Fringe Benefits

While in Paris attending (and blogging for) the Women's Int'l Networking Conference, my thoughts are clearly on women's empowerment, women leading the future, and the shaking loose of old (male-oriented) ways of conducting business. The Italian presenters are all amazing women, each trailblazers in their own field, all with incredible backgrounds and by their very presence, reveal that a lot of good things are happening in Italy - many of which are even being exported abroad. Sadly, Italy kept coming up as an example of how bad things can get: While we have 60% of the graduates, we rank 72nd in the world on equality issues.
The reasons are many: from mammismo, male culture, deeply entrenched ideas of men's & women's places.

And so it's last week's news out of Vicenza from the Corriere Veneto, that paints this picture for me so accurately - showing from what depths we need to come out of:

- A boss in a Company said that if his staff met their objectives, his secretary would be the prize.
In the old days, women (worldwide) turned a blind eye to this - the victim thankfully is filing a formal complaint. His response, "It was just a joke." Sorry, sense of humour failure.

- A nightclub opened in the area, "Diverso Strip Club" which needed to improve upon women in cages and lap dances. So now, it's nude women as serving trays. The food is served right on them (or off of them, depending on your point of view).

- And of course, there was the traditional beauty contest in the area whereby the winner was awarded with a waitress position at the end.

Now, we've been talking about finding your passion in the workplace, but I think this is going a bit overboard...!

Win For Life

The Lottomatica people just announced this terrific new lottery game, with three winners on Day 1 garnering 4000 euro/month for 20 years (let's just say, we hope the lives of the Win For Life winners don't come to an abrupt end in around that time -- not that that wouldn't make a good thriller plot). But then, I think the term was used just to coin a phrase, and I wonder, how many of Italy's main players -- those aging seniors (and even a lot of youngsters) really know what those words mean. It never ceases to amaze me how much of English is used to sell anything, from the ridiculous M'Honey Bank card (from my nemesis, Monte dei Paschi) to cars to the very Italian Todd's.
And then a reader sent in this witty piece to put it all into perspective:

The English tend to struggle with foreign languages – which may be why they made the rest of the world speak theirs instead. So as an Englishman of a certain age, the five years it’s taken me to learn Italian have put, well, years on me.

Blunders that still make me grimace? Confusing ho scoperto (“I discovered”) with ho scopato (“I screwed") – on one of my first meetings with my future mother-in-law. Even worse was my asking at a restaurant what to do about la mancia (the tip). Only it came out as la minchia (a quite vulgar term for the male genitalia).

All that trouble to learn the world’s most romantic language and what do I find? Half of Italy has replaced it with “Anglo-Italiano”, a curious mix of English and Italian.

Accommodation for your vacation to Rome? If gli hotel are booked, lo staff may recommend un bed and breakfast nearby that is one of i top in the capital and comes with tutti i comfort. Staying for a few weeks? Then think about un residence or un loft with un big open-space.

The media is no better. Il Premier Silvio Berlusconi has allegedly been sleeping with le sexy escort after using il suo private jet to transport i VIP and le showgirl to i party at his home. It’s un altro gaffe by il tycoon and il feeling between him and voters has never been worse. Now he’s complaining about lo stress and il suo privacy.

Following il summit di G8 – which brought altri leader such as Barack Obama and le first ladies to Italy – Berlusconi called un meeting of his cabinet to settle un budget. But the newspapers have un scoop – during un briefing, he blamed Il Ministro del Welfare for the deficit reaching un record.

Or how about the soccer in La Gazzetta dello Sport? There was il derby during il weekend between i due club di Milan, AC Milan and Inter. Because il match era sold-out, i fans found it hard to buy i ticket. Milan’s No9 was il matchwinner with a goal from un corner. It led to scuffles among gli hooligan, which gli steward soon dealt with. Leonardo, il mister di Milan, was just happy to win.

But gossip and beauty magazines are the worst. Madonna non è piu single – la superstar now has un boyfriend and she and il suo partner have been spotted in un resort. Or fancy un po’ di restyling? Read all about il beauty, gli accessory-must and i color this season – sono black and white. By the way, il new look is un T-shirt extra large with un paio di jeans.

Then there’s una showgirl from un reality show, downing i cocktail in un bar, before a spot of il clubbing and then heading off with un pop star from un boyband.

But surely Italian is a rich enough language with words of its own that do the job perfectly – un albergo, not hotel; impiegati rather than staff; spuntino instead of snack.

Last year the prestigious Dante Alighieri Society launched a campaign to curb the erosion of Italian by English words. Tough job – Anglo-Italiano is now il nuovo trend…


Mille Grazie! to Ainsley Okoro for his terrific commentary on this trend...

Ainsley Okoro works for Homes and Villas Abroad.com, a property website and specialises in Calabrian property and property in Tuscany.

Pubblicità - Publicity or Public Obscenity?

[Ad reads: Bring your kids to Ikea, and we'll keep them between the balls. Fra le palle meaning similar to ball-breakers].

While Ikea ads remain -- at least for me -- The Gold Standard in Italy, with their tongue placed firmly in their cheek, lately, there's been a wind of change - albeit still only a mild breeze - based on some of the ads I've seen posted around town. This is good news.
In the last month, I've seen a number of articles on the downfall of Italy's ad business and its been a constant thread in dinner conversations (I swear, not of my own doing!). Spontaneous generation, I'd say.
I think this occurs every September, after Italians return from their holidays abroad and realize - even subliminally - what an eyesore ads are here compared to most places. [The verdict of late: it's not based on lack of resources -- poor Brazil reportedly has the most creative ads on the planet).

September in Rome and we were treated to this Back-to-School ad, (although one could make the case that perhaps it'd be a tad more appropriate before the summer lovin' school break). So smart, obviously, it was not approved by any governmental committee. Sheer brilliance in its audacity, its ability to get you to read it, and probably, to think upon it long after you've passed it by. [It reads: Have you installed your Anti-Virus?]

So successful it was, like the anti-anorexia ads before it, it's now been censured.

And so we're left with what amounts to the brilliance of political action committees. From the PD, black ads seemingly marking the end of days, state simply, "Ciao, Ragazzi". Wow. That's enough to get me to motivate - politicize & demand Change.

ciao, ragazzi.

Attack of the Killer Pandas

There was a very smart article in what is arguably the best journal for all things Italian and most things Rome to be found in print or online. I'm talking about The Roman Forum, of course. The brainchild of Company, WalueEurope (don't ask -- well, I'll go ahead and just tell you...While 'W' in America means former President, George W. Bush, 'W' in Italy is often called 'V', pronounced 'Vu'), its Director is Chiara Di Pietro, with Editor-in-Chief, Brit, Anthony Smith. And kudos go out to Art Designer, Eugenio Catalano. This trifecta, giving us so much on things Roman, I wholly expect them to be wearing laurel wreaths when I happen to run into one or the other around town.

Anyway, in the September issue, you'll find the article about Driving in Italy, penned by Robert Shipley, clearly a man after my own heart (although I was saddened to learn upon reading it, he's married).
the notorious killer panda
He goes on to provide a perfect listing of things to watch out for if you're driving on Italian highways. Now, it's a 2 part article, so, I'm afraid to preempt his listing, but, I'd like to add a few more caveats:

- It is not my experience (and I used to drive over 5000km / month) that people pass on the right, except in city centers. But on those 3-lane highways, you will find absolutely no motorist worth his salt (and I stress his), in the far-right lane, dedicated to slow vehicles. Truckers and slow pokes will simply not take a blow to their masculinity and be caught ever in the slow lane, forcing all other cars going over 80km/hr to pass in the left lane, risking to be back-ended by the approaching car coming in at 160, before being able to make their way to the middle lane.

- As I mentioned in a previous post, those white pandas nowadays are as rare as the real things (and they're undeniably just as cute); They've been upgraded to SUVs, pulling all the same maneuvers, but now, seriously posing a life-threatening risk.

Of course, no rules apply to motorinos. Foreign visitors are left mouth-gaping the way they drive down the center lane, weave in and out, pass all over the place, and then jump the gun. I'm used to it, but utterly shocked the death rate for them is not infinitely greater.

As for Shipley's query about driving down the middle lane? That's easy to figure out. Staking out the middle means you can take your pick literally, down the road...

Italian Language Tips: Getting Lei-d

A friend was bemoaning the new casualness in today’s schools – no more Sigra. or Signorina when addressing La Maestra (and I’ve yet to discover a male out there – although I’m sure they exist in the same way we know white tigers roam parts of India). In part, due to the youth of today’s teaching corps, and, according to a study which found that 52% prefer using the informal ‘Tu’ rather than the ‘Lei’. Their reasoning: in part due to the immediacy of email and friendliness of social networking sites.

Just for the record, this same friend, after marrying her junior high school sweetheart, having grown up practically next door to each other – both give the Lei to the parents 30 years on. In a gesture of sheer chutzpah, clumsiness, or both – I don’t use it for either set.
For us English-speaking natives, using the familiar 'Tu' is decidedly more friendly, and we sort of avoid and abhor pulling out the 'Lei' when we find ourselves in a pinch – we absolutely cringe from its formality, although it does not hold that same weightiness for Italians. It’s simply what’s used. I suppose, if you’re from America’s South, where the term Ma’am is oft-used, addressing someone with the 'Lei' is probably not that big of a deal.

But the fun really starts when someone speaks, and you look over your shoulders to see who, in fact, they must be talking to – you automatically hear 'She' not 'You'. Even more mind-boggling for men, when they use the 'Lei' (She/Her) for You – in the single documented case of Italian gender parity.

But, my big question remains: What’s up with the Lei to signify an insult? When arguing with a fellow driver, I used to address them in the 'Tu', thinking, ‘Hah! I don’t treat them with respect’. Turns out I was totally off base. I used to shop religiously at an exclusive store in Rome. For years, the wonderful proprietor gave me the 'Tu'. Until that fateful day when my credit card did not go through. Attempts to contact the fraud office followed. Suddenly, and in front of the other customers, I was getting the 'Lei' – the verbal equivalent of the Cold Shoulder.

But my favorite is the standing joke in Italy: After the boss and his secretary enjoy a nice shag, they go back to their respective offices and right back into using the Lei. I find this practice so outlandish, that it causes my brain synopses to backfire. Although, while I could see Monica saying, Mr. President...I still can't quite conceive of him calling her Ms. Lewinsky. But, ask any boss who’s similarly sowed his oats – they will tell you something I’ve known for years – that there’s a lot of truth in humor.

Driving in Italy: Not for the weak of heart

I recall while on family trips Up North Michigan, every so often, and usually near a fork or exit ramp, you would spot totally smashed cars lying there as if cast off from some end of the world flick like I Am Legend.
My dad would tell us (as he put a faux police light atop the car and pressed the pedal to the metal), that it was to deter people from speeding. Obviously America, a country founded on bloodshed, needs to shock and awe people into taking action. Talk about scared straight (although that could have come about from our own attempts at breaking the sound barrier).

In nostalgic Italy, in what is at first unsettling, but then totally awesome in its commemorative appeal, Italians mark those hard bends, merges and major intersections with spontaneous flower memorials – infinitely more heartfelt than grave markers (out of sight, out of mind). As you wind along the roads of Italy, in bustling city centers or along the countryside, you’ll find flowers wrapped on the side of the bruised tree, or around the odd bent pole. You think of the person whose spirit sailed away that day, and, if you’re wise, you slow down a bit.

And, although it doesn't seem to have quite the same effect on drivers, I find these memorials so eloquent in their simplicity -- they literally drive the point home far better than leaving auto carcasses strewn along the roadside.

Rest in Perpetual Traffic

Italian lingerie: Victoria's Secret or Rosa the Riveter's Revenge?

I’ll never forget the first time I came to Italy as an adult. Long before Victoria let out her Secret, I’m afraid. I was absolutely shocked by the store windows, littered with the sexiest silk and lace I had never seen. In places that would make people in Peoria start picketing, people just passed them by, not even feigning indifference. In the place of the Popes, La Perla was a household name.

And so, I would like to know, at what point, exactly, do woman who start out their adult life (okay, pre-pubescent life) wearing things like that (see above), morph into Aunt Bea from Mayberry RFD donning hot fashions like this:

Travel to any small town, you’ll see young tarts looking like the Veline they aspire to become, and yet there is not a market stall in Italy that does not offer a huge assortment of these flowered dresses. There must be a market for them. In fact, wander around those same small towns, and you'll find desperate housewives in all their flowery splendor. So, what gives?

If anyone can offer an explanation, I’d be appreciative.

Advertising Age

It’s been almost two years since I started this blog, and since that time, I’ve longed to have a special column, replete with my rating, of the ridiculous ads which litter my field of vision here in Italy. Now, I’m sure every other country on earth has pretty stupid ads, but, it just seems to me, that there’s an immense wealth concentrated here in a country that prides itself on putting its best face forward (La Bella Figura). Every time I go to London I actually stop to take in all of their brilliant ads before proceeding to the next swathe in the tube station.

So, to start out what will be a regular feature in the left hand column, of course, I have selected what is probably the worst ad campaign in the history of advertising: Binacci Arredamenti. This guy is so in love with his looks, and that of his wife? lover? secretary? he regularly features himself on every single ad, one cheesier than the next.

They go in themes, running the gamut from a Star Wars (complete with light sabers) series, to James Bond (with the Asian lady looking a whole lot like Lucy Liu), and everything in between.
One guy commented in the blogosphere that the ads are so abominable that the company should be sued for eye pollution.

His latest campaign, in an effort to appear less insipid, actually deviates from this course offering us all a breath of fresh aria, of sorts. He has spared us one of his ‘come hither’ looks while the babe vapidly looks on. Instead this summer, he’s decided to desecrate Rome’s most beloved monuments with his sorry attempt at witticism.

One trip over to his Ad agency’s site, who, even more unbelievably actually claim to be the brains behind this barrage of garbage, and you can see what we’re dealing with. Their home page is so weak, you cannot, without aid of a magnifying glass that would burn envy in even Galileo, read what they offer. So much for mass communications.

I have devised a ratings scale: 1 (infantile) to 45 (at the peak of brilliance), following basically, the likely age in years of the person who created the ad.

Binacci Arredamenti / Advertising Age = 8


Some quotes from the blogosphere:

- Binacci ha sempre fatto pubblicità pessimissima, a livello di TASSO ZERO. Roba da burineria. Contribuisce all'inquinamento visivo di Roma.

- Io brucerei le fabbriche di binacci solo per l'idiozia della sua pubblicità

Traveling with Pets in Italy: A resource guide

Here we are, at the onset of the summer onslaught – not due to the traffic jams of millions of autos piling up on Italy’s highways, but to the number of dogs that get abandoned unceremoniously on the sides of those same roads, only to have the last sight they see, the oversized rubber wheel of an SUV.
It would appear that government budget cuts and a general lack of funding has left us without even the guilt-inducing posters all around town in a (vain) effort to get people to stop this annual act of cruelty inflicted on man’s (purported) best friend.

But, I bring you good tidings: There are two things to be happy about this Summer of 2009:

One, I’m thinking that the economic crisis is forcing so many families to stay put, that little Fido doesn’t have to fend for himself in front of the fenders.

And, starting on the internet but coming soon in a book, conscientious citizens, hoteliers, beach fronts and other tourist businesses are busy bragging about the fact that they accept dogs. This may also be due to the idea of attracting customers, but hey, anything that could reduce the number of canine casualties is a good thing. The government seems to believe that the old posters probably didn’t do much anyway, so they’ve set out to promote all of the places that makes pooches portable instead.
[Once we got around the absolute fools at Italy’s TrenItalia who wanted Rufus off the rails and consequently on the roads, they, too, can be included in this listing]. Even the Autogrills set up – in cohoots with volunteer organizations – little doggie parking lots at highway rest stops so people don’t leave Lulu in a 200 degree car, thinking they’ll ‘be out in a minute’ (you try going through those awesome mazes once inside from front to finish in under 12 minutes…!)

The internet is also full of many of these people admonishing the abandonment although I simply don’t think many people who are setting out to be an accomplice to murder are actually surfing sites labeled Your Pet – Your Prince or Traveling with Dogs or Happy Pets Inc…

Here is a list of terrific sources as reported in the Corriere della Sera’s CITY newspaper:

FINALMENTE, ENTRO ANCH’IO! www.turistia4zampe.it  [You can supposedly search dog-friendly facilities, but I think TripAdvisor might be a better bet, since the site doesn't seem to be updated since 2010 - like most great initiatives, never followed through after the initial launch].

In Rome’s Ponte Milvio ‘beach’, dogs are welcome at the Villa bau village, complete with activities for you to enjoy with your pet.

Need to take Trixy in a taxi? www.taxideglianimali.it (they even pick up corpses - you know, after they've had a heat stroke on the beach above)
Although, I must say, only in Italia would you find that the article loaded with excellent info on traveling with Toto offering some sage words of advice to all those dogs (namely, all of them) who stick their head out of car windows: Attenzione! for the Colpa d’Aria!
Whether that admonition is for Oscar or his owner, that’s for you to decide.

Separated at Birth - 2?

Well, I have revived my separated at birth column to bring you...The actor turned hip hop singer Joaquin Phoenix and his twin, the hip hop singer turned actor, Jovanotti (who, I might add put Italian music - and my favorite, Italian rap, on the map). You try telling them apart.





You can catch Joaquin's awesome performance on Letterman here.

And, my first entry showing Lady Sarkozy (1 or is it 2?) and her younger clone, Lady Sarkozy.

Knocking on Wood

Now, who’d ever want to do something so outrageous as that?
Lately, I’ve been feeling a bit morbid, I suppose, because everywhere I look, I seem to spot danger – So today, I was talking with my tire guy who brings me my daily paper about the health risks of where he works. On a street so clogged with rush hour traffic, (and where I begrudgingly had chosen to walk my dog), I imagined (out loud) that the exhaust fumes would have to affect his lungs in the long term. After all, I could barely breathe by the time I got to his doorway.
So, during the course of our conversation, he immediately had the second best response he could summon -- he reached over to touch the metal jack that lifts up the cars. Only because he’s an amazingly polite and humble guy who happened to be in mixed company; or else, he would have gone for his first response: touching his balls.
Now, I don’t know where any of this comes from: knocking on wood, iron, or your balls (if you should be so endowed), but, I suppose in a later entry, I can look it up. I imagine it might come from Major League Baseball...perhaps the team with the..errr... lighter touch, so to speak, loses?
But, what I’d truly like to know is…has it ever worked? Is there some documentation that, after touching iron in your car, your auto didn’t swerve back onto the road and not tumble off a bridge? In a country choc-a-bloc with saints and miracles, are there testimonials stored in the Vatican's secret archives that show how many 'miracolati' there are from Iron - Wood and Palle? Or, perhaps Italy's Centro Nazionale della Ricerca conducted a study and found that all groin graters never ever got heart attacks?
Nonetheless, it’s one of those curious cultural caricatures which comes up now and again in conversation (polite or not so polite, take your pick), which always leaves you wondering.

Man's Best Fiend?

The other day I met some friends at Rome airport’s Car Rental Room (something not unlike a rubber room at an insane asylum -- just add rubber). I had little Trevor in tow. The reaction to my little beast or beauty (depending on which side you were) turned the room into the Continental Divide -- Europe – vs – America.

The Americans traveling with small children were greatly relieved to have a little distraction to ward off the oncoming tantrums. They huddled around Trevor, encouraged their kids to pet him, sat the littler ones around him, showing them how to pet, kiss, and hug him, calling him over time and again…

The Italian kids seeing an actual stuffed animal come to life were just as eager. But the mammas would chase after their little bundles, screaming “Don’t touch! Don’t go near! No petting! Attenzioooonnnnnnneeeeeeeee, Giovannnnnnniiiiiiiiiiii!!!!!!” One look at Trevor and he might actually turn into one of those little Gremlins, spring into action and devour little Giovanni’s head – all in one fell swoop. Some parents (okay, I’ll be honest…the dads) would lead their kids by the hand to hover over Trevor; their hands outstretched just above fur area. I kept repeating over and over “È buono, È bravo”, but to no avail; they knew there was a darker and more vicious beast over in a corner watching their every move to a centimeter of their life…and they weren’t going to be the one to spring that one into action.

From the worried looks on the mammas’ faces, I could tell they had already checked where the Airport Chapel was—in case they needed to administer last rights--after all, one touch of the hand and their child would turn into a huge boil just oozing bacteria & perhaps even the plague itself.

Naturally, once they got their cars (sans Kiddie Car Seat, it costs more), there Giovanni would go, right into mammas lap—no seatbelts, of course – head perched just in front of the airbag release, thanking God at last that their bambino survived the beast.

Tante Belle Cose - February 08

Italy is definitely on the move. Consumer unions are on the attack, 24 hr. services are going strong, and satirical shows are exposing all kinds of graft, corruption and waste…and still remain on the air. You can feel that change is happening, and, for the first time in years, Italians seem to be fighting the system. Maybe because there is none right now. I’m all for leaving us with no government. Think of the savings! And, all those pesky government motorcades – the roads have never been clearer of traffic!

They may not care where they drop their litter, but, give us a Tsunami in Thailand, or abused children or horrific crimes, the Italians will show their solidarity first and foremost. And so it is with events – large and small – this month:

- The EU has determined that in all countries singles can adopt children. This is absolutely terrific news, except that in Italy, couples wait an average of 7 years to get a child, and even then, ‘the system’ prefers to leave the Italian babies in foster care in much the same way they prefer to leave dogs in shelters—the system rewards the numbers.

- And, speaking of babies, a pedophile was released after raping 3 little sisters (and why he only got a sentence as if he had raped 1 is beyond me), he then brutally attacked another 4 yr. old. Italy is now debating their own ‘Megan’s Law’, whereby people will be forewarned if a pedophile is moving into the neighborhood. The outcry was so strong that they are debating changing the law for pedophiles to life in prison; about the only place they should be allowed to live, at least to this correspondent.

- A Jewish University opened its doors in Rome. Considering it once held the oldest Jewish population in Europe, I for one am delighted. Even moreso since the rector insists that all religions will be taught and tolerated. Now if we could just get the same treatment from our friends in the Middle East.

- One small step for man…the Italians imposed a €100 euro fine for anyone caught ‘touching themselves’, even fully clothed on the outside of their pants.
I’m wondering if we can just make ‘citizen’s arrests’ and just pocket the money. I know I could make quite a killing on this one. Especially when in Italy, they don't knock on wood...but rather, touch their woody to ward off any bad luck.

To hear one reader's experience in Florence, click here.

Business As Usual

I just thought I'd share a 'typical day in the life of' with you. After 22 years of doing business here I probably can make a few wild generalizations...some practices endearing, others just aggravating.

It all started when I met two would-be entrepreneurs. As the saying goes, behind every olive tree in Italy... you'll find someone dying to go or already out on their own. Typically, and like so many of them, here they are, one day working in a bank, or a ceramics factory, and the next, they're off producing leather handbags for Prada. And in this, I know for sure, that if the govt didn't do everything in their power to impede this entrepreneural spirit, right in their very dna, well, this country would be like Japan.
So, our entrepreneurs, leaving their day jobs, came up with a nice widget.

It just turned out that that week, someone had contacted me asking if I knew anyone who sold those very same items. So, before I put them in touch, I thought I'd provide them with a crash session in marketing their widgets. They were totally flabbergasted-and I have no idea if that word even exists in the Italian language. I have yet to meet an Italian entrepreneur who first set out to study the market, competition, pricing, all necessary details before putting out their 'Open for Business' sign.

Once we covered that, I asked them to prepare some pricing to see where they stood in the ballpark. I received a call whereby they asked if we could meet face to face. Unfortunately, I couldn't. And, although one of the more endearing qualities of doing business here, it costs you half a day. So, I pulled an American. Can't I just give you the parameters over the phone? I pleaded.

Sure enough, I won that battle, but not the war. I could tell, I could just tell that no one was taking any notes. Lo and behold, I received a few more calls to 'clarify' that everyone had understood the laundry list. And here, I knew, that even a meeting would not have helped--no Italian worth their sale would ever be caught actually taking notes. Never. So, I put up with the repeat listing.

Ready to make their offer, they called and asked for a meeting. Again, not being my business at all, I begged for mercy and asked that they please send in the offer. And, don't forget to include a 10% commission for me, after all, I'm not a Franciscan monk. Already prepared for the reaction, I held the phone out a bit. What?!! That seems like a steep fee!!!!

Yeah? Well, considering the commission on high ticket items is usually around 30%, and any agency will always ask for 15%. Consider yourselves lucky. Not to mention the fact that this single order represents more than you'd be able to sell over the next 7 years. Two to One, My lead.

Another call: Well, who should we address the order to? Me. A new attempt to go over my head: Well, wouldn't it be just easier to send it directly to the buyer? No. Three to One.

I receive the order. No sign of any commission fee for me. I call. Well, of course, it's in there! I didn't want the client to see it. You can trust me, no? After 22 years, I'm sorry, you guys have a great expression about Verba Volant, Scripta Manent... And, don't worry, the client already knows I'm not a Franciscan. Fine, I'll resend. Four to One.

But, here's the catch: should they get the order, and get paid, how will I ever be sure to get my money? Even with contracts, this rarely happens. 3 cherries. They take the pot.

Home from the Holidays

Last week marked the return from holidays for a number of Italians, with ‘business as usual’ starting today. A friend from Milano came down to Rome to conduct some urgent business in what, for many Romans, was their first day back from holiday (notice, I didn’t say ‘back to work’). He was there for an American client, who, with their 2 week vacations (aka 10 days + a few extra sick days if you can get them), didn’t quite grasp the summer holiday work stoppage.

So, down he came, pretty much one of the few guys donning business attire (and in Italy, there’s no such thing as casual Fridays) on an Indian summer day in all of Rome.
After making the presentation, briefing his colleagues thoroughly, and then going over the strategy and other details of the new project, he noticed however, that eyes were starting to gloss over. To the point that finally, he gave in, closed his book and apologized for the intrusion.

After all, the first week back from holiday isn’t a time where you check 480 emails (actually, there are probably a lot less than that, since no one else was working either), but a time where you all regroup, treat yourself and your colleagues to a nice lunch and compare tans.

Yes, Italy is still one of the last bastions of dark tans – no sunscreen. Adults and children alike. It is more than a national pastime. Tanning is a badge of honour. Whereby you declare to the world, you had Time Off and a great time at that. They’ll have none of that American martyrdom here, where people actually spend their dinner conversations and cocktail hours one-upping each other on how stressed out they are and how much they worked over the weekend or holiday. No. In Italy, the tan is the award-winning logo of the Mediterranean Quality of Life.

They love their tans so much here, I think all the tanning parlours in Italy put together must make more than Microsoft. And, by sheer force of will or the grace of God or what, the Italians also do not seem to have the cancer rates of other countries. I’m with the guys who claim it’s due to the red wine. So, just make it a good red instead of lemonade.

And so it’s true, back at the office, everyone sort of gathers together, discussing their holidays, comparing destinations, new tattoos and tans -- and slowly going about the business of Getting Back to Work.

And my friend? He told me we would see each other next week, as he’d most likely be back -- he was certain that he’d have to make the presentation all over again when people were truly ready to work -- and simply treat the entire endeavor just as a dress rehearsal.

Baby on Board

As the Italians pile into their cars to head home from their month of repose, they all follow the same tradition: pile the luggage in the trunk, the mother-in-law in the back, and the baby, right up front in mamma’s arms. If they’re little enough, and papà's bored enough on the long drive, sometimes, as a car passes at 90mph, I look over to see baby actually standing on papà's lap, hands held firm on the steering wheel, everyone all a-smiles.

Obviously, the Italians feel (despite the statistics to the contrary) that their children are immune to decapitation-by-airbag or other atrocities that could occur in case of the most minor fender bender; in a country in which fender benders are often fatal. For them, this simply does not pose a life-threatening situation (unlike those of air currents, wet hair and bare feet in the house). Well, I’ve sort of made this my personal crusade. As mothers strap their kids in the front seats, I generally poke my head in the window (I confess: I am a ficanaso - an unrepentant busybody) and remind them of their folly.

The reactions I receive run the gamut of MYOB from a modest, ‘bug off’ to today’s insult, “may you and your dog be decapitated first.” I wanted to remind the mother that I was not the one with my head posed directly in front of a missile that will fire at 280 km/hour…but, she sped off before I could tell her as much.
Instead of seeing that they are literally playing Russian roulette with a loaded air bag, even friends who go to great lengths to put their kids in harm’s way whilst at the wheel -- while taking all kinds of precautions whilst indoors-- will inform you that you are simply being an over-protective American… This, from a society that fears a bogeyman will take their children’s lives should they even pass by an open window on a hot summer’s day.

I have finally, however, figured out the illogic (of their reaction to me, not of their action in the first place--that will forever remain a mystery): Italy, although a “Catholic” country (quotes intentional), has a populace whose beliefs sway from the superstitious to the absolute surreal. So, when someone says, “Watch Out! You may get killed or, hurt, or worse,” well, they view it as if you have just put a curse on them. Of course, rather than take the precautions to ward off precisely that threat, they just touch their balls (if they have them…the Italian version of ‘knock on wood’) and carry on. Thus the reaction of the drivers in question.

The encounters usually end with me looking at the car as it runs off, ATTENZIONE: Bebe A Bordo signs posted carefully in back – a 21st century talisman -- warning other drivers they better be careful because they have a baby in the front seat, no seatbelt. I dream of the ad campaign in which those test dummies fly around a car at top speed, and the fact that the Italians wouldn’t even have to invent the ad; they’re so good at dubbing, they could just copy it…
And the mothers with their little bundles of joy? They speed off, babies secure in their laps, but, even if the car has no A/C, windows closed tight to ward off certain death from the air currents.

Life in Italy: Rules to Live By

After their primal fear of Air (see Posting below), the Italians, I have found, also have an incredible fear of Water. And, if you want to throw into the pot the fact that the entire country is burning endlessly from heel to hamstrings due to the sex-crazed pyromaniacs lighting it ablaze, one might even come to the conclusion that over here, the three basic elements of life are a sort of unwanted necessity; good for making pasta, but bad if you have any more intimate contact with them.
I try to go to the pool every day. When I leave the gym, however, heads turn – and not because I in any way resemble Marilyn Monroe or Paris Hilton for that matter. People stop what they’re doing to stare, as if I had gotten out of the shower and simply forgotten to put my clothes on.
They gawk and, even old ladies will stop me on the street to tell me what I already know: my hair is wet. Actually, damp, but let’s not get caught up in syntax.
I have very short, thin, hair. Which means, in the usual 90 degree heat, it’s pretty much bone dry before I’ve crossed the gym parking lot. But for some reason, another Italian paranoia has been passed down by centuries of nonnine (little grandmothers), generation to generation, that, one must never ever leave the house with wet hair. Even in summer. You will probably catch your death (from what, no one seems to know).
I think back on those carefree summer days growing up in Michigan, pool hopping in the dead of night, riding bicycles to the lake and back, riding in cars to the beach, top down, my (long) wet hair blowing in the wind. And to think, I even lived to tell about it.
I cannot for the life of me figure out why I should, after swimming in chemicals, further damage my already-chemical dyed hair, by blowing it dry before going out in the burning sunlight. In fact, my hair dries so fast, I don’t even own a blow dryer (which, just to confuse newcomers, they call a Phon). But, come to think of it, if you’ve ever gone to an Italian beach, there they sit, thousands of people under umbrellas, guarding themselves from that other life-sustaining basic element, the Sun.