All expats have stories about bureaucracy in Italy, right? And an expat-living-in-Italy blog wouldn't be complete without one, right? Well, no need to worry any longer. Requisite Italian bureaucracy story, part the first, below.
"Si, buongiorno, vorrei cambiare l'intestazione delle bollette dell'internet," I say brightly. I have just mumbled this sentence to myself a few times to work out all the kinks (do you see all those double L's? Not so simple to pronounce, you know, especially in conjunction with the R of 'internet').
The fact that I get the whole thing out succesfully puts me in a good mood and I smile into the phone, despite the fact that, really, I am meant to be annoyed. All I'm trying to do is change the name on our internet bill from my ex-flatmate's to mine, and make it so that we get the bill by mail rather than having it be automatically deducted from her bank account. Okay, so, maybe it's a little complicated, but we filled out a form and faxed it in.
Last June.
Now it is mid-October (or was, when this all took place).
"Un attimo," says the other guy. I am clutching the paper with my information on it in one hand and pressing the receiver to my ear with the other, as if that will help me understand the guy. Half of my brain is thinking 'please don't let him have a weird accent, like from Puglia or something'. The other half is reciting my codice fiscale to itself.
Italian bureaucracy, I am so ready for you.
"Si, let me put you through to the commercial department," says the man on the other end. A crappy, tinny-sounding version of Vivaldi starts up. I sigh and put the paper with my codice fiscale on it back on the table, flexing my fingers. I roll my eyes across the room at the secretary, who is playing solitaire on the computer. Sometimes we are very productive, mid-morning on a Thursday. And sometimes not. She smiles encouragingly.
"Pronto, Michele speaking, come posso aiutarLa?"
I spring back up to the ready, and repeat my spiel. It is getting better with practice. Excellent.
"Ah, si?" says Michele, not sounding particularly interested, "why do you want to do that?"
The explanation is tricky, and I am hesitant to give it, because the more I talk, the more likely they are to figure out that I am a foreigner. This gave us problems with ENEL (the electricity people). But whatever. I do the best I can ("well, then my flatmate went off to spend a year somewhere else on a job placement and I decided to stay in Reggio even though I was really supposed to go back to America so what I really want is for us to have some electricity/internet/gas/water/etc. in the apartment, and...").
"You should send a fax," comments Michele absently.
"Yes, I know. We have," I tell him. "However, if you look at the bills for September and October, you'll notice they've still been taken from [flatmate's name]'s bank account." I give him the account number and the code thingy from the bottom of the bill, impressing myself with my ability to say numbers. (I can count! Yay! Uh.... anyway.)
"Hm. Let me put you through to customer service," he says, apparently having had enough of my reading numbers to him. I kind of vaguely feel like customer service is where I was before, but whatever. I check my email with Vivaldi jingling along in the background.
"Pronto, this is Antonella, how can I help you?"
I am getting so good at this that I don't even take my eyes off my email while I give her the spiel.
"Oh, you should talk to the commercial department for that," she says. "Let me put you through."
I frown at my email. Wasn't I just talking to Michele in the...?
"Hello, this is Francesco in the commercial department, what can I do for you? ... Yes, let me put you through to accounts."
"Wait, but I-"
I go through three or four more departments, interspersed with recommendations to send a fax, before some kind soul finally takes pity on me and emails me a document to send the fax again.
I painstakingly fill it out.
They need a photocopy of my passport, which I forget to bring to school for the ensuing week, until one weekend we come back from a trip to Paris and it happens to still be in my purse. Happy coincidence.
I politely ask our secretary to send the fax for me, as I do not know how to operate the fax machine.
"Still fixing that thing with Tiscali, huh?" she comments.
Indeed.
Also, the fax machine doesn't work. The people in the office across the hall (who are sometimes friendly and helpful and let us use their fax machine and/or steal their wireless connection) are not there.
Three weeks later, there is another happy coincidence and I remember about sending the fax during one of the rare moments when the machine is working.
I feel very productive and happy. Surely from now on, our internet will work swimmingly (not true) and the bills will come to our house (I have yet to see one) and then we will pay them at the post office (in theory) and the world will be a happy place.
"Ciao, Cri!" says my ex-flatmate one day when she calls.
"Ciao!" I say, "how's life?"
We chat for a few moments.
"Hey, by the way, do you know why they're still getting the internet out from my bank account?"
What?
No.
I explain that I sent the fax (again) and spent a whole morning on the phone with the people from Tiscali, but apparently it has not resolved the problem. Which means that I get to spend another morning on the phone with the people from Tiscali tomorrow.
Yay.
On the bright side, I have my codice fiscale totally memorized now.
Thursday, December 9
Wednesday, December 8
Sometimes
Sometimes, your boss is all "oh, so, there's this translation of some dialogue that you should do, if you have time. It's a good opportunity."
Sometimes, you say yes. (Uh, actually, if you're me, you almost always say yes. This is how you end up with lots of crap to do in your life.)
Sometimes, you translate it and unthinkingly send it off, pleased to have done a good job.
Sometimes, it turns out that you were translating what would become the subtitles of a documentary about a [local charity medical place] owned by some very important people, for whose company (not the medical place) you also do a lot of teaching.
Sometimes, the next thing you know, you and your boss are all skyping with the documentary producer in the middle of the night to work out the last little dialogue issues and the secretary of the very important person knows you by name and frequently calls you at work to ask about comma placement on the documentary's DVD jacket cover.
Sometimes, you somehow end up invited to the premiere. This is traumatic, because what the hell does one wear to a premiere when the producer also owns a fashion house? All black, it seems. This requires the finding of a black skirt (because, naturally, mine is in America) and shoes to replace the Thesis Shoes of Awesomeness.
In the end, though, sometimes you totter up to the theater with your boss in heels that are rather too high. "Oh, yeah, the girl who did the translation. Brava," says a dapper looking man. Sometimes dapper looking men turn out to be the owners of major fashion houses and/or the producers of documentaries.
You shake hands and continue on, past directors of hospitals and owners of this and such, and mayors of towns. You sit and watch the thing, surrounded by what would probably be the nobility of Reggio, if there were one.
Sometimes it says your name in the credits under traduzioni. Way down past all the other weird stuff (what's a gaffer?), but still. It's probably the closest you'll ever come to fame. The lights come back on and you stand and walk out and shake hands with various people and smile and try to keep up with who's who and why they're important while a small part of your mind is also dedicated to hoping your skirt is still straight and your hair is still decent.
It's pretty weird.
Sometimes.
Sometimes, you say yes. (Uh, actually, if you're me, you almost always say yes. This is how you end up with lots of crap to do in your life.)
Sometimes, you translate it and unthinkingly send it off, pleased to have done a good job.
Sometimes, it turns out that you were translating what would become the subtitles of a documentary about a [local charity medical place] owned by some very important people, for whose company (not the medical place) you also do a lot of teaching.
Sometimes, the next thing you know, you and your boss are all skyping with the documentary producer in the middle of the night to work out the last little dialogue issues and the secretary of the very important person knows you by name and frequently calls you at work to ask about comma placement on the documentary's DVD jacket cover.
Sometimes, you somehow end up invited to the premiere. This is traumatic, because what the hell does one wear to a premiere when the producer also owns a fashion house? All black, it seems. This requires the finding of a black skirt (because, naturally, mine is in America) and shoes to replace the Thesis Shoes of Awesomeness.
In the end, though, sometimes you totter up to the theater with your boss in heels that are rather too high. "Oh, yeah, the girl who did the translation. Brava," says a dapper looking man. Sometimes dapper looking men turn out to be the owners of major fashion houses and/or the producers of documentaries.
You shake hands and continue on, past directors of hospitals and owners of this and such, and mayors of towns. You sit and watch the thing, surrounded by what would probably be the nobility of Reggio, if there were one.
Sometimes it says your name in the credits under traduzioni. Way down past all the other weird stuff (what's a gaffer?), but still. It's probably the closest you'll ever come to fame. The lights come back on and you stand and walk out and shake hands with various people and smile and try to keep up with who's who and why they're important while a small part of your mind is also dedicated to hoping your skirt is still straight and your hair is still decent.
It's pretty weird.
Sometimes.
Saturday, December 4
Sometimes it's good to be a girl
Did you know that you can keep supermarkets in Italy open past their closing times just by being a girl? Me either, but apparently you can. Even all disheveled after a day's work (a 13 hour day, might I add). I did it just the other day. Very odd.
"... so then, the other thing we should do is create an Excel file... maybe you can get [other teacher] to do that... or otherwise maybe you can do it... or the secretary... anyway, what we should do is..."
I nod into the phone, staring into space. Usually I read and answer emails while I talk to my boss on the phone, especially during the end-of-the-day rundown. It saves time. She can expound at length on semi-relevant topics, and I can get some work done. Today, however, it is 8.52, the supermarket closes in precisely 8 minutes, I have no food in my house, and, having been at work since 7.20 this morning, I have just about lost the will to live.
"Uh-huh," I agree in a rather unenthusiastic monotone. Perhaps she takes this hint as my having lost interest in our conversation (and also the school and our students and really anything not immediately related to getting food in my belly and myself into my bed) because she finally releases me with a cheerful, "okay, thanks! Talk to you tomorrow!"
8.54.
I grab some car keys, hoping no one needs this particular car (the school owns three) tomorrow morning before I do, and hop into the elevator.
8.59.
I pull into the parking lot of the supermarket, where only three other cars are parked, and stride up to the doors, where the security man is ushering someone out.
"Siete chiusi?" I ask. All I really want out of life right now is some pasta, some salad, and my bed. This makes me brave enough to actually talk to the security guy.
"Quasi," he says. He is young and cute. I am at least young-ish, if nothing else. And apparently that's enough. "Cosa devi prendere?" he asks me. (What do you need to get?)
"Some lettuce!" I say, the first thing that springs to mind. What I really want is also some pasta (there is a delicious kind that is stuffed with gorgonzola and honey, by Giovanni Rana, whose numerous commercials on the radio have apparently brainwashed me into buying his stuff.... well, his commercials and my utter laziness and inability to cook). But whatever. If I even just got some lettuce, I could cook some pasta or rice or whatever that I have at home, slap some olive oil and cheese on it, and call it a meal. With both veggies and grains. Which is, you know, lots of the food groups. Right? Or at least two. Whatever.
"Just lettuce?" he says in what sounds suspisciously like a flirty sort of tone. Really? Flirting? Lettuce?
"Yeah, just some lettuce," I say, more because I don't really have any other response. He shouts something at the last open cashier and she rolls her eyes and says yes. He ushers me in.
"Just lettuce!" he says. I nod in agreement, and sprint off to get the lettuce. I do not dare get any pasta as well, because the cashier is a girl and probably not so susceptible to my... uh, just being female, apparently. I will just eat my rice. With some cheese mixed in. And vinegar. Because vinegar makes anything else taste like vinegar, which tastes good. Yes. (See what happens to me when I work 13 hour days begging people not to say things like "yesterday, I am going to Milano"?)
As I sprint off, I catch bits and pieces of the conversation between the guard guy and the cashier.
" .... .... .... ragazza," says he.
"You and the ragazze," says she.
There it is. Sigh.
"Ciao, bella!" he says as I leave.
"Ciao, grazie," I say. It's 9.12.
It's a funny thing, being a girl in Italy. It takes a lot of getting used to, for a foreigner. Especially one of the Anglo-Saxon variety. You get here, and suddenly people are staring at you and whistling at you and shouting "ciao, bella! complimenti!" at you as you walk down the street. People look you up and down and you're all keep your eyes to yourself, dude!
You wonder why they don't have any respect for women. Why do they seem to feel it's okay to completely treat women like objects to be stared at and commented on at will, as if we couldn't hear, or didn't care? I care. I want people to be interested in me for my intelligence, or because they think I'm a good person (whether or not I actually am is a different story, but still). Not because I'm shaped like a girl or have lighter hair than them. (Apparently medium brown = bionda, in Italy.)
But then, women are apparently allowed to retire five years earlier than men because "la mamma e sacra". They hold doors open for you and ask for permission before taking off their suit jackets in your presence. They walk you home at night. And they'll keep the supermarket open 12 minutes past closing time on a Thursday night if you tell them that you just got out of work and want some lettuce.
Weird, no?
"... so then, the other thing we should do is create an Excel file... maybe you can get [other teacher] to do that... or otherwise maybe you can do it... or the secretary... anyway, what we should do is..."
I nod into the phone, staring into space. Usually I read and answer emails while I talk to my boss on the phone, especially during the end-of-the-day rundown. It saves time. She can expound at length on semi-relevant topics, and I can get some work done. Today, however, it is 8.52, the supermarket closes in precisely 8 minutes, I have no food in my house, and, having been at work since 7.20 this morning, I have just about lost the will to live.
"Uh-huh," I agree in a rather unenthusiastic monotone. Perhaps she takes this hint as my having lost interest in our conversation (and also the school and our students and really anything not immediately related to getting food in my belly and myself into my bed) because she finally releases me with a cheerful, "okay, thanks! Talk to you tomorrow!"
8.54.
I grab some car keys, hoping no one needs this particular car (the school owns three) tomorrow morning before I do, and hop into the elevator.
8.59.
I pull into the parking lot of the supermarket, where only three other cars are parked, and stride up to the doors, where the security man is ushering someone out.
"Siete chiusi?" I ask. All I really want out of life right now is some pasta, some salad, and my bed. This makes me brave enough to actually talk to the security guy.
"Quasi," he says. He is young and cute. I am at least young-ish, if nothing else. And apparently that's enough. "Cosa devi prendere?" he asks me. (What do you need to get?)
"Some lettuce!" I say, the first thing that springs to mind. What I really want is also some pasta (there is a delicious kind that is stuffed with gorgonzola and honey, by Giovanni Rana, whose numerous commercials on the radio have apparently brainwashed me into buying his stuff.... well, his commercials and my utter laziness and inability to cook). But whatever. If I even just got some lettuce, I could cook some pasta or rice or whatever that I have at home, slap some olive oil and cheese on it, and call it a meal. With both veggies and grains. Which is, you know, lots of the food groups. Right? Or at least two. Whatever.
"Just lettuce?" he says in what sounds suspisciously like a flirty sort of tone. Really? Flirting? Lettuce?
"Yeah, just some lettuce," I say, more because I don't really have any other response. He shouts something at the last open cashier and she rolls her eyes and says yes. He ushers me in.
"Just lettuce!" he says. I nod in agreement, and sprint off to get the lettuce. I do not dare get any pasta as well, because the cashier is a girl and probably not so susceptible to my... uh, just being female, apparently. I will just eat my rice. With some cheese mixed in. And vinegar. Because vinegar makes anything else taste like vinegar, which tastes good. Yes. (See what happens to me when I work 13 hour days begging people not to say things like "yesterday, I am going to Milano"?)
As I sprint off, I catch bits and pieces of the conversation between the guard guy and the cashier.
" .... .... .... ragazza," says he.
"You and the ragazze," says she.
There it is. Sigh.
"Ciao, bella!" he says as I leave.
"Ciao, grazie," I say. It's 9.12.
It's a funny thing, being a girl in Italy. It takes a lot of getting used to, for a foreigner. Especially one of the Anglo-Saxon variety. You get here, and suddenly people are staring at you and whistling at you and shouting "ciao, bella! complimenti!" at you as you walk down the street. People look you up and down and you're all keep your eyes to yourself, dude!
You wonder why they don't have any respect for women. Why do they seem to feel it's okay to completely treat women like objects to be stared at and commented on at will, as if we couldn't hear, or didn't care? I care. I want people to be interested in me for my intelligence, or because they think I'm a good person (whether or not I actually am is a different story, but still). Not because I'm shaped like a girl or have lighter hair than them. (Apparently medium brown = bionda, in Italy.)
But then, women are apparently allowed to retire five years earlier than men because "la mamma e sacra". They hold doors open for you and ask for permission before taking off their suit jackets in your presence. They walk you home at night. And they'll keep the supermarket open 12 minutes past closing time on a Thursday night if you tell them that you just got out of work and want some lettuce.
Weird, no?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
