7 November 2013

Se vuoi leggermi in italiano clicca qui!

I decided to go away because I knew that staying in my beloved town wouldn’t bring me far. I adore Pesaro, its parties on the beach, the clubs on the bay, the dj sets in the garages, the bar in my neighborhood where I can sip a spritz at the happy hour time. And it’s perfect for me living in my parents’s house without my parents, because one stays in Ancona, the other one in Rome. I don’t pay any rent, just internet, and my dad’s fines sometimes because his motorbike is registered at the old address still. I’m an illustrator and I spend most of my time dreaming at my desk, waiting for something to pick me up, just as a fish hitched on an hook and taken out from the water.

I earn pretty well when I work, but I don’t work a lot. Maybe the summer time is the best period for making up my earnings because there are so many vacant positions in ice-cream shops, hotels and restaurants, although I do prefer teaching photoshop, however, just in desperate situations, also I read tarot cards. Anyway, I tried looking for graphic designer position but I’m not a graphic designer, I’ve got a bachelor in literature and another one in fine art. I’m the stereotype of the thirty-year-old from West with two bachelors but without a serious stable job.

I’m the daughter of the childish, dis-educated Italy that doesn’t want to grow, with its three-floors-houses where grandmothers stay at the first, parents at the second and sons at the third or restored loft.

I heard stories about who had gone away, someone in London or in Paris, someone else in the Usa and others in Australia. Then, in an XY point of my summer time I made my decision to move to somewhere. Yeah. Stop with the snogs at Dalla Cira and casual works. This is gonna be the occasion to find a stable job and maybe a stable relationship! Maybe.

So I bought the flight ticket around one week later. And as the premise was “to go far” I can say now, for sure man, that the first aim has been met with success.

Now, I don’t want to annoy anyone with stories about my summer time, before catching the flight I mean. At the beginning I had an awful anxiety about the choise between Australia or California, then I started to be worried that something could go amiss. For the rest, everythings was the same, no romantic coup de théâtre, maybe a couple of love letters but nothing of special, nothing that I didn’t know already.

In the plane I sit near a twenty-year-old filipino priest. He start to chat with me and as many other young priests he doesn’t dislike the pretty girls. I travel with Qantas and I watch muslim adverts on the little screen in front my seat: a man and a woman, husband and wife I suppouse (come on, of course!), he swims in glowing full bottom suite outfit, she smiles at him from far in a beautiful quite-ten-metre-of-silk outfit. I arrive in Doha. You can see a paring of city, enchanting, bright in the dark of the night. Into the airport, mobiles and laptops cost an oddity. I pass one hour or more looking for my gate, then I wait. And wait. For four hours. I make stretching, eat something. I don’t listen to music and neither read books, just I look around.

At the boarding, a guy from Senegal smiles at me and I reply kindly. He asks me some general questions, like how old I am, if I’m married, so then, suddenly, he applies as possible my future consort, in the same way someone asks at the waiter of a very busy restaurant if there is a free table still. At my denial (“I’m so sorry but I’m going to meet my boyfriend in Melbourne! We gonna be married between a couple of months!”) a fifty-year-old filipina woman first looks at me touched then she starts talking to me in italian, in a beautiful strong roman accent, ending up to describe the amazing super luxury flat in Piazza di Spagna in Rome where she has been working from thirteen years: O_O

We pass over the Indian Ocean. This time I make friends with an australian artist born in Sicily, Eolo, yes, like the wind. We talk around a lot of topics, we like each other, he gives me a couple of phone numbers for to found a job in Melbourne. One is Brunetti, the most popular italian café of the city, and the other one is his friend Giancarlo, a manager of a freezing pizza factory.

When I arrive at customs I’m in a bit of a frenzy, you know, Airport Securety has left a mark in us all. Luckly no one looks at me and in few minutes I have the stamp on my passport.

I’m officially in Australia. Melbourne, 7 November 2013.