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I would like to preface my story by saying that I really love my adopted country. The people are warm and full of life. Nothing in the following story is meant to give offense. The Italian bureaucracy has a long established, world-wide reputation, and I was not its first nor will I be its last victim.

The following story is true. While I’m sure that these things happen to other people as well as to me, I believe that they happen more often to me. Perhaps that’s a function of trying to learn and do as many things as possible before I die. I have always been in a hurry to experience life. I remember when I was a child, my mother telling me to slow down because there would be nothing left for me to do when I grew up. (She was wrong). This illustrates my first encounter with the ITALIAN BUREAUCRACY (Burocrazia Intensa). This is the saga of Gershwin’s first trip to Italy:

And so now I write. Actually, I have written in some form for a good part of my life. I remember my first published story. I was nine years old. The story was about a weenie roast (what would now be referred to as a backyard barbecue). But we called it a weenie roast. It consisted of hot dogs and Boston Baked Beans that my mother made. The beans and white bread were the only two things she ever cooked well as I recall. Anyway, it was a 4th of July weenie roast and for some reason that I don’t recall, I wanted to write a story about it. I don’t remember anything about the story but my mother thought it was good enough to be published. She was a writer and had written many little stories that were published in Catholic magazines. She submitted it to one of those magazines and it was published. The reason I really remember it was because I received a letter from a girl in Canada who had read the story and was horrified that we were eating meat on Friday!