under his arm and a jar of sea urchins bought the old Borgo and on Sundays after lunch, with the TV you listen alone and serenity in the faces of my mother, my My father and brother. I miss rest your feet on the radiator in the winter evenings, my mother and I on a chair too small to contain both, the smell of food cooked by my grandmother, square mansion, and the way of the Cape. I am a provincial
and I'm afraid to go and live abroad. I think that things will be different, and that everything will be easier to find work, I believe that my degree will be used to something and that some time between the government there will not be a jerk that goes to hell and paves the way papers and a showgirl, daily humiliates the citizens, makes laws for itself, has all the broadcast TV networks publishers football teams and the more banks so on and so forth, he spends his money on partying and bitches, that offends the people who work honestly.
I want to stay.
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