This weekend we went to Venice. Now I am sure there are about 1,000 blogs about visits to Venice, not to mention all other types of media. Yet still, though I have come across people mentioning the beauty of Venice, I dont ever recall someone referring to the sadness one feels upon seeing Venice. Thats what struck me the most, the sadness.
And its not from lack of beauty. Upon arriving, you are struck with the magic of it all. It just seems so out of this world, the canals and the majesty of the buildings. It feels like you have walked into a fairytale land, one that would begin with "Once upon a time, a long long time ago, there was a place where in order to go from house to house, you dont walk, but you hop on a boat," or something along those lines....
The most striking moment to me was taking the bus-boat ride (yes, buses are boats in Venice), and seeing the Church of Salute (or Health). A strikingly beautiful church that seemed to be floating on top of the waters. Truly amazing.
But then I started to get the sense of sadness that permeates Venice. It feels, just like one would expect in a fairytale, stuck in time. Its like you opened a history book, and instead of reading, it somehow sucked you in and you are visiting the city.
And for such a beautiful city, which, due to its particular geography, can not "grow", you also see how beauty can kill a place. People come from all over the world to see Venice, and it truly is worth visiting. But in such a small area, with thousands of tourists visiting on any given day, how can you protect its essence? You have the sense that Italians are fleeing Venice due to the high cost of living (and man, is it expensive there) while others a flooding in to visit. I was told by the year 2024, if things remain as is, there will be not one original Venetian left in Venice. And if that is the case, then is it still Venice? I dont know.
And I kept help thinking of other places that are in danger of losing their essence. I recently read that Bethlehem, due to the ongoing occupation and difficulties of living, is slowly being emptied out of Christians. I cant recall the exact number now, but it was pretty dramatic, that a once mainly Christian town has harldy any Christians left. The reasons are again economic (occupation can strangle the economic life out of anyone), and Christians due to their connections through churches etc. have more opportunity to flee. Is Bethlehem still Bethlehem without them? I really dont think so.
And in case someone will twist my meaning as an anti-immigration rant: these are not "natural" changes, but ones being imposed. In the case of Venice, for being beautiful, and in the case of Bethelehem, for being occupied.
A loss to all humanity I say.
Monday, November 27, 2006
Saturday, November 18, 2006
Could I have a little logic with that please?
Sometimes things just dont make sense... and please do not pull out your "well its a cultural thing, you wouldnt understand," because, sometimes thinks just dont make sense in any context, no culture, religion, language, history thing about it...
And its true, when you come from "another" context, you notice things more. My first year here I was channeling Obelix (you know, Asterix and Obelix) with the constant refrain in my head: These Romans are crazy
Lets take the first thing all new immigrants are exposed to upon entering Italy, which is the application process for a permesso di soggiorno ie residency permit... I will put aside all the welcoming advertisements found outside all the offices new immigrants need to go to, things along the lines of "No more immigrants", umm, thanks for the warm welcome, wont you please come in and have some coffee. (I have to point out it was election year, and I dont think I have to point out what party was putting up these flyers)...but I trangress...
So to get a residency permit, you need to first go to the police station to register that you are in Italy and begin the process. First step into a Kafkaesque nightmare.
Setting: a bare room with scattered chairs and a picture of Virgin Mary holding Jesus (seperation of church and state is understood differently in Italy it seems). With a dozen or so non-Italian looking people standing in some form of order not in any way resembling a line
We wait to finally arrive at the glassed in section with 3 employees, and one computer looking like it was purchased sometime in the 70's
Us (being my poor Italian husband who had no idea what he was getting into, and me): We need to register to start the process for the residency permit
Man behind glass: Well you need to first register for a number
My husband (my Italian is nothing to be proud of): All right then, we need to register for a number so we can register for a residency permit
Man behind glass: We dont give out numbers now, only in the morning
My husband: So we need to come back tomorrow morning to get the number?
Man behind glass: Yes, numbers are very limited, so you will probably need to line up for a number, usually around 4 am
OK, first introduction into does this friggin make any sense??? I mean the beauty of numbers is that they can go as high as you want! Just give me a number, lets say it is 6,249 and I will know not to come register until Mr. or Mrs. 6,248 has done so. Why stop the numbers at 100 or whatever random cut off they have invented?
Another example of "Huh, am I insane?, or does this make no sense" was when, after months of registering, filing, submitting photos and information, we were informed that now the police needs to come to our house to ensure we actually live together. Fine, whatev, just give me the residency permit. THEN we discover in order to get an ID (so I dont have to walk around with the permit - which by the way is a full page document-not so easy to lug around), the police needed visit to ensure that I live where I indicated I live.
Wait, you say, but you already DID THAT, right? I mean the police verification and all...
Nope, that was State Police, not city Police.... Ohhhhhhhhh, I see, my bad.
Ok, ok, fine I dont want to be a rotten sport, I can play along..Visit number one, check. visit number 2, check. I will not go into the fact that neither times did the police actually come to the house, turns out there is a big backlog, I wonder why.
Now what?
So then we had to go to register for a residency certificate (which does not come automoatically with a residency permit- go figure). This was so I can get an ID.
Naivelly, we wander into the local beauracratic hell stop at 10:30 am. This is where Italians go to do all the things they need to do, IDs, drivers liscense, etc. We go to get a number (Italians LOVE numbers, even to buy bread you gotta have your number, unless you are a cranky 80 year old Italian woman, but I digress)... We go to get a number, and find the number giving machine (whoever makes those is making a killing in Italy) is drapped in plastic. Oh, we naively thought, its broken. We go to inquire:
Us (and by us I mean my poor husband): We need to get a number to register for a residency permit
Man behind desk whose job is to smoke: Numbers are finished
My husband: huh???
Smoking man: There is a new law, closed numbers, you need to come here earlier, dont you know about the new law???!!! Numbers are finished.
Are you getting the drift here? and can I please have some logic on the side
And its true, when you come from "another" context, you notice things more. My first year here I was channeling Obelix (you know, Asterix and Obelix) with the constant refrain in my head: These Romans are crazy
Lets take the first thing all new immigrants are exposed to upon entering Italy, which is the application process for a permesso di soggiorno ie residency permit... I will put aside all the welcoming advertisements found outside all the offices new immigrants need to go to, things along the lines of "No more immigrants", umm, thanks for the warm welcome, wont you please come in and have some coffee. (I have to point out it was election year, and I dont think I have to point out what party was putting up these flyers)...but I trangress...
So to get a residency permit, you need to first go to the police station to register that you are in Italy and begin the process. First step into a Kafkaesque nightmare.
Setting: a bare room with scattered chairs and a picture of Virgin Mary holding Jesus (seperation of church and state is understood differently in Italy it seems). With a dozen or so non-Italian looking people standing in some form of order not in any way resembling a line
We wait to finally arrive at the glassed in section with 3 employees, and one computer looking like it was purchased sometime in the 70's
Us (being my poor Italian husband who had no idea what he was getting into, and me): We need to register to start the process for the residency permit
Man behind glass: Well you need to first register for a number
My husband (my Italian is nothing to be proud of): All right then, we need to register for a number so we can register for a residency permit
Man behind glass: We dont give out numbers now, only in the morning
My husband: So we need to come back tomorrow morning to get the number?
Man behind glass: Yes, numbers are very limited, so you will probably need to line up for a number, usually around 4 am
OK, first introduction into does this friggin make any sense??? I mean the beauty of numbers is that they can go as high as you want! Just give me a number, lets say it is 6,249 and I will know not to come register until Mr. or Mrs. 6,248 has done so. Why stop the numbers at 100 or whatever random cut off they have invented?
Another example of "Huh, am I insane?, or does this make no sense" was when, after months of registering, filing, submitting photos and information, we were informed that now the police needs to come to our house to ensure we actually live together. Fine, whatev, just give me the residency permit. THEN we discover in order to get an ID (so I dont have to walk around with the permit - which by the way is a full page document-not so easy to lug around), the police needed visit to ensure that I live where I indicated I live.
Wait, you say, but you already DID THAT, right? I mean the police verification and all...
Nope, that was State Police, not city Police.... Ohhhhhhhhh, I see, my bad.
Ok, ok, fine I dont want to be a rotten sport, I can play along..Visit number one, check. visit number 2, check. I will not go into the fact that neither times did the police actually come to the house, turns out there is a big backlog, I wonder why.
Now what?
So then we had to go to register for a residency certificate (which does not come automoatically with a residency permit- go figure). This was so I can get an ID.
Naivelly, we wander into the local beauracratic hell stop at 10:30 am. This is where Italians go to do all the things they need to do, IDs, drivers liscense, etc. We go to get a number (Italians LOVE numbers, even to buy bread you gotta have your number, unless you are a cranky 80 year old Italian woman, but I digress)... We go to get a number, and find the number giving machine (whoever makes those is making a killing in Italy) is drapped in plastic. Oh, we naively thought, its broken. We go to inquire:
Us (and by us I mean my poor husband): We need to get a number to register for a residency permit
Man behind desk whose job is to smoke: Numbers are finished
My husband: huh???
Smoking man: There is a new law, closed numbers, you need to come here earlier, dont you know about the new law???!!! Numbers are finished.
Are you getting the drift here? and can I please have some logic on the side
Monday, November 13, 2006
Is that fresh basil I smell...
Some things you dont notice start to creep on you, slowly. Changes you can not identify. This is normal when moving to a new country, experiencing a new culture, and trying to make it mesh with all the baggage you have already come with.
It's almost like your suitcase, packed for a weekend trip... It started out so effecient, so small, neat and tidy... so compact and to the point, and then by Friday evening you are sitting on top squeezing just one more shoe, or pack of cards, or some other "vital" thing that you just can leave without... and it gets in, along with the vital 3rd pair of shorts and a dress "just in case you decide to go to a nice formal dinner"...
Today at lunch I notied some small changes that got shoved into me somehow. Actually it was the lunch itself. Not only did I have fresh pesto which I made myself in a small jar, but I was boiling water for pasta. At work. This would never have been an option for me in any other setting. And I found it totally normal. Looking around me it was all the same, from the Latin American man making chickpea soup with arugula, to the woman near me with polenta and tomato sauce.
And I relaized how this food culture has snuck and tucked itself snuggly inside me especially when I relaized, to my horror: I had no fresh fruit to finish off my meal!
It's almost like your suitcase, packed for a weekend trip... It started out so effecient, so small, neat and tidy... so compact and to the point, and then by Friday evening you are sitting on top squeezing just one more shoe, or pack of cards, or some other "vital" thing that you just can leave without... and it gets in, along with the vital 3rd pair of shorts and a dress "just in case you decide to go to a nice formal dinner"...
Today at lunch I notied some small changes that got shoved into me somehow. Actually it was the lunch itself. Not only did I have fresh pesto which I made myself in a small jar, but I was boiling water for pasta. At work. This would never have been an option for me in any other setting. And I found it totally normal. Looking around me it was all the same, from the Latin American man making chickpea soup with arugula, to the woman near me with polenta and tomato sauce.
And I relaized how this food culture has snuck and tucked itself snuggly inside me especially when I relaized, to my horror: I had no fresh fruit to finish off my meal!
Sunday, November 12, 2006
An update on how I got here from there, and to there from there there
I decided to start my own blog... No logical reason, mainly because I think it would help me to recall how i got here,
from there...
And perhaps serve one day as an alibi...
In short, I moved here 1 year and about 6 months ago, from DC to Rome, but thats only one short trip of my many tripped life. Not only did I move to a country I knew very little of, but I moved into two new statuses: wife and unemployed. Lucky me. Or like I soon learned the Italians called it: casalinga, I knew casa meant house, it didnt take a genius to figure out the meaning of the whole word. And I didnt like it much.
but that was then, and in the year and a half a managed to learn some italian (struggling with verb forms all the way), and desperately looking for employment.
Boy was that fun.
Especially when I was told its easier to win the lottery than find a job here. Great, especially since I am no gambler.
But I finally got a job and a normal one at that (thank you, Mr. Travel Agency for ignoring my application to be your secretary), and decided, its time to blog!
from there...
And perhaps serve one day as an alibi...
In short, I moved here 1 year and about 6 months ago, from DC to Rome, but thats only one short trip of my many tripped life. Not only did I move to a country I knew very little of, but I moved into two new statuses: wife and unemployed. Lucky me. Or like I soon learned the Italians called it: casalinga, I knew casa meant house, it didnt take a genius to figure out the meaning of the whole word. And I didnt like it much.
but that was then, and in the year and a half a managed to learn some italian (struggling with verb forms all the way), and desperately looking for employment.
Boy was that fun.
Especially when I was told its easier to win the lottery than find a job here. Great, especially since I am no gambler.
But I finally got a job and a normal one at that (thank you, Mr. Travel Agency for ignoring my application to be your secretary), and decided, its time to blog!
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