Mario's nationality, as a matter of fact, is an issue that is not so easy to explain. Argentinian born, he grew up in Barcelona, but normally travels with an Italian passport. When he's speaking he can switch from a Baires accent to one from somewhere in the north of Spain. But the looks in his eyes, when he listens to you, is hundred percent porteño, tano porteño. His chin, lips, teeth and eyes all have a share in the wholesome smile that hangs from his taut and thick black brows.
For the hundredth time he's looking for a job. As a chemical engineer he will go to Singapore, and contact the agencies scouting hi-tech professionals.
Far from being affected by the widespread panic that is shaking the job market around the world, Mario, like myself, is fairly relaxed. Who knows, maybe we're just two irresponsible fools.
With an iced bottle of Leo still dripping in his hand, he waves his arms and prepare for his number.
“I have four or five good friends back home. One of them has a nice position in his company: good salary, responsibility, promotions, respect. As for the others, it's very clear to me: they should already have left their jobs!”
Talking about jobs, I remember a nice one of my friend Viridiano, who is also swinging from contract to contract.
“...why worry, Fabio? We're a generation of temporary employees...”.
Carla, a schoolmate of mine, back from New York, sends me an email. She tops it up with a literary cherry: “...what can I say? I don't fit in there. A city like Seville is more suitable for me. I'm a tapas kind of woman, a little bit of everything. In New York there is too much of just a little...Do you know what I mean?”
Oh yes, I do know what you mean. As for myself, the day I visit New York, I will look at it with the filter of the past, through the eyes of Fitzgerald or Henry Roth, Warhol, Scorsese or F.D. Roosevelt. I think that I'm a person who lives today with the enthusiasm (and the immaturity) of a young boy.
A boy, yes, but of his grandfather's time...
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