vendersi

A Zurigo un uomo su 3 frequenta le prostitute. La prostituzione è legale e regolamentata.

Giusto di recente e stata approvata l’istituzione di speciali box -i cosi detti drive in del sesso- per togliere le ragazze dalle strade. In questi box uno arriva con la sua macchina, consuma e riparte. Pero’ le ragazze che ci lavorano possono usufruire di un servizio di supporto e controlli medici.

Ogni tanto mi chiedo se gli uomini che vanno con le prostitute si fanno mai la domanda di come sia vendere il proprio corpo. Giusto per immedesimarsi.

Io abito in centro vicino a una casa piena di lucine colorate e quelle ragazze le incontro praticamente tutte le sere. Ci sorridiamo. Le stimo per il coraggio di mettersi certi tacchi che per salirci su ci vuole la scaletta, e soprattutto per altre ragioni.

Salto tutta la retorica sulla funzione sociale del mestiere piu vecchio del mondo e sul fatto che non sparira mai, perché non mi interessa parlarne qui, mi concentro solo su cosa significhi davvero vendersi.

Al di là di tutto, penso a quanto sia brutto fare un lavoro dove devi stare sempre al freddo -perchè non è che qui la bella stagione duri molto- e comunque anche col caldo, tutto il tempo in piedi a fermare la gente per strada, a fare le fusa a qualsiasi tipo di uomo. Già immaginarsi la totale assenza di libertà nella scelta di con chi andare a letto mi pare abominevole. Ridurre una cosa cosi`preziosa e delicata ad una performance da prezzare. E poi mi chiedo se dopo tutto questo è ancora possibile per loro considerare il sesso anche un atto d’amore. Chissà se amano, se possono, se sanno amare… chissà cosa pensano loro degli uomini.

A settembre scorso sono stata ad Amsterdam e nonostante me lo aspettassi mi ha abbastanza disgustato la marea di gente che si accalcava a vedere le vetrine del quartiere a luci rosse, come fosse uno zoo. A puntare il dito per indicare l’animale piu’ strano, vistoso, appariscente… Ma nessuno si immagina come deve essere al di là di quel vetro? Se quella ragazza lo ha scelto o ci è stata costretta? Da dove viene? Che storia ha? Se si diverte? A nessuno interessa…

Non lo dico perché sono moralista, ma perché purtroppo ci sono molte storie di violenza, droga, psicosi e di false promesse dietro gli occhi di queste ragazze. Uno fra tutti, vi segnalo questo video proprio sulle ragazze delle vetrine. La maggior parte di loro arrivate dall’Est Europa credendo di iniziare una carriera come ballerine. Trafficate come merce ed esposte al banco. Eccole qui che ballano. Fanno quello che sanno e gli piace davvero fare. Se gli uomini non si fanno mai questa cruciale domanda, di come sia prostituirsi, almeno riflettano su questo:

http://elitedaily.com/news/world/this-video-will-change-what-you-think-about-the-red-light-district-in-amsterdam-video/

I found myself!

I found myself in a Zurich shop yesterday…

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It’s weird to find yourself when you were not even looking for it! A bit like when you cut your hair and in the first days right after in front of the mirror you meet someone you think you know, seems familiar, and then you understand it’s yourself, your new self.
I really wanted to go inside myself and see how it is in there. But I was closed. At least now I know where I am…

Domande difficili: “Come stai?”

COME STAI?

Che domanda difficile – penserete voi…

Io di solito tentenno a dire BENE, piuttosto TUTTO OK, bene è una parola forte, nonostante io sia una tendenzialmente positiva abbiamo sempre cose che ci preoccupano, che ci ronzano in capo…

Pero’ Quando sto davvero bene, allora piu’ o meno di solito è…. come dire…. Ecco cosi’.

 

Hai presente quando fai una cosa che rimandavi da mesi? Ecco cosi

Hai presente quando il tuo capo ti tratta male, non lo ammette, ma dopo un po’ cambia tono? Ecco cosi

Hai presente quando ricevi una lettera anche se nessuno le scrive piu? Ecco cosi

Hai presente quando ricevi una telefonata anche se nessuno chiama piu? Ecco cosi

Hai presente quando trovi 50 euro per strada? Ecco cosi

Hai presente quando c’e in offerta il tuo gelato preferito? Ecco cosi

Hai presente quando trovi una cosa che pensavi avevi perso? Ecco cosi

Hai presente quando vedi uno/a che ti piace per strada, non lo conosci ma lo vedi ogni tanto, poi lo perdi di vista e all’improvviso riappare e ti sorride?

Hai presente quando sei pigro ma poi vai a correre e ti senti benissimo? Ecco cosi

Hai presente quando ti accorgi di aver perso 2 kg senza nessuno sforzo? Ecco cosi

(…)

Lettori, potete contribuire e continuare la lista nei commenti!

lauratani.myblog.it

lauratani.myblog.it

prendersi tempo – un lusso per pochi

A volte mi chiedo perché sono qui e mi viene in mente solo la sensazione della scioglievolezza della cioccolata…

Vi pare abbastanza? Ok, scherzavo. Non è del tutto vero.

Stavo pensando a quale grande dono sia nella vita la possibilita di poter prendere del tempo, cioe di abituarsi alle cose, familiarizzare con i cambiamenti.

Forse lo penso perche se guardo indietro, ho dovuto fare i conti con degli eventi traumatici improvvisi, mi e mancata questa chance e ho detto a me stessa: “Ah se solo avessi avuto il tempo di…”

Per esempio quando sei bambina e tuo padre da un giorno all’altro non lo vedi piu’; ma anche se qualcuno ti ha detto che quella è la morte, tu non hai nessuna idea di cosa significhi…

O quando finisce una storia e non sai perché e ti ritrovi a cercare casa e cominciare tutto da capo, ma ancora senti il tepore di quell’altro corpo che non c’è piu’, li’ accanto nel letto…

Oppure quando ti dicono che fanno una fusione e che non si sa se avrai ancora un lavoro domani…

E poi le cose in qualche modo rullano spianando impietosamente tutto, anche macigni di sentimenti che pareva impossibile smuovere.

Ecco perchè si dice che il tempo è un lusso. E crescendo ho anche capito che chi ti dona il suo tempo ti dona veramente molto.

Siccome io mi ritengo fondamentalmente una persona nostalgica, ma soprattutto “struggente” come un poeta romantico, mi piace affondare nei ricordi o meglio nell’intensita di certi momenti significativi, perché sono convinta che cosi’ facendo non li lascero’ andare, in qualche modo potro’ amplificare il loro eco nella mia memoria.

Non mi piace lasciar andare le cose tanto facilemte, amo i cambiamenti ma coi miei tempi, ecco.

Sono cresciuta con una vita normale e qualche complesso come tutti, ho dimenticato di aver sofferto, o mi sono illusa sia cosi’…. e poi quest’estate ho accettato un altro lavoro.

Spaventa sempre tutto, ma poi in qualche modo si fa. Io odio le persone che stanno ferme e si lamentano, e non cambiano niente. Percio’ almeno in quelle scelte dove vi potete prendere la libertà e lo spazio di decidere, cazzo, abbiate coraggio.

Eppure è difficile a volte prendere decisioni sulla propria vita; io lo sento il tempo che passa, le variabili che via via consideri oggi e ieri avresti ignorato. Quel po’ di sale in zucca che ti è venuto ti dice che bisogna pensare strategicamente, con prospettive di lungo periodo.

E adesso non so se restero’ qui o no, non sono ancora satura, anche se ultimamente sempre piu’ spesso sento che io e la Svizzera abbiamo una relazione tormentata, di quelle da metterci l’etichetta “it’s complicated” su facebook.

Non ci capiamo, siamo diverse, eppure stiamo insieme…

prospettiva

BEING GINGER (facts about my life as a redhead)

I borrowed this title from a wonderful documentary film written and produced by the young and talented director Scott P. Harris.

As you might remember, this year in September was the year I finally had everything ready and planned to go to the REDHEADDAY Convention in Breda. I left after work and the first train I had to catch was mysteriously 15 min late (how random for Switzerland!), but I had enough time even to catch the next connection leaving half an hour later. So I was sitting on the second train all excited -hostel booked – prepared to spend a weekend by myself but also meet tons of people when…

Let’s take a step back first.

Once, I was in London airport and the girl at the security check had wonderful ginger wavy hair, freckles and blue eyes like me; her colleague looked at us while I was passing through the scan and said: “Hey, you could be sisters!”. She complimented me on my brand new flowery Camden Town wellies, then she told me about this mythical ginger international convention and I jumped from joy. That’s how I discovered about the Red Head Days of Breda, so I have been planning to go there since 2011.

Here I am, direction airport, luggage sorted, packed in it also my little ginger-braided Pippi doll, when at 5 minutes to Basel someone jumped in front of my train and consequently we stopped for 40 minutes, we got evacuated and for the first time in my life I missed my flight! Then I started making phone calls, cancelled the hostel, I got dragged to the station by bus and then I catch a train back home in Zurich again. What a journey!

As I travel often, I took it with a sort of statistical/philosophical approach: sooner or later it had to happen to me, no? Besides the fact of realizing what it means to take an extreme action like that, how desperate you have to be, I of course felt sorry for the guy, but also how selfish is this; it caused such a disruption for so many people and involved so many others… But then again it could have been any other weekend when I just go to see my family in Italy and I can just go another time… but for something like this I have been waiting 2 years to do it and now I’ll have to wait another full 12 months… (Flying on Sat wasn’t an option, as it was too expensive.) You can imagine I even had already bought a ticket for the premiere screening of Scott’s movie! In any case during that weekend I kind of considered trying to set up a ginger community in Zurich as my friends tried to convince me that it’s all destiny and something good had to come out of it.

After a huge complain to SBB, ok it wasn’t technically their fault, but in this country you better always complain as at least here they have the money to make customers happy! (NB: In Italy even when you are fully right and with such a delay which might have screwed up the entire rest of your life -for example as you missed to propose to your partner leaving for Qualalumpur for 36 months- you can forget they’d give you anything!) I even got part of the money back and finally managed to see Scott’s film anyway! (You, of course, also can, and please do! As it’s really worth it, just go on his page to purchase a copy; the link at the bottom of the post.)

So what about this movie? It’s funny, it’s moving, it’s real. It tells the story of Scott in his attempt to find love while describing how painful it is being rejected for the colour of your hair (and skin and freaky eyelashes…). I have loved it! It has a very original idea but also quite accessible to everyone, is still very personal. It got very nice feedback at the screening in fact and is still touring the USA… Being-Ginger-Documentary

But Scott wasn’t as lucky as I was. I think both in the USA and in the UK the bulling against gingers is much a bigger deal.

I was born blond and curly, my mum says, in a rainy spring night, but pretty soon I made it clear to the world that I was going to be different, and Ginger! Being ginger to me has always meant being distinct, being special. But in a totally positive sense. I might have been just lucky or maybe because in Italy gingers are not so many, but I have never experienced bullying around it neither on myself or the other gingers I know. It was only recently that I discovered the series of YouTube videos of the American Angry Ginger Guy (Coppercab). http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EY39fkmqKBM

It made me feel somehow deeply sad, but it first awoke my awareness too on this topic.

The worse/most offensive sentence I personally ever had to hear is being asked about the true colour of my pubic hair during middle school. In English they say “Do the drapes match the curtains /carpet”. But boys have been always curious about ginger girls. They say we are passionate and fiery. I don’t know if this is true, as I only know myself… But of course the myth on our reputation probably helps when awaking the interest of the other sex. One thing for sure: it does not guarantee to find love more easily. So Scott, we are on the same boat. Ok, maybe you have been a bit more unlucky in your experiences and got -so to say- a cabin with no porthole on the internal part of this damn ginger boat.

During school time, when I was about 10, I got really upset finding out that women got burned at the stake by the Spanish Inquisition just by the colour of their hair and were called witches and had to hide for centuries. And Joan of Arc became one of my favourite heroines of all times.

Then, when I was in my Erasmus semester, I really realized that basically the rest of the world would expect me being Irish or Eastern European after they met me for the first time, and as I don’t really have a typical strong Italian accent (Thanks God – I worked hard on that!) I played with it quite a few times (memorable that time that I pretended to be Gosia from Poland while my dark-haired Italian friend Francesca pretended to be Consuelo from Argentina, until one of the guy we were chatting up said he had just been to South Amercia and…). One of my best party mates of the Erasmus was an Irish ginger fellow called James, who explained me that -where he is from- people like us are called GinGers (with hard G) in a disparaging sense.

gingerkidAgain, when I was in Cardiff on a night out, we were queuing for the club, when suddenly the doorman -a short big guy, with a bald head- looked at me and asked: “which colour is your hair?” So I almost screamed “GINGER!!!” as for me it has always been a plus this feature, nothing to be ashamed of, and he ended up letting me in for free. I remember a huge poster of Geri Halliwell on the wall with her famous red glittered mini outfit. They probably were ginger fans in there… That was a lucky night. I think I even made out with someone…

Last year I took part to a very interesting project from a young photographer called Marina Rosso. The project is called “The Beautiful Gene” (links also at the bottom) and consists in a collection of redhead people -who presumably might disappear in the future- and ended up in a book and in an exposition currently on in Torino. I felt really honoured to be featured in this project and treated as a potential rarity. Marina as well took part to the Breda Convention where -I am sure- she found plenty of material for her work and we also were supposed to meet there…

So in the end, I am happy and feel blessed that I am like this. I inherited it from my Sicilian part of the family and some say I look more like my grandpa Nino, the barber, than anyone else. Funny enough that the ginger features comes actually from the Nordic tribes, but as the Normans ruled Sicily during the Middle Ages, they have been transmitted from generation to generation and got to me all the way through the south! But people always get confused about it as I grew up in the North-East.

Last month someone told me NO WAY YOU ARE GINGER you are maximum AUBURN. Well NO. It’s unacceptable. Auburn is like… almost brown, you know?!? You might have seen me in the winter when, yes, it gets little darker, but not even close to mahogany! Don’t even try to take this from me. I am GINGER! Dark blond with lots of cupper! (Do you know that actually in ginger hair there is high concentration of Iron, that is to say rust pigments?)

So, that’s my story about being a ginger. Is there any other ginger reader of mine out there?

You can find here other interesting links about this topic:

SCOTT’s movie

http://watch.beingginger.co.uk/

https://www.facebook.com/beingginger

http://www.beingginger.co.uk/screenings/

CONVENTIONS

http://www.roodharigen.nl/

http://www.redheadconvention.com/

BEAUTY

http://gingerparrot.co.uk/index.php/us/us/

http://www.everythingforredheads.co.uk/

PHOTOGRAPHY

http://www.vice.com/en_uk/read/anthea-pokroy-ginger-collector

https://fabricashop.myshopify.com/collections/frontpage/products/the-beautiful-gene

http://www.marinarosso.com/projects/the-beautiful-gene/

GENERAL ABOUT RED HAIR

http://www.dateginger.co.uk/little-known-ginger-facts.html

http://www.cafebabel.it/politica/articolo/rosso-malpelo-per-le-lentiggini.html

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Red_hair

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Redhead

http://facts.randomhistory.com/redhead-facts.html

Welcome to Fabulous Las Vegas (October 2013)

Writer’s Notice: this is fiction, but I thought it would be more funny tell you the story this way instead of saying that I had a great time and everything was amazing. Dot. So, I spiced it up a little…

Folks, let’s face it, in Vegas everything has to be The Best. We all have to have the best nights of our life, it’s all pushed to the limit: if you kiss you can’t just kiss someone, you have to kiss in 4 in a sort of group kiss where all the mouths and tongues mingle together – like I saw on the dance floor of the Vodoo Lounge- if you eat you have to eat in the most trendy restaurant with the best chef; if you drink if you have to get so wasted that you erase totally the hard disk of your mental memory; if you are tipsy/on the way to be drunk (this happened to someone I know) they have to take you out from the club on a wheelchair from the backdoor while 2 American girls following you scream “ OH MY GOOOOOD! She needs to go to the H-O-S-P-I-T-A-L!!” (Seriously, the wheelchair was not necessary, she just needed a bit of fresh air…). If you wear heels they have to be climb-the-ladder sort of high heels, that if you fall from up there you need 15 surgeries to fix your ankles. If you are fat you have to be obese and if you are fit you have to be obsessive-healthy-vegan-eating fit (but this is just America as a whole actually) …and so on and so on… is just NOT the place for being reasonable, well-balanced people or born under the Libra zodiac sign.IMG_0471

I arrive there, coming from 5 super chilling days in LA were people are super laid back, smoking weed at Venice beach, enjoying the sunset after surfing. Vegas looks like a giant amusement park without borders, everything is designed to suck the money out of your wallet. All of the lights: bling-bling, the noise of the slots: ting-ting, the laser of the Luxor pointing the sky (the most powerful on the earth, can be seen from the atmosphere!!!), the fake eruption of the Mirage, the sharks in the aquarium, the roller coasters, the lions in the garden of the MGM, the excursion tours, the fountains, the naked oily strippers, the homeless, the beggars, the street artists, the coloured feathers, the tingle, the illusionists, the magic, the shows, the pools, the souvenirs, the shops, the gadgets, the alcohol, the parties…

I am immediately overexcited, overwhelmed, like a kid first time at Disneyland, like in an endless Xmas Eve. I breathe adrenaline. I smell it. You want to do and see and touch everything. And you just don’t want to sleep. For this, there are some little pink bottles sold at the gift shops called after the movie The Hang Over, that are like a pure concentrate of Redbull. They tell me it works, but taken with moderation. Moderation is a word that has no meaning and no use whatsoever in Vegas – I object! – and I immediately buy 2 for 9 $. And then 2 more, as souvenir before leaving…

First night. In Vegas it’s easy to get things for free, or at least they make you think you do. Just walking around the casino and you meet a PR, you get a bracelet and he promises you to get in for free including drinks if you go to his club. Works sometimes, but sometimes you get to the door and they don’t have your name because you never replied to and SMS you never got from the PR as your mobile mysteriously doesn’t work abroad.

Getting ready thinking that I will look good and discover 5 minutes later that I am totally underdressed for Vegas style -even if I am wearing something so sparkling and short and glittery that I could only wear it again next Xmas if wanting to resemble a Xmas tree. Got chat up by 3 different drunk guys within 1 hour. I am still a bit stiff though, and tired…

Second night and the travel group already shows signs of dismantling, each of us struggling to decide what to do, what to prioritise, fighting to impose our interests… but we are going to have dinner altogether.

“We get ready”. They seem again just 3 simple words… but in reality Las Vegas poses many fundamental challenges to all women on the getting ready subject: one of those is the heels marathon as anticipated above. Because if you take me, that I am a crazy dancer and in general someone that when goes out, instead of spending the evening in pain, prefers to kick asses on the dance floor, I basically never wear heels. I might do with a lot of mental preparation if it’s a special weekend, so max on a whole Saturday night and then take the Sunday off to recover on flat shoes and pediluvio (aka foot bath). But in Las Vegas every day is a Saturday night, so no matter how long you will stay, you’ll have to be on top all the time! It’s the ultimate challenge for anyone’s feet! So let’s suppose that the outfits are chosen and ready (which is of course not an easy task after the Xmas attempt) we still have a lot to do about the shoes. I read in the guide book that all clubs had a note at the bottom like “dress to impress” or “dress to kill”. In this case the shoes are for sure made to kill -yourself- not the ones that look at you! I have never seen more bare foot women like in Vegas passed the hour! Therefore I mostly go out with a tiny bag with my golden ballerinas (Golden because they are literally precious in those moments but they are seriously covered in golden glitters! I tell you, fit all dresses! Perfect!) If on day 1 you can make it till 3 am on the heels, on day 2 you are already crying at around midnight and so on for day 3 and 4…

So after all this what-the-hell-do-I-wear-dilemma, we rush to catch the free shuttle bus to town, but it’s barely an 8 seater, obviously full, so we need to pay the taxi. There you realize that your hotel is great but why the hell did you not book something on the Strip directly, instead of adding to your bill 12 $ of taxi each way whenever you want to go out from it?!

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We walk around, but as I am a notable freaking planner, wandering around without a plan and most of all crossing places I have already seen in the morning, it simply drives me mad! So there you are, ready to fight with your travel companions because it’s natural after 10 days of non-stop co-existence. Someone realizes that he forgot his ID, hence can’t go anywhere without it and we need to go back and get it. I tell you that nowhere like in Vegas I felt more under-aged. I got asked all the time if I was sure I was old enough, I mean, ok it starts being flattering and it ends up being offensive! A stupid card dealer at blackjack table stopped me even from watching others playing unless I would proof my age. I gave my Swiss driving license stating “I am thirty!!! (WTF)”, and she repeated “ahhh thirteen…” What??? She believed it?! Then as I gave her my evil face waving around my driving license, she even called the manager as they had to check my document in the computer to make sure… what’s wrong with Swiss IDs? Well, I tell you, the bouncers normally all look for birth date first and then expiration dates, but hey we don’t have one, Swiss driving licenses are limitless, so even when I am going to be a senile grandma I’ll still drive! He wanted to make sure it wasn’t fake.

On the plane it happened also! I asked the hostess for a little Californian white wine to get me to sleep and she said: “You look so young, are you sure you are at least 21?” (I look young??? Is young now a synonym of crap? Because I just feel I look like shit with no make-up, the hair like a bush and 2 eye bags as big as my carry on after 10 hours journey! I thought this would make me look older actually!!!).

We finally arrive at the restaurant and I am already tired of standing. My friend who made the reservation just texted saying that she is on her way -aka she is mathematically not less than 30 min late all the time… So the 2 top models that are working as receptionists and are supposed to let you to your table, they politely scold you off as you can’t be seated unless the whole group is there checking-in together. Such a fuss! Yes! Restaurants have a check-in procedure and a check-in desk, like if you were flying to Timbuktu!

When the late friend comes, it seems a joke, but part of the others is already lost into the huge shopping mall -as they were tired of waiting and went for a round! More waiting… When we finally re-group, the models walk us in, by the time we sit it’s 21.30 and I haven’t eaten since 12.00. I am on that hunger stage where I have cramps and no one should talk to me if they care for their life. The restaurant is super cold as the Americans are conditioning sick. Nonetheless they keep serving us jugs of water with a kilo each of ice cubes and frozen cocktails on the side. Tummy congestion anyone? It’s free and included in the meal! The ambience is weird. In order to be a super cool restaurant they decided to have club music pumping the beats at full volume. I thought dinners where occasions to rely and talk. Here no one can hear a thing, not even the waiter when we order! He has to prone down to your mouth to guess what you want and combine some reading-lips skills! By the time we make it and get the plate is past 22.00. Who is in the mood for drinking now? I actually wish to, but would be better to go straight to plain whisky (NO ICE!).

Oh! Good news! We are told that we can get free entrance to the club downstairs: we get one stamp on the wrist! Finally P-A-R-T-Y. But the doorman bounces us back to the starting point saying we have to queue again outside to show our IDs before we can go in the club! I feel like a game token in monopoly. We get another stamp after the second queue. And guess what? Girls enter for free. Yeey. Another stamp. To prove I am actually female I need a stamp?? In Vegas you actually never know… At this point I get an allergic reaction to the ink on my skin! We get to the bar and we discover that to have free drinks till 23.30 we are actually supposed to queue again in another line for the guest list and get a bracelet! And It’s now 23.20 – F*ck it.

Ok time to dance. Considering what I said in the introduction, it does not take me long to realize that all the human beings around us are just too wasted. So no man can be considered able to have a conversation with you which would lead to a bit of flirting. It’s just all or nothing at this point. Someone simply tries to thrust his tongue into my mouth without asking permission while he is passing by. Another guy (and this is maybe the most weird approach I have ever experienced in my life!) mumbles in my ears “you surely have a husband, but you are gorgeous” and instantaneously leaves. What a way is that if I can’t even answer that actually NOT, I AM NOT MARRIED…

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This supercool deejay in this super cool TAO club is changing song every 10 seconds! I can’t even dance!!!

Third night. After a full day of running, walking, sweating, roller coasting, driving, visiting, climbing up the Stratosphere and exploring the Old Vegas, It’s girls Night in the amazing terrace of the VODOO Lounge! This is my fav night! The music is right, the mood is right, we are all equally and in the right measure tipsy. We get approached by a man with his companion inviting us into his private area that is an amazing terrace on top of Vegas. He pours us drinks and I start being sceptical. Some people say I waste the fun being always so cautious, but after he told me he is Italian he started touching my ass! In the US you meet often people calling themselves Italians, just because their grandma’s grandma maybe was. But they really believe they still are even without knowing a single word or anything about our culture (which in fact does not include spaghetti con polpette!). So when people asked me where I was from and said Italian, my friend rushed to add after me: “she is real Italian, not like American Italian!”. After the nice man has tried to grab each and every of our asses under the eyes of his partner, we just feel a bit embarrassed and try to come up to the dance floor again. We finally leave, I remember a glass elevator and people screaming Mexico. It’s my friend! Then we get lost in the casino and start playing poker, making new friends and so and so… I think we ended up in Mac Donald’s. But do you know that even Mac Donald’s in Vegas instead of their normal sign have a special old-fashion-casino-style-sign with all lighting bulbs?!

As a conclusion after paying a fortune to stay at the Palms in a double suite, our door keys never worked properly, we got locked out several time, we had to call first the maid with the master key, then a technician of the magnetic door lock and then David Copperfield in person who thankfully has a permanent show going on in town! But the receptionist wouldn’t let me in on the first night neither give me a second key as the room had only one name – so why didn’t you tell us at check-in that you needed to register us all to avoid problems??? Am I supposed to sleep on the floor? And pay that much to be locked out??? I feel horrible but start knocking till someone gets up to open the door for me. It’s maybe 4 am! After a tough negotiation we got a free SPA entry… hey you don’t try to fool me, I have worked in tourism! It turns out that the “SPA” was as big as the bathroom of my double suite…

But hey, we are in Vegas…. wasn’t it supposed to be fun???

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la ferita sempre aperta

C’era una volta una mia amica che in una sera di luglio 2013 scendeva dall’autobus e tornava a casa piedi. Faceva caldo e lei indossava una gonna. Ma la mia amica è una persona molto semplice, che non mette molto trucco, una ragazza minuta e carina. Si sente seguita, sente dei passi e uno sguardo starle addosso. Poi sente anche una voce insultarla, sente varie frasi rivolte a lei, si sente dire di essere una poco di buono, una sporca, che quelle come lei vanno punite, perche’ le donne provocano -perche’ ha la gonna- ma soprattutto perche’ le donne tra le gambe hanno una ferita sempre aperta. Quelle cosi’, al paese di questo qui, vengono sistemate per bene affinchè imparino la lezione…

La mia amica pero’ é coraggiosa, gli risponde un po’ urlando che “Qui siamo in italia, non nel suo paese. E che qui le donne sono libere, lavorano e se vogliono farsi una passeggiata la sera possono farlo. Gli ha detto che se non gli andava bene questa cultura poteva tornare a casa sua e non stare qui a imporre le sue idee da troglodito. “

Non vi diro’ il paese perché non é importante, eppure é un paese che amo e fa male da sapere, quindi non voglio influenzarvi. Io che sono una persona molto razionale, mi dico ma questo ragionamento non sta in piedi, questa è pura ignoranza. E’ che mi sto scervellando per capire quale sia la lezione che ci meritiamo.  Ma soprattutto perchè ce la dovremmo meritare dato che siamo nate cosi’, cosi’ ci hanno create, come possiamo essere colpevoli della natura? Ma soprattutto come mai il solo fatto di essere fisiologicamente di forma femminile dovrebbe disturbare tanto qualcuno da fargli desiderare di esercitare violenza su di noi. Perchè mai esistono popoli, o gruppi o culture di questo tipo? Mi chiedo come è cresciuto questo uomo? Aveva un padre che un giorno gli ha detto: “ascolta, le donne hano il ciclo, per questo sono sporche e le devi punire?”. E’ cosi’ che viene fatta l’educazione sessuale? Come viene trasmessa una idea del genere? come viene impartita, come viene insegnata/ereditata una aberrazione del genere?  symbol

Io sono una persona estremamente cauta nel dare giudizi, estremamente corretta quando si parla di razze, razzismo, xenophobia… persino quando si parla di femminismo. Per me il femminismo -come forma di lotta estrema- ha senso quando ci sono condizioni estreme, ma generalemtne vivendo in una società civile moderatamente avanzata, non trovo il bisogno di estremizzare. Finchè non sento certe cose ovviamente… Eppure è vero non ci si puo’ nascondere dietro la paura di sembrare razzisti e minimizzare, non si puo’ non denunciare, non si puo’ non ammettere che questo pensiero di inferiorità delle donne é troppo diffuso in molte zone del mondo.  Che la religione (per prima quella di casa nostra!!!) o quello che si ritiene “pratica religiosa” abbiano spesso infossato e fomentato queste convinzioni. Eppure questo è un ragazzo apparentemente ben integrato, che vive e lavora da tanti anni nel mio paese. Di ragazze libere ne avrà viste tante, si sarà reso conto che qui funziona diversamente, eppure non si è convinto… eppure sente ancora rabbia, impeto aggressivo, disprezzo.

Che ottusità, senza quella ferita che non si rimargina mai non si genererebbe nessuna vita su questo pianeta. Mi pare piu’ che altro meglio descritta come una fonte inesaurabile, come una sorgente di energia cosmica. La vera ferita è questo pensiero, questo sentimento, che qualcuno voglia farmi sentire in colpa e allo stesso tempo provare paura per come sono fatta, la vera ferita è che esistano pensieri del genere. Questa si, la ferita nel mio orgoglio per tutte le donne del mondo, fino a quando la dignità di una donna o di una bambina verrà lesa, offesa, calpestata da qualche parte, questa è e resterà in eterno una ferita sempre aperta… femminismo