Ciao Quotes

If your life truths have to be protected like some people keep their couches in plastic then ciao. have a nice life. if we bump into eachoter at Target, i'm the one buying the sour gummy worms and thats all you need to know about me.

So widespread was slavery in the Mediterranean and the Arabic world that even today regular greetings reference human trafficking. All over Italy, when they meet, people say to each other, “schiavo,” from a Venetian dialect. “Ciao,” as it is more commonly spelt, does not mean “hello”; it means “I am your slave.

Ciao," I say casually, and flick my hair back. "Si. Ciao." I could so be Italian. Except I might have to learn a few more words.

So if your life truths have to be protected the same way some people keep their couches in plastic, then ciao. Have a nice life. If we bump into each other at Target, I'm the one buying the sour gummy worms, and that's all you need to know about me.

Thanks for treating me like, you know, a person through all this shit. I know that isn't always easy. (Stark) You do have a habit of pissing on other people's welcome mats. But, when a gentleman gives you a booty call to a massacre, it's easy to forgive. Ciao. (Candy)

(Actually now I’m remembering that the goodbye chow isn’t spelled that way. It’s ciao or something weird like that. It’s Italian, right? But I’m not an Italian gypsy, I’m a hungry gypsy. So spelling it chow makes total sense.)

No duties. I don’t have to be profound. I don’t have to be artistically perfect. Or sublime. Or edifying. I just wander. I say: ‘You were running, That’s fine. It was the thing to do.’ And now the music of the worlds transforms me. My planet enters a different house. Trees and lawns become more distinct. Philosophies one after another go out. Everything is lighter yet not less odd. Sauces, wine vintages, dishes of meat. We talk a little of district fairs, Of travels in a covered wagon with a cloud of dust behind, Of how rivers once were, what the scent of calamus is. That’s better than examining one’s private dreams. And meanwhile it has arrived. It’s here, invisible. Who can guess how it got here, everywhere. Let others take care of it. Time for me to play hooky. Buena notte. Ciao. Farewell.

Tell me the truth, Italian. You don't like it because it's strong. You like it because it's illegal.

Our own tiresome sniper, we call him “Jovo,” was in a playful mood today. He’s really out of his mind. There he goes! He just fired another bullet, to shake us up. Ciao!

Mio padre va nella camera di mia sorella per parlare con lei. Julia lo guarda. –  Ciao, papà. Ti serve qualcosa? –  Sì, Julia. Tuo fratello adesso si sta vestendo.  Voglio che prendiate questi.

Facevo due tre passi nel corridoio e mi raggiungeva la temuta voce: "Dino". Tornavo indietro. "Ci sei a colazione?" "Sì." "E a pranzo?" "E a pranzo?" Dio mio, quanto innocente e grande e nello stesso tempo piccolo desiderio c'era nella domanda. Non chiedeva, non pretendeva, domandava soltanto un'informazione. Ma io avevo appuntamenti cretini, avevo ragazze che non mi volevano bene e in fondo se ne fregavano altamente di me, e l'idea di tornare alle otto e mezzo nella casa triste, avvelenata dalla vecchiaia e dalla malattia, già contaminata dalla morte, mi repelleva addirittura, perché non si deve avere il coraggio di confessare queste orribili cose quando sono vere? "Non so" allora rispondevo "telefonerò". E io sapevo che avrei telefonato di no. E lei subito capiva che io avrei telefonato di no e nel suo "Ciao" c'era uno sconforto grandissimo. Ma io ero il figlio, egoista come sanno esserlo soltanto i figli.

I became one of those annoying people who always say Ciao! Only I was extra annoying, since I would always explain where the word ciao comes from. (If you must know, it's an abbreviation of a phrase used by medieval Venetians as an intimate salutation: Sono il suo schiavo! Meaning: "I am your slave!") Just speaking these words made me feel sexy and happy. My divorce lawyer told me not to worry; she said she had one client (Korean by heritage) who, after a yucky divorce, legally changed her name to something Italian, just to feel sexy and happy again.

Why are you studying Italian? So that - just in case Italy ever invades Ethiopia again, and is actually successful this time - you can brag about knowing a language that’s spoken in two whole countries? But I loved it. Every word was a singing sparrow, a magic trick, a truffle for me. I would slosh home through the rain after class, draw a hot bath, and lie there in the bubbles reading the Italian dictionary aloud to myself, taking my mind off my divorce pressures and my heartache. The words made me laugh in delight. I started referring to my cell phone as il mio telefonino (“my teensy little telephone”) I became one of those annoying people who always say Ciao! Only I was extra annoying, since I would always explain where the word ciao comes from.

J'aime écrire car cela ne fait pas de bruit. L'écriture permet de crier en silence, de pleurer sans larmes, de communiquer sans paroles.

Per tutta risposta Mosè smise di bere quel nettare russo per guardarlo bene in faccia. "Ciao vecchio finocchio", lo salutò. E poi ricominciò a bere e ad ubriacarsi.

Ciao. Spero ci sia qualcuno in ascolto.

«Dove sei» dice, «quando mi scrivi?» «Di solito qui. Ogni tanto alla scrivania.» «Ah» dice, annuendo. E poi mi chino su di lui e lo bacio dolcemente sul collo, appena sotto la mascella. Si gira verso di me e deglutisce. «Ciao» dico. Sorride. «Ciao.» E poi lo bacio, e lui ricambia il bacio, e con le mani mi stringe i capelli. E ci baciamo come se respirassimo.

Markers Markers are my go-to for coloring anime characters. They are simple to use and versatile, especially brush-tip markers. For the illustrations in this book, I only used alcohol-based markers, specifically Copic Sketch or Ciao markers.

Kirk entrò in cucina, con un grosso sorriso stampato sul volto. “Si dice che ci siano dei brownie qui. È la verità o Heller mi stava prendendo in giro?” Non dissi niente e mi limitai a tirar fuori la teglia dal forno. “Madre di Dio, vuoi essere il mio migliore amico?” chiese Kirk con enfasi, sporgendosi sul bancone. “Remi sarà a pezzi,” aggiunse Tal unendosi a noi. “Poverino. L’hai abbandonato per dei dolci al forno. Ciao, Lawson.” “Ciao, Tal. Mi fa piacere che siate riusciti a venire. E se Kirk è così volubile, magari è meglio che Remi lo venga a sapere subito.

Ciao, Bill. E buonasera a lei, detective Anderson. Vi sarei grato se uno dei due mi spiegasse perché avete arrestato l'uomo che nel 2015 è stato eletto cittadino dell'anno di Flint City. È stato un errore, a cui magari possiamo porre rimedio insieme, o i vostri cervelli del cazzo sono andati in pappa? Howard Gold era arrivato.

- Ciao, mon biquet, ce fut un plaisir de voyager avec toi. - Je te retrouverais, cracha le bone. Je te retrouverais et ce jour-là, je te crèverai. En prenant tout mon temps ! - C'est ça, ironisa Salim, personne n'est pressé. - Tu vas souffrir ! Beaucoup souffrir ! - Ça c'est cruel, s'indigna Salim, et ingrat. Je t'ai quand même tenu dans mes bras pendant tout le trajet. D'ailleurs, à ce sujet, tu devrais te laver plus souvent, tu sais ? Et encore... je crois que c'est de l'intérieur que tu pues ! Maintenant, si ça ne te fait rien, je te quitte. C'est pas que je m'ennuie mais je ne peux quand même pas passer la journée avec tous les rigolos que je rencontre. À la prochaine, vieux !

It’s always the quiet, serious ones. They know what they’re doing. That’s why they’re so quiet. They’re just sitting there thinking about what they’re going to do to you, twenty-four-seven.

Fai ciao ciao al burocrate" rimane il film favorito di Mario tra tutti quelli di loro padre, forse per la sua serietà così poco di moda. Anche se a Mario ha sempre detto che è troppo mieloso, piace anche a Hal, la cartuccia, e gli piace proiettarsi con l'immaginazione nel personaggio dell'ex burocrate mentre guida piacevolmente verso casa e verso la cancellazione deontologica.

Ciao, bello!' The coal-eyed beauty who had kissed Jason through the Fiat's window appeared through the crowd, her pretty red mouth smiling. Utterly ignoring Storm, she perched herself on the table next to Jason. 'Ciao, bella,' he smiled. 'Vuoi ballare?' 'She wants me to dance,' he explained to Storm, peering round the girl's adolescent bottom. 'I know,' she replied shortly. 'I've got a degree in Italian.

Until then what can we do in our abandoned solitude but gaze at ourselves? Examine ourselves in endless bouts of fascinated distraction, fall in love and in hate with ourselves, make a theatre, myth and cult of ourselves. Because what else is there? To become superb in our technology, knowledge and intellect, to itch with a desire for fulfilment that we can’t quite scratch; to look to the void (which still isn’t answering) and build spaceships anyway, and make countless circlings of our lonely planet, and little excursions to our lonely moon and think thoughts like these in weightless bafflement and routine awe. To turn back to the earth, which gleams like a spotlit mirror in a pitch-dark room, and speak into the fuzz of our radios to the only life that appears to be there. Hello? Konnichiwa, ciao, zdraste, bonjour, do you read me, hello?

Bruto non si allontanò, e per diversi minuti rimasero entrambi lì in piedi, mano nella mano, il respiro che risuonava contro le pareti della cella. Bruto non fu neanche particolarmente sorpreso quando Gray chinò la testa e, evitando la mano insaponata, premette le labbra sul suo grosso avambraccio. “Gra…zie, Bruto.” “Non è il mio nome.” Chiaramente non era padrone della propria lingua. Ma Gray si limitò ad alzare la testa. “Come?” “Bruto. Mi chiamano così. Mi chiamano tutti così da quando… da quando ero un bambino. Ma non è il mio vero nome.” A volte se lo dimenticava. Pensava a se stesso come a Bruto, e l’ultima persona a chiamarlo con il suo vero nome era stata sua madre, subito prima di morire. Lo aveva abbracciato e baciato sulla testa, e lo aveva chiamato ‘bravo ragazzo’, prima di avvelenarsi. “Co-co… come ti chiami?” la voce di Gray era calma. “Aric. Sono Aric.” Gray sorrise. “Ciao, Aric.

Because what I learned from him is that love isn’t something that you find or that finds you—love is something you gift yourself. You design it. You decide who you are going to love and who will have the privilege of loving you back.

There’s beauty in every inch of a woman. In art, in fashion, in life, there will always be people who want to mold our bodies into ways that will suit them, but this can never be. There is nothing more beautiful and deserving of respect than the shape of a woman.

Non avrei mai pensato di svegliarmi questa mattina accanto a Nathan. Guardo il suo viso e mi sembra il ritratto della perfezione, pensava Ross mentre studiava ogni minima parte di quel corpo che gli stava disteso accanto. I tenui raggi del mattino penetravano dalla tenda accostata, illuminando entrambi. Il respiro rilassato di Nathan scandiva il tempo che sembrava dilatarsi in infiniti istanti di perfezione. Piccolo Nathan. Quanto mi hai reso felice stanotte, ammise Ross lasciando scivolare le sue dita sul petto del ragazzo. Nathan si mosse nel sonno, stringendosi ancor di più a lui. «Ciao», disse il ragazzo, sbadigliando. «Felice risveglio.» «Lo è. Lo è. Sono qui accanto a te», rispose Ross, baciandogli la fronte. «Pensa cosa direbbe Luke se ci vedesse», scherzò Nathan, sollevando le braccia e stirandosi i muscoli. «Direbbe che mi hai plagiato. Tu, piccolo incantatore, servo di Belzebù», rispose l’uomo, accarezzandogli il viso. «Ma com’è possibile credere che questi occhi appartengano a un servo del Signore del male?», Ross rise divertito. «Ma, pensandoci meglio, tutto è possibile. In fondo Satana era uno degli angeli di Dio, il più bello. E ammetto che tu non sia solo angioletto, anche se ce ne vuole a paragonarti a un demone perverso»

Così per la prima volta intravedi un finale. È un gioco che facevi spesso da ragazzina. All'inizio di ogni relazione ti sforzavi di immaginare la scena: mentre un ragazzo ti baciava tu ti chiedevi se quella era una storia da scusa, o una storia da allora ciao, o una storia da vaffanculo, o una storia da restiamo amici. Se sarebbe successo in un letto o in mezzo alla strada e la faccia che avrebbe fatto lui, se era un tipo da insultarti o implorarti o non parlare più, tirare un pugno al muro e odiarti e basta. Dopo ti sentivi più tranquilla. Era come conoscere già l'ultima pagina di un libro, per poi immergerti nella trama senza nessuna angoscia.

There was always something abrupt about that word. It wasn't, "See you later!" or "Take care now!" or even "Ciao!" "Later" was a chilling slam dunk salutation that shoved aside all our honeyed European niceties. "Later" always left a sharp aftertaste to what until then may have been a warm heart to heart moment. "Later" didn't close things neatly or allow them to trail off. It slammed them shut. But "later" was also a way of avoiding saying goodbye, of making light of all goodbyes. You said "later" not meaning farewell but to say you'd be back in no time. It was the equivalent of saying "Just a sec," when my mother asked him to pass the bread and he was busy pulling apart the fishbones on his plate.

You can't convince yourself! You either believe or you don't believe." (28) "She say you ask weird questions, but I say you're student, you supposed to ask! Her job to answer! I say you're lazy, if student ask, you answer!" "Yeah! She told me my real great-grandparents are these white people named Adan and Eve!" "Bullshit! But hey, Ciao Wen, be smart. Why you argue with her about that? You know they believe this stuff, just let them believe." "But she told me I was going to Hell if I didn't believe and told me to ask God into my heart!" ""Ha, ha, yeah, she told me, too, think she do something soo good to help you. Whatever. You know it's lies, let those idiots believe. Just focus on real school. Don't be stupid and fight them, you'll lose." (30)

Bleecker Street, Summer" Summer for prose and lemons, for nakedness and languor, for the eternal idleness of the imagined return, for rare flutes and bare feet, and the August bedroom of tangled sheets and the Sunday salt, ah violin! When I press summer dusks together, it is a month of street accordions and sprinklers laying the dust, small shadows running from me. It is music opening and closing, Italia mia, on Bleecker, ciao, Antonio, and the water-cries of children tearing the rose-coloured sky in streams of paper; it is dusk in the nostrils and the smell of water down littered streets that lead you to no water, and gathering islands and lemons in the mind. There is the Hudson, like the sea aflame. I would undress you in the summer heat, and laugh and dry your damp flesh if you came.

«Ma guarda se non è la mia persona preferita al mondo,» sento dire da Miranda alla mia sinistra, mentre si avvicina al tavolo per versarci dell’acqua nel bicchiere. La guardo, ma lei sta fissando Kyle, dall’altra parte del tavolo, che siede alla mia destra. Poi rivolge lo sguardo verso di me e mi fa l’occhiolino. «Oh, e ciao, Jane. È bello vederti.» Le sorrido, ma poi metto su un broncio finto. «Pensavo di essere io la tua persona preferita al mondo.» «No,» dice Miranda strascicando la voce mentre mette la mano libera sul fianco e agita la brocca d’acqua quasi vuota verso Kyle. «È lui ora la mia persona preferita, dopo la batosta epica che ha dato a Craig, l’altro giorno.» Stringo le labbra e le rivolgo un cenno accomodante. «È vero. È stato epico, e capisco che la tua lealtà sia cambiata.» Miranda ride e mi manda un bacio, poi allunga la mano a Kyle attraverso il tavolo. «Non siamo stati presentati ufficialmente, l’altro giorno, ma sono Miranda. La migliore amica di Jane, e beh, lei è davvero la mia persona preferita al mondo. Ma subito dopo ci sei tu.» Kyle sorride a Miranda, e devo ammettere che è un bel sorriso. Le stringe la mano e dice: «Mi sarebbe piaciuto dargliene di più, l’altro giorno, ma non volevo fare una scenata.» Miranda ride lasciandogli andare la mano e poi si sporge per versargli l’acqua. «Va bene, sei di nuovo il mio preferito. Jane dovrà accontentarsi della seconda posizione.» E con mia grande sorpresa, Kyle ridacchia ed è ancora più bello. Il suo volto cambia e i suoi occhi si illuminano. Adesso sembra avvicinabile, e devo resistere alla tentazione di chinarmi e baciarlo.

Because what I learned from him is that love isn’t something that you find or that finds you—love is something you gift yourself. You design it. You decide who you are going to love and who will have the privilege of loving you back. Once I understood that, I met the person who I knew brought out the best in me. And I chose to love him because of that. Day after day we choose each other, and that’s the kind of love that

Non ho intenzione di andare nel panico. No. Andrà tutto bene. Assolutamente alla grande. Una visita veloce. Super informale. E pazienza se i miei genitori sanno un po’ troppe cose su Ben. Pazienza se riescono a malapena a controllarsi con i miei amici, figuriamoci con un ragazzo. Non che Ben sia il mio ragazzo. Posso solo immaginare che cosa succederebbe se lo presentassi così. Io: Vi presento Ben, il mio ragazzo! Genitori: (Inondandoci con una pioggia di preservativi) CIAO BEN, RAGAZZO DI ARTHUR! Ben: (Si lancia verso il sole.) Ma... okay. Se lui non è il mio ragazzo, come lo presento? Come un mio amico? Come un pretendente? Come il tipo con cui sogno di fare sesso per il 99 percento delle mie ore di veglia? E sì, vale in entrambi i sensi: passo il 99 per cento delle mie ore di veglia sognando di passare il 99 per cento delle mie ore di veglia a fare sesso con Ben.

Ciao Johnny”, mormorò e il vento corse leggero tra gli alberi di porpora. Una foglia rossa ondeggiò nell'aria azzurra e le si posò tra i capelli. “Sono qui. Sono venuta finalmente.” Lacrime brucianti cominciarono a scorrere sul suo viso. “Tutto doveva essere diverso, vero? Non doveva finire in questo modo.” Chinò la testa, la gola stretta in un nodo di dolore. E fu allora che la mano le tocco il collo. Le si mozzò il respiro di colpo e restò con la schiena rigida e gli occhi sbarrati. "Johnny…?" Era andato. Si alzò, si girò e naturalmente non c'era nulla. Ma poteva vederlo, ritto lì accanto, le mani sprofondate nelle tasche, il caldo sorriso un po' obliquo sul volto più attraente che bello che si appoggiava snello e disinvolto a una tomba o a un pilastro dell'ingresso o forse contro un albero rosseggiante d'autunno. Bella roba, Sarah, annusi ancora quella dannata cocaina? Niente intorno se non Johnny, lì vicino. Forse ovunque. Tutti noi facciamo quello che possiamo e dobbiamo accontentarci… e se non ci basta, dobbiamo rassegnarci. Niente è perduto per sempre, Sarah. Niente che non possa esser ritrovato. "Sempre il vecchio Johnny", sussurrò Sarah. Uscì dal cimitero e attraversò la strada. Indugiò un attimo, voltandosi a guardare. Il tiepido vento d'ottobre alitava robusto e grandi cortine di luce e d'ombra sembravano attraversare il mondo. Gli alberi frusciavano misteriosamente. Sarah salì in macchina e si allontanò.

«Ciao,» disse, inclinando il capo e mettendo il broncio. «Chi è il gay?» Il tizio davanti agli altri lo indicò, premendogli un dito sul petto. Il resto gruppo si esibì in una risata più simile a un grugnito. «Già!» esclamò Angel. L’ubriaco lo squadrò. «Eh?» «Mi hai scoperto, sono gay.» Angel allungò una mano. «Piacere di conoscerti. Sei etero?» Stavolta l’ubriaco ridusse gli occhi a fessura. «Mi prendi per il culo?» «Niente affatto.» Angel si mise le mani sui fianchi. «Ho solo pensato di chiedere, visto che a quanto pare stiamo tutti definendo la nostra sessualità. E poi non mi piace molto la birra di qui.» «La birra.» Il tizio si allontanò di un passo dal ragazzo. «Che cazzo...» «Il tempo però non è stato male. Ricordi che l’anno scorso in questo periodo pioveva sempre?» «Gesù.» L’ubriaco oscillò e sbatté le palpebre, cercando di concentrarsi sul volto di Angel. Poi sbuffò. «Andiamocene. Mezza sega.» I quattro ubriachi se ne andarono e Angel aspettò che la porta del pub si chiudesse alle loro spalle, prima di tornare al tavolo, facendo spostare Scott per sedersi accanto a Corey. «Beh,» esalò Scott, con enfasi. «Che qualcuno mi prenda a sprangate.» Angel scosse il capo, posò una mano sulla gamba di Corey sotto il tavolo e ingollò una bella sorsata di orrida birra. «Se proprio insisti...» «Gli hai chiesto... gli hai chiesto ehi sei etero!» DK non riusciva a formare la frase correttamente. «È stato fantastico.» Il ragazzo scrollò le spalle. «Non è la prima volta che ho a che fare con dei bulli. Era ubriaco, facile da confondere e probabilmente domani non ricorderà nulla.» Toby si scrocchiò le nocche. «Ti avrei guardato le spalle. Se le cose si fossero messe male, dico.» «Lo so, grazie.» Corey non disse nulla, mise solo una mano su quella di Angel e la strinse

This is Luca, our friend,” Leonardo says happily as I think: Luca. Finally. “Ciao,” Luca says, nodding at us, his long legs stretched out, crossed at the ankles. He’s wearing a dark blue shirt tucked into black jeans, and silver rings on a couple of his long fingers, the cigarette held loosely between them. His inky hair tumbles over his forehead, and I see, with a shock like a knife to the chest, that his eyes, heavily fringed with thick black lashes, are the midnight blue of sapphires or deep seawater. I can’t speak. “Hey!” Paige waves flirtatiously at Luca, one of those girl-waves where you open and flutter your fingers while flashing a brilliant smile. I hate to admit it, but Paige totally pulls it off. “I’m Paige. And you’re hot!” Oh my God. Paige is brave enough to tell him to his face that he’s handsome, while I can’t even say hello. I am completely pathetic.

There are plenty of boys clustered around the wall, laughing, shoving each other playfully, yelling, competing for the attention of the girls. But somehow I know that the one who’s staring at me is the boy leaning against the post holding up the canopy, his shoulders square to it, his head ducked over the cigarette he’s holding, a tiny red point flaring in the shadow as he pulls on the filter. I shake my head and say firmly to myself, Smoking’s disgusting. I’m still looking, though. He’s tall and slim, I can tell that much. And his hair, dropping over his forehead, is jet-black, as if he were a hero in a manga book, drawn with pen and ink, two or three thick glossy strands separating into perfect dark curves. I snap my head back from the lurker in the shadows to the actual boy still holding my hand, only to see that Leonardo is looking over my shoulder in the same direction. “Luca!” he exclaims, dropping my hand to wave at someone. “Finalmente!” I am determined not to turn. Just in case it’s the same boy. I don’t want to look too interested, or too eager. Besides, he might be really ugly. Or spotty. Or have some silly chinstrap shaved onto his face-- “Eccolo!” Leonardo’s saying happily, and it would be silly of me, by now, not to turn to face the person who’s strolled over and is leaning against the side of the table. I look up at him, and my heart stops for a moment. “Luca!” Andrea says, echoing Leonardo. “Finalmente!” “This is Luca, our friend,” Leonardo says happily as I think: Luca. Finally. “Ciao,” Luca says, nodding at us, his long legs stretched out, crossed at the ankles. He’s wearing a dark blue shirt tucked into black jeans, and silver rings on a couple of his long fingers, the cigarette held loosely between them. His inky hair tumbles over his forehead, and I see, with a shock like a knife to the chest, that his eyes, heavily fringed with thick black lashes, are the midnight blue of sapphires or deep seawater. I can’t speak.

I look up at him, and my heart stops for a moment. “Luca!” Andrea says, echoing Leonardo. “Finalmente!” “This is Luca, our friend,” Leonardo says happily as I think: Luca. Finally. “Ciao,” Luca says, nodding at us, his long legs stretched out, crossed at the ankles. He’s wearing a dark blue shirt tucked into black jeans, and silver rings on a couple of his long fingers, the cigarette held loosely between them. His inky hair tumbles over his forehead, and I see, with a shock like a knife to the chest, that his eyes, heavily fringed with thick black lashes, are the midnight blue of sapphires or deep seawater. I can’t speak.

Coaching me in the Venetian pronunciation, he explained that the word itself was a local invention. In La Serenissima’s glittering heyday, correspondents signed letters, “Il Suo schiavo” (“your slave”). Meeting on the street, acquaintances would bow and repeat the same ingratiating words. However, in the Venetian dialect, which softens the hard sound of sch (pronounced sk in other regions) to a chewy sh (as in “show”), Suo schiavo came out sciao, which melted into ciao as it migrated to other parts of Italy.

That’s the journal on your chair, right?” he holds out a hand, demanding to see it. “Show me this list.” I grab it and turn directly to the page with the list. He takes it from me and holds out his hand again. “Pen?” I eye him curiously but he doesn’t say anything, so I hand the pen over too. He makes a humming sound in his throat as he studies my handwriting, then says, “Ciao.” When I don’t respond, he says it again and holds out his hand for me to shake. “Sono Darren.” My eyes widen when I realize what he’s doing. “Ciao. Sono Pippa.” He squeezes my hand. “Che bel nome, Pippa.” I blush because I can’t help myself. He thinks my name is pretty. And I forgot how hot it is when he speaks Italian. “Grazie.” “Arrivederci.” I wave as if we really are going to part ways. “Arrivederci.” Darren clicks the pen into action and strikes though “Have a conversation with someone in only Italian.” It wasn’t exactly my original plan, and it’s elementary at best, but it had a beginning, middle, and end. And summer’s not over yet, so I’m counting it.

Ciao,” I correct myself, vowing to get it right next time.

Mientras Lucca se duchaba aproveché para interactuar en mis redes. Los comentarios desagradables sobre mi peso habían ido desapareciendo, aunque en TikTok siempre había algún descerebrado que criticaba mi contenido. Era algo que no se entendía: si no te gusta no mires, ¡es tan sencillo...! Pero claro, esa gente no daba para más. Como dice Dani Rovira en su monólogo 'Odio', esa gente no tiene todos los patitos en fila en su cabeza. A veces pienso que no sabemos la suerte que tenemos con toda esta tecnología a nuestro alcance. ¿Y para qué la usamos? Para poner verde a una serie de personas que no conocemos. Para escondernos tras un perfil falso y hacer daño. Para insultar gratuitamente sin saber las consecuencias de nuestras palabras. En TikTok e Instagram la gente crea contenido porque le gusta, porque entretiene o simplemente porque le apetece. ¿Qué razones tenemos para acribillar a alguien, a su trabajo, a su manera de ser o de bailar? Es increíble, pero la empatía brilla por su ausencia.

My dad always told me that everything was clear when you were out on the water.

Vuoi deciderti oppure no?" "Ma non posso. Non so perchè mi sento così in colpa..." "Be' è ovvio, ti senti in colpa perchè è la prima volta che fai qualcosa per te e soltanto per te. (...) Almeno tu puoi prendere una decisione. Io no. Come sempre, ho lasciato che la vita decidesse per me. (...) L'unica cosa che ci separa dalla felicità è la paura del cambiamento." (...) "Sapete ragazze? Sono stufa di essere quella forte. A volte ho l'impressione di esistere solo per far sentire meglio gli altri: a partire da mia madre, dalle mie sorelle, dal mio ufficio... Ciao sono Casandra, non preoccuparti, non ti darò problemi, anzi, non ne ho, ma puoi darmi i tuoi".

gave her a commando look that Leo found kind of hot—and then immediately felt guilty about. Next to her sat her boyfriend Frank Zhang, dressed in black workout pants and a Roman tourist T-shirt that said CIAO! (was that even a word?). Frank’s old centurion badge was pinned to his shirt, despite the fact that the demigods of the Argo II were now Public Enemies Numbers 1 through 7 back at Camp Jupiter. His grim expression just reinforced his unfortunate

Imbu de sa personne, s’imagine charmeur et parle autant avec la bouche qu’avec les mains. Italien.

He didn’t want to leave, and yet his chest hurt because this felt like goodbye. Like a real goodbye. The kind people said when they knew they’d never resurface. The kind that happened in this brutal, unforgiving world where a man, upon realizing there was a price on his head and a red dot on his chest, would often just surrender. Perhaps out of honor, perhaps out of the realization that there was no escape, so why run? Perhaps out of relief, as if this were the closest to suicide their god would allow. Make it quick. Make it count. Ciao. Why the hell did this feel like that? But

Deborah se ne stava pigramente seduta sul pavimento del reparto in attesa di Anterrabae, quando vide Carla venire verso di lei. "Ciao, Deb...". "Carla? Non pensavo tu fossi quassù". Carla pareva esausta: "Deb...Non ne posso più dell'odio che ho dentro! Ho deciso di venire quassù così posso urlare e sbraitare fino a perdere la voce". Si guardarono sorridendo: sapevano benissimo che il reparto D non era poi il "peggiore", era soltanto il più onesto. Gli altri reparti avevano uno "status" da conservare e una forma da mantenere. Chi sta sul ciglio dell'inferno è terrorizzato dal diavolo, ma per coloro che sono già all'inferno il diavolo è soltanto una persona come le altre, niente di speciale. Nei reparti A e B i sintomi venivano appena bisbigliati, si prendevano i sedativi nel terrore dei rumori forti, del dolore manifesto e della disperazione autentica. Le donne del reparto D oscillavano come navi in mare aperto ma erano libere dai modi subdoli e perfidi di chi tiene nascosta la pazzia.

word ciao comes from. (If you must know, it’s an abbreviation of a phrase used by medieval Venetians as an intimate salutation: Sono il suo schiavo! Meaning: “I am your slave!”)

Ciao Chico! Vieni qui per favore,

smile. “But as your friend, I strongly recommend you change into something that doesn’t suggest you have a grocery cart of aluminum cans parked next to a cardboard box in a nearby alley. Whatever you decide, I’ll be right here.” He patted the arm of the chair. “And you’ve got twenty minutes.” Before I could open my

I found a note he'd left behind entitled 'Ciao': One just keeps saying, 'No...No...No...' Head bowed, hat in hand, A cringing, cunning little step back, With each dialectical evasion, Retreating, receding, 'no...no...no...' Until one simply disappears...

…Similar to the way we loved each other. I do miss our time together in Italy. It’s been great fun. Did you keep in contact with Andy after your departure from the Sekham? There is so much to catch up on, I don’t know where to begin. For now I’ll say Ciao to my ex- “Grande Fratello” (“Big Brother”) Oscar! Love, Young.

«Davvero, Else, non vuoi più giocare?». - «No, Paul, non me la sento più. Ciao.

pièce de résistance,

Love this quotation I just read: “Ciao,” the girl said. Fuck you, ciao. Ciao was the way Katherine and her friends said good-bye and it always struck her as a perfect symbol of their attempts to be what they weren’t.

Looking forward to it, bro. Ciao.” Nick shook his head. Tomas was organized and lived his life by a strict routine; they couldn’t be any more different. Sometimes it was hard to believe they came from the same family and the news that he had met someone was no surprise. Tomas always said he would marry by thirty-five.

ciao Lu

Ciao, tesoro. I have been waiting so long for you.

We take the original plays of William Shakespeare and Christopher Marlowe, and Markus gives them . . . well, the necessary polish.” “Aren’t the plays good enough by themselves?” Barbara asked. “Well, for the general public they’re sometimes just too difficult and dry, so we cut out the long monologues and concentrate on the funny parts and, above all, the bloody passages. Many of the pieces have not yet been translated into German, and Markus takes care of that, as well.” “I butcher Shakespeare’s plays by turning them into bloody spectacles for the masses,” Markus sighed in despair. “Carefully constructed pentameter, beautiful images—for that the world clearly has no taste nowadays. The more blood, the better. But I myself have written original pieces that—” “Yes, yes,” Malcolm interrupted, “that would be enough to make Shakespeare cry, I know—or simply put him to sleep. I’m afraid you’re boring the ladies, Markus. Just like your plays. We can’t afford experiments. After all, I have a whole troupe to feed,” he said, clapping his hands. “But now it’s time to get back to building the stage. Will you excuse us?” He bowed to Magdalena and Barbara and stomped off toward the stage, but not without first casting a final, reproachful look at his two actors. “Old slave driver,” Markus mumbled and followed him, while Matheo paused a moment and winked at Barbara. “Then can we look forward to seeing you again at tomorrow’s performance? We’ll save a few seats for you up in the gallery. Ciao, signorine.” “Ciao,” Barbara said, batting her eyelashes as Matheo, in one single, flowing movement, jumped back onto the stage. Magdalena grinned at her sister. “Ciao?” she asked. “Is that the way a Schongau hangman’s daughter says good-bye, or are you an Italian contessa addressing her prince just before their wedding?

I met myself there, too. I met part of myself that I never would have known if I hadn’t gone.

Because what I learned from him is that love isn’t something that you find or that finds you—love is something you gift

yourself. You design it. You decide who you are going to love and who will have the privilege of loving you back. Once I understood that, I met the person who I knew brought out the best in me. And I chose to love him because of that. Day after day we choose each other, and that’s the kind of love that strengthens you. That stays with you.

But no matter what I do, I always get in my own way. And as sad as it is, sometimes it almost feels good to hate myself. It’s just so easy.

Soprattutto, l’umano è la verità! Tutte le strade portano alla gente. Bella ciao, è ora di svegliarsi alla vita! Divisione e divinità non possono andare insieme.

Marco just polished off his third espresso, so he’s walking that flirty line between happily energized and possessed by a demon.

His soft touches drive me to push against him harder, needing more friction to take the edge off. Before I know it, I’m turning frantic—tugging at Matt’s black T-shirt until it’s off and flying across the room. When I lean down again, Matt lifts me higher, lining my chest up with his face. He slips a hand up to cup a breast and moves his mouth to the other. His tongue circles and tastes and there’s no stopping my quiet but lusciously tortured groan. My hands fist into the sheets as he switches positions, giving my other breast equally tantalizing attention. He seems like he can go on like this forever when I finally pull back, ready to scream in such a good way when my clouded eyes find his.

A man that keeps Ana Decretan as his intimate, who is sick over the table of her entertainers while Galvao Arcadian fights her battles in Far Madinabia, might well consider degeneracy a type of friendship," he said. "You, who keep your people in bondage with madness or with lies and call that government, might well consider going to your knees a type of friendship. But Ciao is of a different substance - and what you hold in your had will always be anathema to it.

I believe that we shocked each other by how swiftly we went from being the people who knew each other best in the world to being a pair of the most mutually incomprehensible strangers who ever lived. But it was vital to my survival to have a one bedroom of my own i saw the aprtment almost as a sanatorium a hospice clinci for my own recovery I painted the walls in the warmest colors i could find and bought myself flowers every week as if i were visiting myself in the hospital is this lifetime supposed to be only about duty why are you studying Italian so that just in case Italy ever invades Ethiopia again and is actually successful this time? ciao comes from if you must know it's an abbreviation of a phrase used by medieval venetians as an intimate salutation Sono il Suo Schiavo meaning i am your slave. om Naamah Shivaya meaning I honor the divinity that resides whin me. I wanted to experience both , I wanted worldly enjoyment and divine transcendence the dual glories of a human life I wanted what the Greeks called kalos kai agathos the singular balance of the good and he beautiful I'd been missing both during these last hard years because both pleasure and devotion require a stress free space in which to flourish and I'd been living in a giant trash compactor of nonstop anxiety , As for how to balance the urge for pleasure against the longing for devotion. four feet on the ground a head full of foliage looking at the world through the heart. it was more than I wanted to toughly explore one aspect of myself set against the backdrop of each country in a place that has traditionally done that one thing very well. same guatemalan musicians are always playing id rather be a sparrow than a snail on their bamboo windpipes oh how i want italian to open itself up to me i havent felt so starved for comprehension since then dal centro della mia vita venne una grande fontanana dolce sitl nuovo Dante wrote his divine comedy in terza rima triple rhyme a chain of rhymes with each rhyme repeating here times every five lines. lamor che move il sole e laltre stelle we are the masters of bel far niente larte darrangiarsi The reply in italy to you deserve a break today would probably be yeah no duh that's why I'm planning on taking a break at noon to go over to your house and sleep with your wife, I walked home to my apartment and soft-boiled a pair of fresh brown eggs for my lunch i peeled the eggs and arranged them on a plate beside the seven stalks of the asparagus (which were so slim and snappy they didn't need to be cooked at all,)I put some olives on the plate too and the four knobs of goat cheese I'd picked up yesterday from the fromagerie down the street tend two slices of pink oily salmon for dessert a lovely peach which the woman at the market had given to me for free and which was still warm form the roman sunlight for the longest time I couldn't even touch this food because it was such a masterpiece of lunch a true expression of the art of making something out of nothing finally when i had fully absorbed the prettiness of my meal i went and sat in apatch of sunbeam on my clean wooden floor and ate every bit of it with my fingers while reading my daily newspaper article in Italian happiness inhabited my every molecule. I am inspired by the regal self assurance of this town so grounded and rounded so amused and monumental knowing that she is held securely in the palm of history i would like to be like rome when i am an old lady. I linger over my food and wine for many hours because nobody in

schiavo,” from a Venetian dialect. “Ciao,” as it is more commonly spelt, does not mean “hello”; it means “I am your slave.”32

love isn’t something that you find or that finds you—love is something you gift yourself. You design it. You decide who you are going to love and who will have the privilege of loving you back. Once I understood that, I met the person who I knew brought out the best in me. And I chose to love him because of that. Day after day we choose each other, and that’s the kind of love that strengthens you. That stays with you.

Heat is spreading in the pit of my stomach, and I lower myself down for another haze-inducing kiss. My chest brushes against his as I slowly start to rock forward and backward. Considering how thin my tank top is, there might as well be nothing there. I sit up and pull the flimsy piece of fabric over my head, tossing it onto the sheets beside me and basking in the dazed look that crosses Matt’s face. His hands drift higher, pressing down on the small of my back, then returning to where they were—only this time slipping under my shorts and panties. I suck in an uneven breath as the pads of his fingers tease and tickle my bare skin.

Vedere le tue parole, scritte di tuo pugno, con cui mi dici che mi hai donato il tuo cuore, che mi ami, mi fa sentire così pieno di gioia che potrei scoppiare. A Woodstock mi hai mostrato che era possibile. Che potevo essere felice, che potevo trovare qualcuno che mi capisse e che volesse stare con me. Non avevo mai creduto sarebbe successo. Pensavo che fosse una cosa che non meritavo, che non avrei mai avuto la possibilità di amare qualcuno e di essere ricambiato. Mi sono innamorato di te quando hai deciso di sederti di fronte a me in quella tavola calda. Quando mi hai chiesto di venire con te e il tuo gruppo di amici. Quando hai cambiato la mia vita. Proprio in quel momento. Forse non lo sapevo, allora, ma con il senno di poi ho capito che quando mi hai detto “ciao” quella prima volta il mio cuore era già tuo. Mi hai fatto sentire come se potessi fare tutto, e mi hai guardato come non aveva mai fatto nessuno prima. Hai visto il vero me

Seduto sul bancone, Viv sollevò un braccio a schermarsi gli occhi dalla luce.Carlos si era già bloccato sulla soglia, preso in contropiede: non si era aspettato di trovare nessuno in cucina. E sicuramente non si era aspettato di trovarci Vivian.«Ciao.»C’era sempre qualcosa di inafferrabile in quel ragazzino: una morbidezza che era anche affilata, schegge che non potevi prevedere. Il suo sguardo, mentre lo studiava da sotto le ciglia, era sfuggente e ipnotico; azzurrissimo, distante, freddo. Quando abbassò la mano, la manica della maglia scivolò ad accumularsi intorno al polso poggiato sul bancone, scoprendogli la spalla; Carlos guardò la sua clavicola – una disattenzione improvvisa, brevissima – e poi voltò in fretta la testa.«Cosa ci facevi qui al buio?» domandò, in tono più burbero di quanto avrebbe voluto. Il cartone di pizza era poggiato accanto a lui, a venti centimetri dalla sua coscia. Con un gesto pigro, calcolato, Viv allungò il braccio a spingerlo verso Carlos, poi mosse la testa per tirarsi indietro i capelli.«Non ero al buio,» rispose. «Soltanto non avevo acceso la luce. Hai fame?»«Potrei mangiare,» ammise lui, controvoglia.Un angolo delle labbra di Viv si sollevò in una piega ironica. «Mi raccomando, eh. Sempre entusiasta.»Carlos avrebbe potuto chiedere scusa. L’avrebbe fatto, probabilmente, se si fosse trattato di qualunque altra persona. Viv non era una persona qualunque, però, e il suo magnetismo sembrava mandare in crisi ogni bussola: le loro interazioni deragliavano sempre in una navigazione confusa. Si limitò a sollevare il coperchio del cartone, ne estrasse un paio di fette e le posò sul primo piatto che gli capitò a tiro

Hello! Hallo! Salut! Ciao! Hola! Hi! Bonjour! Cześć! Ola! Kon'nichiwa! Szia! Irrespective of the language you speak a greeting is a sign of respect. Do not forget to say hello my dear friends

Writing this book has made me realize more than ever how true it is that, "The truth will set you free!

In writing this book I finally realize the wisdom in the words, "The truth will set you free!

La vie sans filtre est plus difficile à assumer

Ciao

Benno recalled how Lucy had sighed when Tom had said—well, Benno couldn’t actually remember what he had said, that’s how incredibly not funny his comment was, but he remembered clearly how she gazed admiringly at the person Benno now realized was a snake in the grass, a wolf in sheep’s clothing, a— “Hey, Benno!” He looked up to see Tom, the person he now hated more than anyone in the world, waving cheerfully at him from the sidelines. Benno picked up the ball and trotted over, trying to look casual and elegant, like the best players on the Italian national team. This effect was ruined when he stepped on a small rut in the field, tripped, and dropped the ball. “Ciao, Tom,” he called out. “Come stai?” As usual, Tom was flummoxed by this most basic Italian greeting. Benno imagined that he could actually hear the wheels in Tom’s brain turning as he tried to remember the correct response.

«Ciao io sono Davide e sono down, tu?» «Io... be', no, niente, io... sono qui per...» e stavo per indicare mio fratello, ma lui mi interruppe. «Niente? Maddai. Impossibile. Tutti sono disabili. Ci sarà qualcosa che non sai fare». Ci pensai un attimo poi dissi: «Non so stirare». «Ah sì!» fece lui sorridendo. «La stirosindrome. Meglio essere down che avere la stirosindrome». «Perché?» «Come perché? Tu ce l'hai il sussidio?» «No». «Io sì. Lo Stato mi paga per essere down e io non devo fare nulla. Capito? I down sono il futuro».

Ciao, papa,” she said in as deadpan a voice as she could manage. “You look very well this evening. Quite dashing.” He couldn’t help himself; he glanced down and preened for just a moment before he remembered that this was his daughter speaking. She hadn’t said anything that wasn’t sarcastic since she turned thirteen. He felt a touch of nostalgia for the twelve-year-old Silvia, who had prepared her bedroom walls with photos of clean-cut pop stars and cute puppies, who had begged to go to work with him just so they could be together, who had blushed if a neighbor chided her for being too loud . . . But that Silvia was gone. In her place was this, this alien who said everything with a sneer and eyed him disdainfully and made him feel like the oldest, most ridiculous man on earth. “More to the point, I am dressed appropriately,” he said. He realized that he was gritting his teeth. He remembered what his dentist had said about cracked molars, and made a conscious effort to relax his jaw. “You, on the other hand—” He glanced at the tattoo and closed his eyes in pain. “The invitation said formal,” she said, innocently. Her face darkened as she remembered that she had a grievance of her own. “I wanted to buy a new dress for this party, but you said it would cost too much! You said that the babies needed new high chairs! You said that our family now had different financial priorities! And this is the only formal dress I have, remember?” “Yes, and I also remember that there used to be a bit more of it!” her father hissed. Silvia glanced down complacently. “I know,” she said. “I altered it myself. It’s an original design.” “Original.” Her father glared at her. “You’ll be lucky not to be charged with indecent exposure. And if you are”—he gave her a warning look—“don’t expect any favors just because you’re the mayor’s daughter!” Silvia ignored this comment with the disdain it deserved. First, she never told anyone she was the mayor’s daughter. Second, her father was not, by any stretch of the imagination, an authority on fashion. She curled her lip at his tuxedo (which was vintage, but not in a good way), his high-heeled shoes (which kept making him lose his balance), and that scarlet sash (which made him look like an extra in a second-rate opera company). “Fine,” she said loftily. “If the police arrest me, I will plead guilty to having a unique and inventive fashion sense.” He remembered what his wife had said about keeping his temper and forced himself to smile.

Na televiziji prikazuju Talijane kako na balkonima pivaju „Bella Ciao“. Oči mi se napune suzama. Nisan sigurna zbog čega. Mislin da se radi o tome da ta pisma podsjeća na sve revolucije koje su nas pojile. I na sve one koje nismo ni pokrenili, a tribali smo. Makar bili izideni.

Shouting "Ciao!" in the rosy middle-fucking-fingered dawn.

Ma, she’s nineteen … no, Ma, listen to me ... Ma, she’s not the devil. She’s NOT trying to kill you.” Seriously? If anyone overheard my end of this phone conversation, they would assume my mother was insane. She might be teetering, but who was I to question her sanity? After all, she did raise three girls. Okay, maybe she had a little more work to do with Mercedes, but close enough. “I have to go, Ma, I’m at work … yes, I will speak to her, promise … I really have to go … Ma … Ma, I. Have. To. Go … Love you, too. Ciao.” Mercedes strikes again. I ended the call and rolled my eyes toward the ceiling. I loved my family to death, but they bordered certifiable. And even though my baby sister should probably be labeled an angel, navigating peer pressure, college, and boyfriends all under Alonzo and Cecilia Chiappetti’s roof, I could also see my parents’ side. I may have talked her out of branding herself with a car insignia, but I guess in her mind an eyebrow ring didn’t seem as permanent.

Ciao, ragazzi!” Paige is saying to a couple of smooth-skinned, darkly tanned boys who’ve got up the courage to approach her. “Ciao, bella!” one says back eagerly. Oh, I think wistfully, if we could all be as light and easygoing as Paige, the world would be a much happier place! Paige wouldn’t have thought twice about it if she’d spotted a portrait that looked just like her in a museum! She’d have said “Cool,” taken a photo, made it her Facebook profile for a few weeks, and then forgotten about it completely. She’s not only the queen of this beach, she’s the queen of living in the moment, not worrying about things she can’t control. That’s what you should be doing, Violet, I tell myself. Live in the moment, okay? Stop looking over at your phone on the lounger, wondering if Mum’s about to ring or text. You’re in Venice on the beach in the summer sunshine! Enjoy it! Paige and her new friends are throwing around a big stripy ball, the boys’ lean bodies jumping and twisting in the air like slim brown dolphins, Paige’s boobs jiggling in a way the boys doubtless intended when they produced the ball. The lifeguard’s attention is so focused on the contents of her bikini top that a whole family could be eaten by sharks, screaming for help, without his having the faintest idea. Live in the moment. “Hey,” I yell. “Chuck it to me!” And I run up the wet sand toward them.

Ciao, Violetta.” The sound of his voice, low and almost caressing, is such a shock that for a moment I think I’ve hallucinated hearing it. But as I jerk my head back, I see his shoes, his jeans, and swiftly I swing my legs under me, scrabbling for a foothold in the squishy mud of the riverbank, digging in my toes, and stand up waist-high in the water. Luca has bent his long legs now, and is sitting down in front of me, halfway down the bank on a stone outcropping, so we’re almost level. I stare at him, still disbelieving. “It was you!” I blurt out, and then feel stupid. “Cosa?” He lifts his dark brows. I can see his face clearly in the moonlight, the pale skin, the perfect bone structure, the black lock of hair that falls over his forehead, inky-dark. “Before,” I say. “Up by the club. You were smoking.” He nods. “Which you think is a disgusting habit,” he observes, amusement in his voice. “Yes, I do,” I say firmly, glad of the way the conversation is going; ticking him off is much easier than…anything else. “It’s revolting. Schifoso,” I add, having learned the word in Italian. “Bene.” He pulls the packet from his jeans pocket, raises it to show me, and then, quite unexpectedly, releases it, his long fingers empty, the packet falling into the river beside me. “No more cigarettes,” he says. “Since you say they are schifoso.” “You’re stopping? Just like that?” I fish out the packet before it becomes so waterlogged it sinks, and put it on the grass. He shrugs. “Perchè no?” I swallow. “You shouldn’t just throw things in the water like that. It’s bad for the environment,” I say, sticking with the severe, ticked-off voice, as it makes me feel safe. If I lose this voice with him, I’m in much deeper, more dangerous waters than this pretty little river. “Mi scusi,” he says lightly, an apology with not a flicker of contrition in his voice. “You are good for me, Violetta. The only one who tells me when I do wrong.” When he calls me by the Italian version of my name, I can’t help it: I feel like I’m melting. Dissolving, helpless, gone.

Ciao, Violetta.” The sound of his voice, low and almost caressing, is such a shock that for a moment I think I’ve hallucinated hearing it. But as I jerk my head back, I see his shoes, his jeans, and swiftly I swing my legs under me, scrabbling for a foothold in the squishy mud of the riverbank, digging in my toes, and stand up waist-high in the water. Luca has bent his long legs now, and is sitting down in front of me, halfway down the bank on a stone outcropping, so we’re almost level. I stare at him, still disbelieving. “It was you!” I blurt out, and then feel stupid. “Cosa?” He lifts his dark brows. I can see his face clearly in the moonlight, the pale skin, the perfect bone structure, the black lock of hair that falls over his forehead, inky-dark.

All over Italy, when they meet, people say to each other, “schiavo,” from a Venetian dialect. “Ciao,” as it is more commonly spelt, does not mean “hello”; it means “I am your slave.”32

Ciao, Ciao ... money in the bank!

I wonder if it’s typical in Italy for shopkeepers to randomly see into your soul.

Ciao, Bruno!” someone calls from a boat puttering slowly into the marina. A hard line sets Bruno’s jaw for a split second before he smiles and turns. “Ciao, Mauro!” Bruno shouts back. Mauro? I lift my camera back up to my eye and zoom in to the white- and red-trimmed boat. It’s definitely the same scumbag from a few days ago. He’s glaring at me, but I click a picture anyway. Just in case I need to identify him in a lineup.