Put Alcohol In A Camelbak For Cruise

terminal refugees

Afghan refugees at the Stazione Ostiense

come from war-torn countries like Afghanistan, dictatorial regimes such as Sudan. There are about 47,000 refugees in Italy, in 2009 alone were 17,200 people who applied for asylum and more than half has been granted permission to stay. A large part of them is found then sleep in railway stations, to eat the soup kitchen and trying hard to find a job for those who barely know the Italian language.

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Ludovica Jona

Abdominoplasty Horror Stories

of lies, liars and other demons

ie, the truth subheading

I have a friend, Abdoulaye, who took to heart the 'start of my new business and calls me at the most unthinkable step for me tomorrow in office so you talk about everything and nothing, so I said to my great amusement, and I dare not stop.

so often find me across the desk looking at me solemnly, with a beige jacket and shiny shoes, his hands folded on his stomach, sitting straight and seriously, his presence fills the entire office.

yesterday we were discussing the best approach to take with customers and is coming off an interesting discussion about the different looks possible.

ie, the truth is one?

Laye and Senegal, Dakar.

was the clerk of the civil court knows the laws, the limits and possibilities of legal systems and therefore fully understands the limits and possibilities of my work: I am a consultant for immigration, trade is relatively recent in our immature country, help people to orient themselves and to acquire tools in the context of immigration law.

mestiere da squali, mestiere senza regole, gola buia e umida per chi vuole speculare e ballare sui cadaveri degli immigrati.

ho la pretesa di fare questo mestiere onestamente e laye lo sa.

si discuteva di cosa dire e cosa non dire, ai clienti.

il mio amico sostiene, in una logica e con uno sguardo tutto senegalese, che dire la verità nuda e cruda non è fonte di rassicurazione quanto piuttosto di scoraggiamento in persone già provate dalle difficoltà dell’emigrazione, dalle attese, dalle barriere, dal rifiuto che vivono una volta passata la frontiera.

la verità va apparecchiata in modo da essere digerita: do not say to a person "between the demand and the response of an entry visa for employment may also pass two years" if anything is said that the answer might take more than six months.

no lie, and it is less upsetting.

given the fact that neither I nor anyone else actually including officials of the Prefecture for examining the application for entry, we can actually say with certainty how long it will take.

the law establishes twenty days, the reality is a huge black hole that eats the dawn of time.

I try to put myself in his eyes, but it's hard: I prefer to be told that My husband is definitely in Italy in two weeks and then after two weeks to be told two more and then still another two or two and then to be told directly and without filters, six months, looking into his eyes and his voice clear and well articulated ?

and then after six months if he is not here yet? and if it really came after two weeks? and what about my heart, my emotions?

are Italian, there's nothing to do, and I'd feel exactly the answer that comes closest to the truth, however painful it is for me or a future of painful waiting and uncertainty.

then I think my emotions.

but if a Senegalese tells me that he did not, he does not prefer, I know that for it he is right and I can not ignore this point of view.

we discussed at length last night and I laye out of the windows was dark, now it is autumn and at home have access to the heating went out in the traffic of Corso Buenos Aires and to make me understand that I was not criticizing nor was urging me to lie to my customers, I offered an aperitif proud of it although it does not work for ten days and both he, like so many others on this earth, painfully waiting for a permit of stay blessed.

a drink full of meanings, the one last night, a look important to laye about my work and my ability: laye believes in me and wants me to grow and sow doubts and questions in my head so that I can reflect and improve.

obedient and I reflect, like a madwoman: how to safeguard the only thing that really point why people choose me, me and everyone else in town offers the same service?

I say things as they are, help to orient themselves, reveal background uncomfortable that no one has ever bothered to explain going beyond the difficulties of language and the huge burden of expectation and hope that is taken every day in my office .

I tell the truth.

those who want to come in Italy say that life here is not that hip hop kitsch paradise of limousines and beautiful women who think they find.

to those who are here say that if you think you pay a sinister stranger who promises him the miracle of a document is better that the money his mother sent them to the ram of tabasky, because that document will be false to the first check and he find a home for tabasky even before he realized that he blinked.

but how to say it, the truth, what I like stark, because it is not likely to be for someone else unnecessary violence?

in silence, someone told me this morning.

sì, forse è proprio in silenzio che va detta.

ascoltando, allenandosi a percepire la richiesta e a modulare la risposta sulle esigenze espresse dall’altro, sul suo orecchio, che del resto sentirà solo quello che gli verrà detto in maniera per lui comprensibile.

la verità è una sola: su questo io e laye siamo d’accordo.

ma declamarla con voce squillante come le trombe del Giudizio non aiuterà chi di giudizi ne subisce già tutti i giorni, chi fonda la sua sopravvivenza più sulla speranza che sulla certezza, chi ha le orecchie ferite da troppe feroci verità.

la verità detta da chi sta bene è difficile che entri nelle orecchie of those who are ill.

the truth exposed by cold, rational logic clearly does not magically convince those who are confused.

truth quietly.

what you learn when you have friends who have other truths.

Cheapest Brintons Carpets

# 2 Italian language test

of Igiaba Scego on Unit

nights ago I came across the network in a face-transmitted from Reservoir Dogs. The hyena
Giulio Golia has dismantled piece by piece, the statement councilor of the Municipality of Rome Laura Marsilio. The commissioner had said (referring to the issue of children di migranti, le cosiddette seconde generazioni): «Anche se questi bambini sono nati in Italia è sbagliato considerarli non stranieri». Non stranieri??? Quindi stranieri. Per l’assessore Marsilio se sei nato in Italia e sei nero o hai gli occhi a mandorla non sei (e forse non lo sarai mai) italiano. Questo, fa giustamente notare la iena Golia, è molto grave soprattutto se detto da un assessore alla scuola. Golia per dimostrare la sua tesi mette a confronto Marsilio con due ragazzi romani, romanisti di origine nigeriana. Lo show, anche se a fin di bene, mi ha rattristato parecchio. Da una parte c’era l’assessore che non si arrendeva all’evidenza di trovarsi davanti a due italiani neri. Continuava a dire che i due ragazzi "Carry a different culture." But there were these two guys the other blacks Italians forced by circumstances to demonstrate their level of Italian, "the tifiamo" Maggica "," I know magnate de portions du matriciana made by my mother, "" The Italian girl is me "" I do not speak the Nigerian. " Why, I wonder, we must show that migrant children are Italians? I thought that I am the daughter of immigrants born in Italy I've never eaten carbonara. This makes me a foreigner? I remembered Zhanxing Xu a daughter of immigrants like me. She likes rice and pasta, does not like football and studying German. Xu feels Zhanxing italianissima, perchè è qualcosa di insito in lei. In una sua lettera che gira in rete scrive: «Non ho bisogno di tingermi di verde, bianco e rosso per sventolare ciò che sono» .

12 ottobre 2010

Letter My Future Wife

eight hours, police in Milan

un permesso di soggiorno che avrebbe potuto essere rilasciato sei mesi fa comincia a spuntare tra le pieghe dell’ufficio immigrazione.

a Kande tremavano le mani mentre tirava fuori dalla cartellina di plastica gli originali da mostrare per la centesima volta nonostante fossero già stati spediti con raccomandata, mostrati al momento della firma, mostrati ad una prima convocazione, chiesti nuovamente questa volta e che per favore venissero fotocopiati perchè andare a cercare il suo fascicolo non era cosa.

gli tremavano le mani all’idea che tra meno di un mese avrebbe potuto avere in mano la benedetta tesserina magnetica che lo rendeva nuovamente una persona con diritto di parola.

il giorno prima aveva lavorato initerrottamente per sedici ore, senza pause perchè il collega che avrebbe dovuto sostituirlo per le ore di riposo a metà pomeriggio semplicemente non si era presentato e così Kande era passato direttamente dalla chiusura del grande magazzino al marciapiede della questura ad assicurarsi un posto decente in coda.

8 ottobre 2010, ma sembra ancora di essere ai tempi di quando si andava a portare il tè caldo alle persone che passsavano giorni e notti fuori dall’ufficio Immigration to ask the question of amnesty, 1998.

many things have changed since then, and not good.

Kande perhaps even shaking hands with fatigue.

and anxiety that once again it would be heard "is not ready yet."

but this time it went well: the permit is ready, the fingerprints were taken twice, first with the machine with the fluorescent light as in science fiction, then the ink on the fingertips and palm as in American prisons .

the permit is ready, but consegnerenno him in a month.

for a moment I wanted to shake his hand shaking so absurd in this man strong, tall, elegant in gray suit, white shirt, polished shoes, but it was my pain that he needed.

now need a job, a good regular work, contributions, holidays, sick leave and everything else they need to be able to start building a return home with their heads high after three years of absence, a return home can imagine, a trip that maybe it will be for next year yet, not now, no one can come to the airport with empty pockets, even if it means delaying the time to finally see your last child was born you were already party.

Kande is one of the lucky ones: he has friends, who advised him, who accompanied him, who lends him the money needed to invest in its future - culture, intelligence and luck enough to not get into trouble.
spent some bad moments, but was never alone.

to Kande hands trembled, but he is one of the lucky ones.

Super Industrial Juicer

lineages

"if the father had not died, would have taught us that desire is not a road that leads to knowledge, that love is never ideal, the longing that has never hope? " " The kingdom flourished " Fae Myenne Ng

this phrase struck me as bad news, bad news for those damn that never appeared gradually, affecting at lunchtime, after coffee, when the world seems to you friend and it is not, and not at night when you would expect.

yet twenty years have passed since the death of my father, from that Sunday for lunch when they were telling me I had fallen in the street and had not raised further.

my dad is Paris, the two of us at the Grand Hotel, between the Opera and Place Vendome, the Barbie model is that the United States, cigarettes in the drawer, wallet burgundy in the inside pocket of his jacket, a slap in the place of my brother when we were in a casino machine, eau de Givency, rolling r's when he says "idiot", his waiting car by a gang of black sleepy teens at three in the morning at the exit of the circuit after the concert by Pink Floyd at Monza, the chanterelles and porcini, barbecue built in concrete in the middle of the lawn and said the Parthenon, the hammock that breaks up with him inside, his puzzled look when we hear that an African tampax is a pendant, impatience visits to the castles of the Loire, the grimace while washing the windows of the car autogrill, my dad is young, strong, goes into the mountains, play tennis (also would like to play golf, but in the end he liked to steal the ball more than anything else), my dad took me on his knee after dinner, read the Astrakhan coat and see Bud Spencer and Terence Hill, when not dressed as office puts jeans with flap that horrify my mother, cook the eel at Christmas but what's slide, I said that in thirteen years I have to buy women's shoes.

my grandfather, the father of my father was a lawyer and gentleman of the sword and cape of a cardinal, lay member, that the pontifical family, he had terrifying white eyebrows and jellies and fruit for their grandchildren in the cabinet of dark wood of the study, drinking a lemon juice each morning holy.

my grandfather family legend, it is dusty smell of Corridor along the house of Rome, is the root and shaft, is the founder, is the severity and order, the sweetness hidden and denied, rules, religion, ' family ring given to my mom, my brother's name he bears.

my husband is my heart, my flesh and my breathing and through me, my grandfather and my father reappeared in him, the only man to whom I allowed to approach really the only one where I found the same demented righteousness in the name of honor that makes you lose sense of reality, to make rules and limits from bank to emotions that are frightening, male and man of the house until 'excess.

has the jitters for a marriage that came too soon and that makes him lose an hour of my arrival at the airport, is the need for pleasure and to feel good, and happiness for the happiness of his mother on the day of My birthday is knotted stomach, cigarettes and coffee as the only consolations and concerns to fasting, and reflection is slow, and determination, and the wake up at dawn to take me to see pelicans, is a voice on the phone telling me breathe, is the hand that guides me in the street, is kept a smile and then let go in the video every night.

are the men of the line that leads up to me.

my father died and I was able to teach that knowledge does not lead to the desire for life because he chased a desire, even my grandfather was orphaned very early, the son no longer wanted to give up and had to fend for tenderness success, and my husband is old chains that keep him away, which prevented him from talking, sharing, spend a little 'weight.

the men in my line are single men and loneliness, as a disease, is transmitted.

are men who make consistent progress, feeding on the welfare of others, shaping the world to their will and the will which, in their hearts, have agreed to be the best for their brothers, their wives, their children go through the world with great strides, preparing safe harbors, coves filled with supplies of food and warm clothes and perfumes in which you can find everything you want, where nothing bad could ever happen.

close to them you always know that your shoulders will be covered.

and sweet, very sweet.

enter the cave and all you can stun, you sit down to not fall and look at those mountains of riches and gold, made you want without even asking.

dad traveled a lot for work, so much that I missed the voice on the phone that his presence on every trip I brought a gift, a photo, a small bottle of shampoo for the hotel and then off again hong kong, san francisco Stockholm dusseldorf paris beijing

take the road that goes to Beijing and turn right after turin encounter many big cities is the twelfth Felicittà - said Richard Scarry book in and I imagined that Dad backpacker turned right and found the road.

sono uomini speciali, gli uomini della mia linea, nessun dubbio, ma bisogna stare attenti, perchè ferirli è la cosa più facile del mondo, basta dire, amore oggi no, la cioccolata no, oggi vorrei essere io a prepararti la sedia in giardino sotto l’albero di limoni, portarti la musica e un caffè degli altipiani del kilimangiaro, e preoccuparmi che nessuno ti disturbi per tutto il giorno.

ecco, è come se avessi detto che la cioccolata ti fa orrore, che tutta la grotta ti fa orrore! che tutto quel cibo, quelle richezze, quelle montagne di desideri sognati ti fanno orrore perchè (naturalmente!) chi li ha preparati ti fa orrore.

papà criticava All and all, but could not interfere without the risk of making him feel at fault, weakened terribly ungrateful and unaware of all that was - his grandfather was famous for the cries that reached to the sky - even my husband is so, my freud sigumund friend if he is laughing in his sleeve very carefully, now!

and so you must stay in the cave, grateful and happy, waiting for your man comes, your man is out there and you know tired and cold, but also stronger and more powerful than anyone else, committed to ensuring that there are no lions in the cave that there is more food and more music and more sweets, you're comfortable.

and you're there in the cave, grateful and happy because I would not change the man and his hands that create the world marvels at all - but sometimes he entered the cave with you and take you out to hunt lions with itself (remember that when you knew you had a hammer in hand, after all!), the cave would be really wonderful and perhaps he would not always be so tired and the world would really really really piùcheperfetto .