San Francisco’s Mission District. It’s a little scary to think that a chica sexy might need a beard trim, but then again, this is San Francisco…
Learn Italian in Song: Chitarra, Suona Piu’ Piano
Guitar, Play More SoftlyNicola Di Bari |
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| Chitarra suona più piano
qualcuno può sentire soltanto lei deve capire lei sola deve sapere che sto parlando d’amore cantano i grilli nel grano e un passero sul ramo nessuno dorme questa sera nemmeno lei a quest’ora stringe il cuscino e sospira la luna e’ ferma nel cielo la lucciola sul melo chitarra mia suona più piano anche se incerta la mano suona chitarra che l’ora l’ora di darle tutto il bene che ho nel cuore di dirle addio per sempre o perdonare e amarla come un altro non sa fare l’ora di respirare un poco d’aria pura un prato e’ verde quando e’ primavera il sole e’ caldo e poi scende la sera per noi la notte odora di fieno io dormo sul tuo seno dio come batte il suo cuore la gente sogna a quest’ora dormi chitarra che l’ora l’ora di darle tutto il bene che ho nel cuore di dirle addio per sempre o perdonare e amarla come un altro non sa fare l’ora di respirare un poco d’aria pura un prato e’ verde quando e’ primavera il sole e’ caldo e poi scende la sera l’ora di darle tutto il bene che ho nel cuore di dirle addio per sempre o perdonare e amarla come un altro non sa fare l’ora di respirare un poco d’aria pura un prato e verde quando e primavera il sole e caldo e poi scende la sera |
Guitar, play more softly
Someone could hear Only she must understand she alone must know that I am speaking of love the grasshoppers in the grain sing a sparrow on a branch no one sleeps this evening not even she at this hour holds tight the pillow and sighs the moon is still in the sky the firefly on the apple tree My guitar, play more softly even if the hand is uncertain play, guitar, that the hour, the hour to give her all the good I have in my heart to tell her goodbye forever or forgive and love her as no one else knows how the hour to breathe a bit of pure air a field is green when it’s spring the sun is hot and then evening falls for use the night smells of hay I sleep on your breast god how her heart beats people dream at this hour sleep, guitar, that the hour, the hour to give her all the good I have in my heart to say goodbye forever or forgive and love her as no one else knows how… |
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Leaving Italy: The Practicalities
On March 31st, 2008, my residence in Italy was officially revoked. This was easy to accomplish. A few days before, Enrico and I had gone together to Lecco’s Ufficio dell’Anagrafe (I guess a reasonable translation would be “Population Records Office”). This is where you go to record transfers of residence (within Italy), births, deaths, and marriages.
To undo my Italian residency, all that was required was to write a letter which the nice lady at the window dictated and Enrico transcribed (his handwriting being much more legible than mine). She photocopied my carta d’identita’ (Italian identity card) and gave it back to me, then told us to go to the Registry Office (within the same building) to officially hand in the letter. The lady there gave us a dated and signed photocopy, and that was all there was to it.
You may be wondering: why did I so easily give up what so many foreigners would give their eyeteeth to have? Taxes, my friend. Most countries in the world, including Italy, make all their residents, citizens or foreigners, pay some sort of income tax. The US is perhaps the ONLY country in the world which requires its non-resident citizens to pay tax. So, if you’re an American living overseas, you’ve got two sets of taxes to file per year. There is a tax treaty between the US and Italy such that the US gives you tax credits for the Italian taxes paid on the first $86,000 of your income. Beyond that, you’re paying both governments for the privilege of working. There was a time, in my Dotcom boom heyday, when I was paying over 50% of my income in taxes.
Since I will no longer be availing myself of Italian national services such as health care and education, I see no good reason to keep giving money to the Italian government, especially when I have to put a kid through college in the US. So I’ve cancelled my Italian residency. I can still visit at least as often I’m likely to have time to, I think the limit is three months out of every six. Supposedly at some point someone official will show up at our house to ascertain whether I’m still there or not.
First Weeks in Colorado
I don’t always have the mental energy to write profound thoughts or reach important conclusions, but I know that some of you enjoy keeping up with what I’m doing, so here’s a sort of travelogue about my recent move to the US.
Mar 31 Departed Milan. Enrico drove me to the airport in heavy traffic, from which I concluded that I should never again try to get to Linate during rush hour. Made it with a comfortable margin in the end, but it wasn’t worth the stress.
Transited through Frankfurt and decided never to do that again, either. Security has been relaxed, I suppose – we didn’t go through the full body pat-down I’ve experienced in Frankfurt before, but we did have passport checks at the gate. This is fine when your passport is checked just before you get on the plane, but in this case we were required to be checked before going into a holding area just outside the gate. This area had insufficient chairs and no bathroom, so it got very annoying when the flight was delayed.
The delay was due to severe overbooking (so much for German efficiency…). Lufthansa offered a business class upgrade and 500 euros to anyone who would take a later flight through Chicago. I considered it, but was worried about arriving in Denver around midnight, tired, with lots of baggage, and needing to drive an hour over unfamiliar roads to reach my new home.
The flight, of course, was full to the last seat. My seat neighbor was returning from a business trip to India, and had loved it, so we found plenty to talk about. Plus I watched some decent movies from the wide selection available on the seat-back video screens, and read the latest Montalbano book.
…and didn’t have time to write any more!
Coming “Home” to America
So I’ve returned to live (and work) in the USA. A number of people, particularly US immigration officers, have said: “Welcome home.” I am grateful for their friendly intentions, but “home” is not what the US represents for me. I’ve lived here only about a third of my life to date.
Having spent many of my formative years in Asia, I tried to come “home” to America once before, when I graduated from high school in India and entered college in the US. Like many third culture kids, I had felt out of place (though not unhappy) in the exotic countries I’d lived in, where I was very obviously foreign even after being there for years. I dreamed of returning to a country where I would feel wholly at ease and be accepted as a natural part of the scenery. It was a rude shock to discover that this homeland, for me and others like me, is a myth. Though I didn’t realize it at the time, I was a “hidden immigrant”: on the surface seemingly a local, but in reality a not-quite-native, which manifested in ways which confused and irritated the real Americans.
Continue reading Coming “Home” to America
