Micro

Sometimes what we remember from our childhood is confused with the stories other people tell us. A micro narration in a minute or so.TRANSCRIPTI remember exactly the day Kennedy was shot. My mother was wearing a black twin-set of jumpers, it was probably spring, or autumn, and we were watching television, and my mother was crying. I wasn’t even born the day that Kennedy was shot,

You loved each other for a month, then he had to fly back to Melbourne. In days when you could only write letters and, very very rarely, place extra-continental phone calls, finally seeing each other was scary. A micro narration in a minute or so.TRANSCRIPTThe flight to Melbourne has been very long. She knew it in advance, but still, she feels exhausted and overwhelmed with fears,

When she travels alone on a tram, sometimes she is taken by a sudden notion.A micro narration in a minute or so.TRANSCRIPTI envy all those women sitting together on trams, mothers and daughters, pushing prams and carrying bags, laughing and talking secrets. We never shared secrets, my mother and I, but I am living abroad and I miss her nevertheless. I see her in her best dress, wal

When I moved from Melbourne to Italy I was faced with a difficult decision: take my cat Ombra with me, submitting her to a gruelling 26-hour flight and forcing her to live in a flat, or entrust her to my dear friends who offered to give Ombra love, care and a huge garden with trees and sheds and bush. It was one of the most difficult decisions I had to make, but I knew that it was

I met Amelia at an Italian feminist group in Berlin: young Italian women having the time of their lives free from families and judgments. Amelia came from Rome and arrived without a word of German but with a huge belly that she flaunted like a flag. We met once a week and laughed, run, danced, smoked and drank until the early hours. We had known each other just for a few months whe

The word 'expat' brings to mind lattes, laptops and wi-fi. But that's not the full story. A micro narration in a minute or so.TRANSCRIPTWhite, western, educated, privileged people. I mean, as a woman I am a little less privileged, but still – I cannot complain. There is a name to describe people like me, we are not migrants, we are expats. Sounds so much better, don’t you agree

Walking through East Berlin was never just a stroll, before the Wall came down. A micro narration in a minute or so.TRANSCRIPTBack then I only had this... feeling, something was different but I didn’t know what. It was the colours, a lack of colours on the streets like you only see in a black and white movie. I know it now, crossing Alexander Platz and squinting my eyes and tryin

There are unwritten rules that people are supposed to know without anyone ever telling them what they are and how they work. A micro narration in a minute or so.TRANSCRIPTI’m sorry. I am really sorry. I didn’t mean to. I don’t know, it would be great if there were an instruction manual that they give you when you migrate to a new country, you know, just a page, something, wit

I arrived at Braunau that I had just graduated with a thesis on German exile literature during the twelve years of the dictatorship, so you can appreciate my curiosity. A micro narration in a minute or so.TRANSCRIPTIt’s raining. It must be around 11am. I’m hiding inside the sleeping bag, inside the tent, listening. It has been raining since I arrived here, last night, and I sti

Sometimes an object out of place becomes the only thing in place. A very small narration, hardly a story. A micro narration in a minute or so.TRANSCRIPTThere is an old amplifier in my grandmother’s backyard. I’ve asked, but nobody knows how it ended up there. My grandmother’s backyard is not a place where you would expect to find an amplifier. Hens live inside it. In the back