Enrico

Italian

Just call me Enrico. It is not my real name; I just thought it sounded good. I changed some small details in my biography, mostly to preserve a certain measure of anonymity. Other than that, I am real. For the purpose of this discussion, I chose to be Italian.

I grew up poor, in a suburb of Milan. What motivated me to migrate, was the utopia of little government and low taxes, a diversity of ideas and unlimited personal freedom. Opportunity. The "American Dream" as defined by Steve Jobs and Hugh Hefner and the Hunt brothers, and the innumerable colorful characters who changed the world by refusing to conform.

I love my country of origin. I love Europe. Unfortunately, I was fed up with both. There was too much stagnation. No room for me.

I was cruising the Corso Vittorio Emmanuel in Milan late one night, close to La Scala and the Piazza del Duomo. It was cold. I watched two beautiful women hanging out. They seemed about twenty to twenty-five, were tall, had long hair and dark eyes and looked extremely sexy. They seemed cold too.

They might have been aspiring fashion models trying to make a living on the side by selling sex to businessmen. But that did not bother me in the least. It is a competitive world. And rents are high in Milan.

I was fascinated by the women. But I did not have the guts to go up to them and talk to them. Instead, I gazed through the window of a classy boutique and studied a Gianni Versace poster inside. I was wondering what it would take to get to know those women. I dreamed of founding my own fashion empire. Had I been rich and in the glamour business, I would have had something to offer them. Lots of diposable income. The ability to launch their careers. Or simply, something interesting to talk about. But right then, I felt powerless. I was no more than a dreamer.

A white Ferrari pulled up. I hadn't heard it earlier, for the engine was totally smooth and I was still dreaming up my fashion empire. The car stopped by the women and the driver rolled down his window. He looked very laid-back. He started talking to them, and they laughed. They conversed for some time. They were flirting.

The passenger door of the Ferrari opened. Both women stepped in. They wore tight jeans, long sweaters, leather jackets and had really sweet faces. I wondered how you manage to squeeze three people in a Ferrari. They drove off.

I was wondering what they would be up to. I badly wanted to be the driver of that Ferrari.

I decided I could not delay living my life any longer. I wanted new experiences. Meeting new people. I needed to expand my horizons. I needed to make a fortune. It was not that I cared that much about money. I just felt irresistibly attracted to the opportunities a lot of money brings.

A few years later, one very hot and humid August afternoon, I landed in Houston, Texas. When I stepped out of the air-conditioned airport and the 100 degree-plus wet air hit me in the face, I knew that I was there to stay. I took a Greyhound bus to meet my destiny.

My timing was wrong. I was born a decade or two too late. The America I found is not the America I read about. It is a great place, but it is no more the socially progressive nation I had come to expect. The United States are going through a transformation. America seems to be doubting itself, longing for some nostalgic rural past.

It all started with the scare of AIDS. People freaked out, the Sexual Revolution derailed. The baby-boomers got old prematurely. The rebels of the Sixties, the ones who dreamed of a new and better world, caved in. As soon as they got children of their own, they too fell into the trap of conformity. Once, they refused to trust anyone over thirty. Today, they have become afraid of their own kids, and are trying to rewrite history to avoid admitting they were ever young and wild.

Political correctness has appeared out of nowhere. There are sexual harassment lawsuits. Religious fanatics. Conservative politicians, budget deficits and bureaucrats. The most dynamic society in the world seems to be reverting to a paranoid and irrational conservatism.

My life has turned out somewhat differently than expected. I am not in the fashion business, at least for now. I stumbled into high tech instead. That is where the action is today, it seems. Semiconductors don't have the sex appeal of the fashion world, but they are a very profitable business.

I married a great woman. I am the father of two, and live in a suburb with a distinguished area code. Life is full of surprises... But at least, I don't go to church very often, and I still think a lot.

I have traveled, and seen a decent chunk of the world. But I still have the urge to learn more. I want to understand the people around me.

I am still the same person I was back in Milan, that evening with the Ferrari. There is one difference, though. Today, in principle, I could walk into a dealership, choose myself a Ferrari and write a check for it.

So far, I have not. I started realizing that the important thing is not to actually own that Ferrari, but to know that you could own it if you chose to.

Yet, I still ask myself: if today I were to run into the two women who were walking the streets of Milan that one night, would I go up to them? Would I feel like I had something to talk about this time?