Tuesday, July 27, 2010


I tower over everybody in the immigration office at the Questura--the local police precinct.When I get to the front of the line, the kind man behind the window raises the venetian blind extra high and makes a joke about it in Italian--speaking too fast for me to get the precise meaning--which brings down the house, since everyone very subtly listens to all that is going on.

Everyone is calm and quiet, most actually seem to have come either on their way to or from work and clearly are used to the random and inexhaustible complexity of the Italian Bureaucracy. The one thing that sets me apart, I realize after a bit, is that I am the one person in the room who has come to Italy to make LESS money...

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