So, here I am.
I have never written in a blog before. Actually, until a few months ago I even refused to buy myself a laptop because I was proudly sure to be able to survive without any evil technological devices. Needless to say, I have given up.
As Pierre promised me though, writing in a blog is quite similar to writing an essay, except that I won’t get a grade and I won’t have to care about swear words- Italians can’t properly express themselves without insert a swearing word every two words. Cazzo.
I liked this idea of yours of a collective blog. Let’s try, then.
I am sitting in my terrace in the middle of the Fascist quartier where I currently live in Rome. Yes, I live in a Fascist quartier. It may sound folkloristic- but scooters and cars actually get blowned up here ( ask Tristan and Julie ), and every now and then Fascists demonstrate their faith in Nation, Purity and Victory marching around the neighbourhood ( ask Tristan ).
This is my last month in Rome. Rome is never boring.
In Rome, when you get up in the morning, you can be sure that something is going to happen to you and destroy your daily plans and your motivation to arrive on time: a Libian dictator camping in Villa Pamphili Park may run into you in his limousine, the Pope may stop the traffic of the whole city center with his Papa-Mobile, a huge strike may block the whole transportation system. Romans are never on time. It is rather funny to hear their original excuses: don’t blame them, they are all true.
In Rome, you can be sure that nothing works and that, if you really need something really badly, you won’t obtain it. Ever. It can thus happen that your electricity provision is being cut for a week for no specific reason, and that the only way to have a warm shower is using the pump for watering plants on your balcony, and that the whole house is covered with candles and Ikea sun power emergency lamps. It can happen that monthly public transportations tickets are not available anymore because the company in charge of distributing them escaped to Malaysia with all the money earned.
In Rome, you can be sure that every day is a funny and hilarious day thanks to our politicians, and most notably, to our Prime Minister. They are indeed very entartaining: they hold prostitutes- parties in Sardinia , including a Czech Prime Minister with a hard-on next to the pool and under- 18- years -old -girls calling our Prime Minister “daddy” ; they praise pagane gods and baptize children in the river Po; they still call for class struggle and armed revolution, and feel obliged to make sure that they “do not eat kids”.
I will miss Rome. But it is time to move on, pack my stuff in my red suitcase once again and look for a place to crush in Scotland.