I Am Hired As Immigrant Labor

Last night my friend Virginia the Architect and I were in my personal domain, the cafe Bros, having coffee, when I was approached by the owner Claudio. He sat down in the middle of a private conversation and began speaking with incredible speed in languages including, but possibly not limited to, English, Italian, and Portuguese (as Bros is a Brazilian bar). After several minutes, I was trying my darnedest not to wear my confused face, but Claudio noticed. So he concluded his speil by asking, "Agreed?" I responded, "Si," and we shook hands. Then I shook my head.

After Virginia left, I went back to Claudio, sat across from him, and asked him to speak once more, a little slower. I'm still not exactly sure what all was said, but I did catch a few key points: 1) Aurora University is an American institution in Rome, 2) Aurora University has reserved Bros next week for a private party, and 3) Claudio told them I would host it.

I'm not completely familiar with international law, but from my limited understanding, I don't think that I can legally work in Rome on a student visa. Does this make me an alien (something I've always wanted to be)? At the very least, it puts me in the same situation that many families are in, in Northwest Arkansas.

The specifics, as I understand them, involve me contacting Aurora University, arranging all the specifics, and hosting the party next Friday, April 4th (which, coincidentally, is the premier of Battlestar Galatica - I didn't tell Claudio this). I believe I will be paid in coffee beans.

Fun Fact of the Day: Coffee beans were used as currency in Ancient Egypt.

Only now am I beginning to understand the extent of the damage my mother incurred when she was here. I introduced her to Claudio, and, in my absence, she told him to take special care of me. Ever since them, Claudio has called me by name, given me free coffee and appetizers, used my computer to check his mail, asked me to fix his own computer, and generally hosted me old fashioned. Normally this would be a relationship I could only wish for - my own private coffee confidant. But early on in the semester I claimed Bros as my workshop - I usually spend several hours a week there, writing. In the last few days, I've been seeking out another place to write in, because everytime I go into Bros, Claudio wants to be nice to me.

Not content with taking simple care of me, he felt he needed to offer me a job.

I Attend a Brazilian Birthday Party

Carousing with my roommates Friday night, we stopped into the bar Bros, which serves wine and oranges, for some reason, at the foot of the hill that we live on. It was empty, with only a bartender standing guard; there was, however, a great party going on downstairs. We followed the music (for this is my motto in life and will be my epitath in death: He Followed the Music) down the stone stairs into Bros's cellar, where there were many happy Brazilians moving at the end of the room. We hung back for a second, ate some food,and then I took the plunge.

We were only discovered when I started dancing. As I graced about the floor, a tall Brazilian approached me. I thought he, too, wished to dance, but he only wanted to find out who I was. It was Felipe, the birthday boy. He guesstimated me to be American (because he spoke only Portugese and I spoke only the language of dance), and, after a brief announcement to the party goers to give me a sort of movement perimeter, I was accepted into his circle.

After a time of joy, tears, and more laughs than I could understand (but I laughed regardless) we all sang Happy Birthday in Portugese and I performed the traditional American birthday dance. It was actually the same dance I always do, but I insisted.

When I left the cellar, I said ciao and gave Felipe a hug, because, I believe that love can cross bounds of language, culture, and invitation only parties. Love, in fact, is the universal language. And that, knowledge, was my birthday gift to Felipe.