January 24, 2010

I had cast myself into a new life with all my heart.

But I’d forgotten my head.

Cold reality soon set in. My new digs recalled the toilets at Penn Station: grimy white bathroom tiles were glued to every available surface. Water stained floors and ceilings.

I dropped by the comune to ask about getting a building permit for a renovation—secretly hoping they’d wave me away with the well-worn Sicilian phrase Non preoccuparsi!, Don’t worry, and tell me to go do as I pleased.

Not quite. A goggle-eyed man in a pink cravat presented me with a garbage pail and a list.

A list so long and bewildering it brought tears to my eyes. I’ve translated it to the best of my ability (italics mine).

I’m so doomed.

graffiti on the back of my house

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