The alarm sets
off at 6:00 AM. I hear Iggy Pop’s “The
Passenger” banging on my eardrums. I love that song. It’s my official road trip
song- that trip that I’ve been planning for months now, and that would be my
official background music towards freedom. But I realize that I won’t be making
any progress with my plan because I’m bound like a slave to my job.
I get up and go
to the bathroom. I wash my face with cold water to wake up my whole being. No,
I’m not going to get a shower yet, not even breakfast yet.
I shed my
pajamas, put on a sweatshirt, jogging pants, and shoes, and go and do what I
must do first thing in the morning- no, not jogging; find an appropriate
parking space. Yes, because when I come home from work, our area is swamped
with cars. It’s like there are more cars than human beings in this
neighborhood. And free parking spaces are just as scarce as my money. I can’t
afford to rent a garage. Perhaps the government thinks that its citizens are
shitting with lots of money, that’s why urban planning is shit and they wiped
out all possible places where residents can park their vehicles for free. Florence is so small you
hardly call it a city, anyway.
Why do I need to
find a parking space for my car? It’s because the fucking municipal police will
be out there early in the morning slipping out tickets with sky-rocketing
fines. Hey, Mr. Law Enforcer, there’s one more thing that I would really love
to do instead of paying all these fines. I’d love to slip that baton into your
hole.
After half an
hour of thinking how much the price of diesel has gone u, and which fuel
stations have cheaper price of diesel per liter, and after I burn car fuel
going around streets avenues, I finally found a spot- a 15 minute walk away
from my place. I’m not sure if I’m going to thank God for making my life more
complicated or for giving me a chance to do some exercise early in the morning.
And speaking of
exercise, I’ll be doing some too this month. You know, way back when I was in
the Philippines, gourmet food,
buffet and great Italian cuisine were just dreams for me. I could only imagine
myself then enjoying the joys of eating. And now that I’m enjoying it to the
fullest, doctors now alarmed at the sky-rocketing levels of sugar, fat,
cholesterol and triglycerides in my blood (I didn’t even know they actually
existed in my blood. Okay, I did know they were present but I ignored their
existence).
I need to be fit
and healthy to live longer. Even if life is a real bitch, I still want to live
longer. But there’s more to it than being healthy. I want to be sexy and
attractive, and get laid (the
boom-boom-pow-bangin-on-the-wall-like-there’s-no-tomorrow kind of getting
laid). We all want to be beautiful and sexy and marketable. Now, we’re all
bombarded by powerful images that tell us if your ass doesn’t fit in those
freakin’ fuckin’ goddamn skinny pants, you won’t fit in society. The YOLO
advent and the culture of youthful looking is so prevalent that I’m saving
money for botox instead of saving money to invest it in the stock market. But
you know how it is here in Europe in
post-fucking-Lehman-Brothers-bankruptcy-world-fucking-crisis days- botox and
plastic surgery are more formidable and trustworthy than the stock market, the
banks, and investments. Plus, to look younger is more appreciated than being
smarter. And you ask why the world is full of bullshit.
But anyway,
working out and running can be really fun, especially early in the morning
because you breathe in fresh air, and the whole city is calm, and there are no
assholes around except for the sweet chirping of birds. It can be a drag at
first but when you get a hang of it, it’s a wonderful experience. Just think
how priceless it is to run around the city while looking at medieval walls,
historical towers and palaces, and the peaceful Arno River. It can be fun.
It simply feels so good after a good run and you’re all sweaty and tired. Just
as good as, I dunno, an orgasm?
I go straight to
the bathroom. I don’t shower anymore. I employ Filipino ingenuity- tabo system.
We’re paying so much for the public service here. They actually have you pay
for your basic necessities like water. Taxation for water, can you believe
that? In other cities, water is free. Here, the home of our new Prime Minister
Matteo “Goddamn-you-fucktard-I-hope-you-die” Renzi, we’re paying for it. But
thanks to my Filipino culture, I save more money, I save water, and I save the
environment. And to make it better, I always play some music while in the
bathroom. Lately, I’ve been listening to Filipino classic love songs. I’ve been
listening to Sharon Cuneta’s songs. Wala lang. Bagong trip ko.
I sometimes have
breakfast at home. But even brewing coffee at home can be time consuming. So I
go the nearest coffee shop. When I first came here in Italy, a cappuccino
and a sweet pastry cost £ 2,000.00 in the old Italian
liras, and that is supposedly equivalent to € 1,03. Now, breakfast with cappuccino
and sfoglia alla crema- €2,20.00 (22% VAT included, that was 21% six
months ago, that was 20% more than a year ago). Ever since Euro came in, we are
paying twice the value of every product and service, but our salaries still
remained rigidly to their same old equivalent in lira. No logic explanation,
and nobody in the authorities exert any effort to explain this to all citizensThank
you European Union. Thank you European Commission. Thank you European Central
Bank. Thank you Banca Italia. I hope you have a nice breakfast too.
You know what’s
really a nice breakfast? I want to rip off the heads of the governors of ECB
and Banca Italia, that of the European Commissioner, and that of those
Europhile politicians. I want to have their hearts for breakfast together with
bacon and eggs and a warm cup of American coffee. That’s a breakfast for a
champion. For now, I should satisfy myself with a sweet pastry and cappuccino.
What else do we
eat for breakfast? Political rants. Political complaints. This morning, when I
walked into the café, I can already hear the barista ranting about the new
policies of the new administration. It would be followed by an old lady in a mink
coat tells her story of how her pension was reduced into a pauper’s paycheck,
and then I will join the debacle. And there you are- a glorious chorus of our
rants and feverish denunciations.
Politics in Italy is really
different. The people here are so smart that they would vote for the right
candidate. Because of these, politicians need to be smarter. Unfortunately they
don’t any other options so they end up putting the real assholes in power. So
every morning, this is the scenery. In the Philippines, there are so
many idiots in society that dumbasses think they could outsmart the masses, and
they actually can. The thing is, Filipinos have MORE THAN THE NECESSARY NUMBER
OF QUALIFIED CANDIDATES but they end up voting for the assholes and the
dumbasses. And that explains the scenery back there.
But unlike
Philippine politics, there’s no drama here, no entertainment, and you really
can’t make fun of the statements of politicians because what they say usually
make sense.
Wait. I’m just
kidding. They’re all the same, except that politicians here are smart and
verbose, and serious in politics. But they’re still fucking idiots.
So after eating
political rants and a sweet pastry and washing it down with cappuccino and
resentment, I go to work.
Before I start
the engine, I pray the common prayers of residents in Florence:
“Heavenly
Father, who art in heaven,
look down on us
with grace and mercy.
Give us this day
our daily dose of patience
And forgive us
for nursing murderous thoughts
Of our bosses
and driving assholes in the streets.
Deliver us from
traffic jams, taxes,
Bastards in
government and law enforcement agencies,
And especially
from the wrath of my boss because I’m late,
And from the
temptation of the pleasurable experience of
Killing one of them.”
Catholics,
Protestants, Muslims, Atheists, all say amen to that.
And off I go to
work. I survived that early morning. I will live until the end of the day.
Ladies and
gentlemen, this blog is back to regular programming.
