America Votes...and the World Trembles | #TheTrumpEffect on Italy

I watched, stunned, from my balcony window as the streets started teeming with protesters, heading over to the American Consulate nearby. I was nervous my car - bearing  Michigan license plates - would be vandalized in a day that left “Fuck America” writ on the Consulate walls. In seemingly a matter of minutes, the compassion that the rest of the world had had for the United States was far less durable than those graffiti marks. Down went the American flags that had been displayed in store windows and homes across Europe. Gone were passers-by spontaneously hugging my dog donning his American flag bandana…Heck, gone was the bandana itself. Just eighteen months after September 11th, 2001 America, under its simpleton of a swaggering president, would stumble into Iraq and moor us in the deepest quagmire of our existence. Capturing hearts and minds of the Iraqis? If we had, they’d been traded in from those of the entire population of the rest of the world.

Elections have consequences.

This usurper, who narrowly lost the popular vote, had become President of these United States. A mediocre student and “businessman president” (who was never successful in business) asked daddy to help him live out his boyhood dream of being town sheriff. What could go wrong?

Americans abroad know all too well the effects of America’s own decisions. So much so, each time there’s an election, headlines ponder the results if the entire world could vote right along with us. The Economist did as much during the Obama election (he won by a landslide). When Obama finally reached office, Italian kids in Obama buttons, t-shirts, and dog lore shared their love with the first family. A trip to Italy by Michelle and the girls with photo opps of them wandering out of the Pantheon and later bringing home a doggie bag from a top restaurant added to the panache -- and crushed yet another barrier for Italians; if FLOTUS could take her food back to the hotel, heck so could all the rest of us. Doggie bag shaming would end up in the Italian trash heap of history. But most incredibly, little girls across the continent would quip that when they grew up, they wanted to be President of the United States. Kids of all ages were engaged fully in the U.S. political process.

After Bush & Co.’s policies had not only tanked the U.S. economy, but along with it, Europe’s and most of the world’s…we breathed a collective sigh of relief - so cathartic that Barack Hussein Obama received an undeserved Nobel Peace Prize - his take home trophy just for showing up onto the world stage.

But this brief moment in history would prove to be as ephemeral as gelato under a scorching sun. It would not be long before women were being rated by their looks, added to political gatherings for eye candy, and fish-lipped hotties with bulging breasts and ultra-thin resumes were cropping up in European parliaments and city councils across the country. With their 6-figure incomes, expense spending and jet setting, they shined in the media spotlight - an Italian Miss Universe Barbie goes to Brussels. Parents were thrusting their daughters into the poltical lair, and girls not quite 18 were in line for boob lifts and nose jobs by the hour. It was an epidemic.A media mogul, and the man who gave us desperate housewives stripping off their clothes on prime time became Prime Minister. There are plenty of posts comparing Silvio Berlusconi to Donald Trump but suffice to say, it appears that Silvio has bequeathed his personal How To List to The Donald directly. Berlus - errr — Trump even announced he would not take a stipend for his civil service. Silvio had done that. Kept his Milan Villa, check. Kept his beach hide-away. Check. Spoke highly of Putin. Check. Paid bribes (in the U.S. they’re legal) to make his troubles go away. Check. All Donald needs now is to adopt a little dog and we’d check that, too.
And just as beauty is more than Melania’s shiny complexion deep, the damage visited upon a generation of children being raised in this testosterone-laden brave new world, will be keeping historians busy for millenia to come.

While Donald and all his brashness and lousy sense of humour makes Silvio look like Gandhi (Beppe Severgnini says Churchill), this tag team built on media might and white blight are (almost) one in the same. Although divorced playboy Silvio did not even pretend to be on the religious side of things…he did take pains to line up a girlfriend to take out on public appearances, often dressed in white for the visual effect on voters.

Aside from the cosmetic similarities, hair-plugged Silvio hated being harassed by the media, comedians and random bloggers. He tried and succeeded on passing Gag Laws for bloggers and attempted a fire wall on journalists who might cross his path. He was embroiled in all kinds of lawsuits and claims (some his own) of ill repute. Berlusconi’s brother heads a newspaper that would smear anyone who opposed him, reaching right up to the very thin line of defamation but never crossing it (a right defended much more vigorously in Italy). Silvio flew in his own plane back and forth from Rome. Silvio never did make a blind trust (allowing his kids to run his businesses, as if, over a plate of pasta “How’s business?” might never come up in conversation.) But while calls for his daughter to run in his stead were made, even his kids had the good sense to stay out of politics.

In what may serve as a horrendous premonition (who says things in Italy occur well after America?) Silvio and his rubber-stamp parliament started passing laws that benefited his businesses or media interests, or more blatantly, kept him out of jail. In something that I am sure would not be below The Donald, he attempted at every turn to achieve immunity from all prosecution.

The demeaning of women rose to such a crescendo that the usually passive women of Italy came out in the millions to protest him - just for being Berlusconi. He would flippantly tell students, at the height of Italy’s brain drain, that to get ahead, they’d need to “marry one of my sons.” (only PYTs need apply). His bunga-bunga parties, underage harems, taped recordings, misogynistic comments and idiotic jokes…thankfully, finally garnered him his walking papers. He is far less a public figure - while Bush dumped his Texas ranch stage set, Silvio dumped his “fiancèe”. 
 
But Italians have never truly had the racial tensions that other European countries have. Italy has historically been quite a welcoming place, very Christian (and not in the American hypocritical sense of the word). They now complain they’re being overrun with immigrants (they are), but in a country with 46% youth unemployment, there are no jobs for immigrants to take away. So Silvio never quite turned up the anti-immigrant sentiment to full throttle Donald.
 
Berlusconi may have been a pit bull with his adversaries, or maybe not (he is rumored to have paid many of them off) - but he was not a bully. He was personable. He enjoyed a good joke (albeit usually on women). But by the time he was heading out the door, we were disheartened to discover that little girls were now saying they wanted to either “go into politics or become a showgirl.” In Italy, post-Silvio, they were one in the same.

People always inquire, when they find out I’m American, ‘Why do you stay here?’ But now, I think they know why. The country that to all and sundry seems like a giant movie set, with its bad guys firing automatic rifles, its music superstars, its 'can do' attitude that would make Ferris Bueller proud…has descended into Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Italians, who have kept the American Dream alive for well over a century, have finally been shaken awake. From the lore of the "Uncle in America” posting dollar bills to relatives in war time, to the success stories of Grom gelato and Luxottica eyewear…This most recent election has snuffed out the pipe dreams of each and every Italian, no matter where they are and how many generations they've been there.

Elections have consequences.

What will be the lasting legacy of a cast of white supremacists and bullies making policy for an entire nation? And what will be the ripple effect (or tsunami, rather) on those of us abroad? Finally, after these less-than-perfect Obama years and the regeneration of our economy, people were optimistic. Today, as I'm stopped in the streets by my African, Middle Eastern and Bangladeshi acquaintances, even Italy’s own immigrants feel the struggle ahead is palpable. And once again, I am overcome with shame.
The writing’s on the wall.


*Coming soon: what America can learn from running elections the Italian way

Italian Fashion: Dress for Success

A woman recently posited over on Facebook:

Why do I dress 'nicely' for a quick trip to the market just to go out for some bread? I mean, I love dressing up, but really? When you just need to step out for a second? Does anyone know what I'm talking about?

Bella Figura. That's what she's talking about. 
As I state in my book, if *only* Americans took the time to get out of their pjs to go to Walmart, KFC or - heck - on a plane...Italians look good even when they're wearing faux-ripped jeans and a pair of Vans. So, they've let their guard down when it comes to honoring their dead...but, I still enjoy the whimsical scarf-wrapping which 25 years later I am still unable to replicate. A friend now living in Malta says that she used to ask an Italian neighbor to "do that thing you do" every time she went out of the house and wanted to wrap a scarf round her neck.
I saw an elder woman leaving her low income housing unit the other day. There she was, with her green loden wool skirt and matching jacket. Perfect hair and shoes to match. I stopped just to admire her as she got into a waiting car. It's the last vestiges of an age where unemployed men would don hats and berets in fine silk suits just to queue up for the unemployment line. I was watching history turn a page.

Photograph by Alexander Beyer of an Italian lady 'vestita di tutto punto" - dressed to the nines - as featured in the street fashion blog Advanced Style.

The rant continues:

I was completely casual and comfortable and about to run out of the house but then stopped myself. I knew I would get "the look" from everyone had I done so. I turned right round to put on some make up, change my shirt, slap on a blazer and cute shoes...Only because this is the norm where I live. Honestly, in LA you could wear your pajamas out and no one gives a crap. But, here... I had on jeans, a t-shirt, sweater, and ugg boots and still had to do a double take and just say No.

The outdoors of any neighborhood all look like it's gangland territory. But the people behind those graffiti-splayed walls....well, I pray they never let that go..even when just stepping out to pick up a loaf of bread. But speaking of bread, just don't get me started on the French and how they look with a golden baguette tucked ever so neatly under arm...

In Vino Veritas? Not in Italy

For a fully wine-producing country (whose output has just outpaced France), truth doesn't seem to flow out of the carafe all so easily. In fact, anyone who has read my book will know that I entertain a number of theories on why Italians play so fast and loose with the truth [Spoiler Alert: I think it goes back to Judas or Brutus...and their lofty place in history]. And while these attitudes flummox newcomers and tourists in equal measure, I must say that decades on...It sometimes gets the best of us old-timers, especially when you're faced with a flurry of truthiness all at once.
And so it was, when I woke up and went to my wondrous bar and noticed they no longer touted my brand, Illy Caffè, which is the only reason I would pay as much as a bag of espresso beans for a single, solitary cuppa. No more snazzy cups, no cute little lists of ways you can drink a flavored Illy coffee that would put Starbucks to shame. And worse, the coffee sucked. So I mentioned that I noticed the brand had changed...Emphatically, they insisted that no, it had always been this coffee...but maybe a while back under previous ownership...so on and so forth. So earnest was their protest, I started thinking I had the wrong coffee bar.
Returning home,  the doorbell rings. It's one of a posse of faux Energy Utility guys telling me that my contract needed to be revised if I would just sign the dotted line...I rebutted that if the Company had something to tell me, they knew where to find me. By mail, or email. Then, in a case of 'If you can't beat 'em, join 'em', I lied. I said it wasn't my contract to begin with. At which point he threatened me saying that if I didn't sign up a new contract, I'd be paying four times the amount and it was illegal to have a contract not in my name...and so on. I shut the door, called my utilities company who told me to --- shut the door on these jokers.
My neighbor's pipes broke, staining three walls of my office. Upstairs I go. She admitted it, but raising her hands in the air and giving me 'The Chin', said she wasn't the one responsible. Or, that she'd get someone to look at the damage the next day. Or that it was the building admin's job. Or... We'll see how long it takes to get someone to repair the damage.

Pinocchio...an Italian DOC
Photo by Walt Disney Studios

Out again at the marketplace, I surveyed some clothing items, on sale at season's end. Some items looked nice, but on closer inspection, I found the stitching  coming out on each piece I happened to pick out (okay, they were on sale, after all). The retailer, like a hawk, swooped in to tell me how fabulous these items were. When I pointed out the problem with them (aiming, I admit it, for a hefty discount...) I was met with, "No, these aren't defective! This is just how the items are made!" She was insulted that I would dare suggest that her custom may be somewhat, say, of low quality [did I mention I was at a market stall?].
I walked away...scratching my head and recalling the words of my former [Italian] boss who loved to quip that Italians didn't quite beat you at the game, as much as simply wear you down...

John Elkann - Grandson of Gianni Agnelli - Got "There" all on his own

This cartoon - by the inimitable GianFalco (illustrator of my book, Burnt by the Tuscan Sun) - perfectly encapsulates how John Elkann, like most entitled people around who cannot fathom how the 99% actually live, really put his foot in it.  Like Berlusconi before him, who so infamously stated that young women graduates, looking for a future, need to "find a rich husband - like one of my sons" in order to make it, career advice is unwanted from this lightweight and "nipote" of Gianni Agnelli [it's where we get the term nepotism from], the man who's father put him in the automotive business.
Prior to joining the very top echelon of the FIAT Corporation, a company which professes to be a capitalist institution, this 'champagnone' (as my colleagues & I liked to call them) came to the Company with an impressive resume' -- that of being able to uncork champagne bottles on the pistes of Davos, Switzerland.  His mother probably made his travel arrangements & changed his money back then and probably still chooses his business attire today.
He stated that, in a country where 48% of the youth are unemployed, septuagenarians occupy most company / public / university / and political posts, and where graduates are leaving by the throngs, that jobs are plentiful and youth today just need to try harder and not be so comfy at home.  While, indeed, there is a certain malaise with these 'bamboccioni', the idea that Italy is a free-wheeling, free market when it comes to labor, getting hired and all the rest, is risible, at best. Most jobs are found through personal contacts, not recruiters.  But still, hearing this advice from a guy who 'worked his way to the top' by playing with his toy Alfa Romeos better than the rest is insulting.
So, hats off to Gianfalco for perfectly capturing the zeitgeist and poking fun at our little nipote:

Yeah, right. Elkann really 'came to it' all on his own
Yeah-good thing he didn't say some one gave him a helping hand...
that way he would've climaxed even easier

click on links above
for more Gianfalco cartoons, check out the tab "cartoon of the week" or visit his (Italian) website or Open Salon page in English.

Italy Travel 101: Back to the Basics

In my ongoing series of articles about traveling in Italy, I would like to address something that everyone knows about - understands - and reads or listens to wide-eyed, every time a friend or relative relates their 'vacation horror story' about the pickpocket or thief in [fill in the foreign city].  I have had an onslaught of visitors this summer, and while almost all are seasoned international travelers, each and every one got taken in by someone in some way during their stay.  I find it mind-boggling that when coming to the Emerald City of a fabled country, travelers suddenly hang up their usual wariness, steadfast sixth sense and determine that those trillions of stories you read or hear about just aren't going to come true for them.  So much for The Secret.  Heck--even I've been 'taken for a ride' by that Neapolitan cabbie and had my wallet courteously removed from deep inside my backpack in London [luckily, that's as far as the hands went...in NYC it's a different story].  Even worse, in both cases, I knew I was being fleeced.  So, let's review a hybrid of just two of my recent guests' visits in the Bel Paese when it came to keeping things on their person, like their money.
[Note: this is not to say that an extraordinary time was had by all, that many many merchants and restaurateurs went out of their way to see to it that everyone enjoyed their time, at a bargain, often with a chilled glass of limoncello served up at the end, and that the occasional taxi did, indeed, have their air conditioning running. This is simply a quick & dirty summary of 'forewarned is forearmed' when visiting any country.]
Transportation:  You know in any airport or airport look-alike (say, a major train station) those announcements, signs, placards stating...Don't take a ride from someone offering you one. Go to the Taxi line, make sure there's a sign on top of the vehicle reading TAXI, etc etc.  Okay?  Even when you go abroad and you're jet-lagged and you have luggage and they're smiling and insistent and seem 'legit', just don't do it!!  Do I have to repeat myself?  
I can even add a nice preamble to that: How about, pay real attention to your emails esp when your tour guide or friend-resident in [fill in city name] tells you what to do?!  
I told my friends their hotel was a 20 min. walk from the station, faster with little luggage.  A taxi would run about 8 euro, and to make sure a) the meter was on b) they've set it on that little itty bitty number 1 (read about that here) and c) they printed a map of the area or used GPS to know when a left turn is not a right one.
But no, into a car they waltzed with a guy offering a ride, no meter, no medallion. Do you really think you're going to get a bargain?  Their cars may come with no perks (and that includes insurance), but this does not signify you're at the Thrift Shop of motor vehicles.
Total damage? 30 euro or $40 for a 6 min. ride.

Another taxi trip:  Family gets in the cab.  I inform them it will take about 5 mins and 10 euros + an extra charge for Sunday and perhaps a kid.  The cabbie says he doesn't need to turn on the meter and the fare would be about 25 euro.  Wisely, they ask him to pull over and they get out.

At this point, dear tourists, Note the Cab Number.  Heck, you take pictures of your plates of food and you can't point your iPhone to the side of a car?!  Then, you report them.  

You do not - I repeat, do not - bother paying them for any portion of the ride you just got.  They did not take you to your destination, they are STEALING FROM YOU.  You do not owe them a thing.  Your guilt trip is tantamount to asking the guy who is making off with all your jewelry and computers from your house if they'd like to sit down for a cup of tea and some nice scones to boot.

If they pipe up, you again wield that phone you have on your person 24/7 and actually use it to speak to someone.  Dial 113 for the cops.  Someone will speak your language, believe me.  The taxi will leave the scene, but you can still report them (even later, if you want).  Rome even (supposedly) has a tel number where these sorts of thievery can be reported.  And finally, keep in mind that you now have a fixed rate to/from the airports. No tips, thank you, no shenanigans from you tourists.  There may be a slightly extra charge on Sundays & holidays and for extra luggage (more than one pc). Slightly. They give you a new song and dance, don't jump in to their beat.
For more on taxi taking in the Bel Paese, see links on the Caveat Emptor section of my Travel Tips Page in the tabs above. 

Public Transportation:  Braving the crowds in the subway in & out of the Vatican, they placed their wallet in the outside pocket of the backpack??!!  In what world are we living? My visitors are people who have lived in China, South Africa, and the Soviet Union, for crying out loud.  Is it because Italy looks so nice? Is it too much pesto or provolone?  Too much wine at lunch?  Naturally, said wallet was purloined faster than they could say Turista.
Your bus/train ticket.  I'm sure your guidebook says it straight away, but no one reads those first few practical pages.  Punch your ticket in a machine.  On board.  No, not the same machine that issued your ticket in the first place, that would make far too much sense.  Punch it.  Punch it on the airport train as well.  Look around.  You'll see what I'm talking about.  Follow the crowd.  This is no time to be a rebel nor a leader.  Again, authorities look for the foreigners and start charging (from 5 euro to 50 depending on who's doing the checking) while turning a blind eye to the hordes of gypsies who ride the rails continuously to separate you from your valuables.
Private Transportation:  The biggest scandal of all is the fact that you will be levied a 70 euro ($92.50) fine just for driving to your hotel, or in any city center during the daytime (and sometimes at night as well).  Some hotels get you off the hook, but I don't know how or if that really works.  This is a tourist tax and a pox on a place that counts on the tourist dollar (in more ways than one).  
Parking meters need to be paid, they're fairly straightforward. Park within the blue lines. If you can tell they're white, you don't need to pay.  If you have foreign plates you risk being towed.  My sister just got a ticket for parking when the only meter in the area was out of service.  Hours are posted and it's a helluva lot easier to decipher the system than in NYC.  In many other cities, it's a 'scratch n sniff' card you can scratch out for the amount of time you desire.  Oh-and, those guys who 'help' you park your car? They're illegal. Some people give them money so they don't ruin the car in their absense. My car is so bashed up, they'd be doing me a favor.  But, no, even if they're wearing florescent vests, no need to have that guilt trip as well.
For more on a new way to hit up drivers in the Bel Paese click here and be careful if someone 'hits' you / if your mirror 'hits' another or if someone offers to change your tires on the roadside (after they've been mysteriously pricked by tacks) - their buddies are cleaning out your car while you look on in earnest [this happened to a friend in Milan as others near Naples]. Regardless of the hassles, I'm personally relieved that they don't car-jack here at gunpoint [although your purse may go flying out a window as two guys fly by in a motorino].
Dinner:  The restaurant messes up the order, and then makes you pay for their mistake.  This has happened to me countless times.  From ordering the free drink with the dinner special only to find it on our check or, as happened to us, at I Vascellari in Trastevere, three people ordered three pastas, one each.  Asking them to divide the plates - in the kitchen - somehow, by their calculations, ended up being translated as three people who ordered three pastas each in a mad carbo-loading extreme, clearly readying ourselves for the Tour de France.  Even though I had piped up when the first dishes were served, we were still charged for 9 plates ('don't worry, we know, we're just into serving generous helpings - which, I might add, is true)  They came down (slightly) after I complained.  But even then, the owner still insisted while the wait staff had a sudden lapse of memory: "The pasta was made. Why should we have to swallow the cost?"  And, did I say payment in cash only?  Dinnertimes in Italy have a way of suddenly throwing off the entire electronic system of a country that is the fifth or sixth largest economy in Europe. 
Sitting down for meals & snacks on the go:  You will be charged double.  Granted, you can take them to task like the one tourist who made headlines when charged 64 euro (about $90) for three gelati.  Look at the prices. They're often posted.  And don't give your custom to the guys who are charging 5 euro for a small cup of Italian ice (granita) or 12 euro if you're seated.  
There's a misguided law in place (or was it actually right on target?) that states 'No loitering and eating on monuments', say, like the Spanish Steps or Florence's Duomo.  It was (appropriately) geared toward the guys proffering their wares, but now the police, instead of going after the counterfeiter rings, go after the rich tourists.  You will (not always) be fined a hefty sum (upwards of $600 or so) for your transgression.  Ditto when you purchase items on the beach or streets.  Funny how that practice isn't in place when it comes to dealing with sex slaves. The Johns roam free while the service providers get arrested.
And, be wise to the guys selling electronics on the street (even 42nd street)  Really? Do I have to repeat this? Read more here.
And finally, drink the freely flowing water rather than spend the extortionist prices on mini-plastic bottles. Now, if only there'd be a law to stop what I call runway robbery in airports (worldwide), then we'd really have a Buon Viaggio!

Culture Shock - What to Expect when you're an Expat

The longer I live in Italy, the more I feel like an alien setting foot in the USA.  I don't know the TV shows, picking up a People magazine boggles my brain, I watch with envy as kids' friends blithely open the fridge - in other people's houses.  And everyone goes barefoot, as soon as they walk in (or out of) the house.  So, after my mini-vacation in the USA, a few things made me laugh (or wince) upon the rientro (re-entry).  Here's a short list:

- Driving around the Colosseum.   Still gives me goosebumps.  But the drive to get there just isn't the same.  You realize that you risk getting rear-ended whenever you stop for pedestrians since no one but no one is expecting that.  But, coming from the suburbs, you are thrilled to even see human beings out and about (tho' you see them in any big city).  But here, pedestrians always have a concerned look in their eyes, some flee by your car, terror in their eyes, and I regularly see little old ladies make three or four attempts as if landing a plane in a tornado before they muster up the courage to cross.

Naturally, driving in Italy is the thing that strikes you most.  You let a car in front of you, three more dart in before you have time to move along.  Or, the fact that Romans gave up on indicating lanes, since no one stayed within the white lines anyway.  And, I don't know what they teach in Driver's Ed here about making left hand turns in intersections, but it's not unlike a game of 'capture the flag', using cars as the flags.  Sadly, this involves the pedestrians as well, with the cars skirting up the pedestrian walks in order to get through their turn. When I deign to do it correctly, I'm met with honks and epithets that I cannot publish here.

- Mealtimes.  We all know that mealtimes are big in Italy, and much of life revolves around them.  In the USA as well.  Except there, mealtimes start at a nebulous four or five and don't ever really seem to end.  Everything is about food in the USA.  It's a place that started with ice cream socials back in the day, and now has food eating contests for everything from a new furniture store opening to a church party.  The food fixation starts upon landing when you're smothered in deep-fried everything - while still in the airport.  I'm surprised they still use the word for breakfast there, because by my calculations, Americans never let the fast begin.

- The Mercato.  Buying my food from the little corner mercato always makes me feel like I've gone back in time.  The only thing that brings you into the present are the prices and the use of plastic bags.  Who needs Trader Joe's when you can get fresh peaches picked off the branch by the farmers?

- Bicyclists without helmets, and kids sitting in the front seat, in mamma's arms.  No further comment.

- Bringing my dog pretty much anywhere is fantastic.  The US may have as many dogs as people, but you'd never know it.  There, dogs are like those cement lawn ornaments, frozen stiff on the front lawn lest they get shocked after chasing a squirrel off the property.

- Purchasing a cappuccino at "normal" prices, round about $1.50 makes you never want to drink coffee anywhere else again.  Americans toting those huge cups full of everything everywhere begins to look like they carry baby bottles sized up for adults.  You realize how nice it is that Italians haven't totally bought into the 'walkie cup' food phase.

- Men sitting on park benches.  I've never seen it in the USA, although in NYC the men play checkers or cards (although I'm sure in Brooklyn or Queens they're a common sight).  I love it when I see them there, chatting away, wondering always what it is they talk about for hours on end, day after day.

President Obama on Slavery at Bill Clinton Global Initiative Conference

...and what it means to modern countries like Italy.  

In Obama's words...

"... It ought to concern every nation because it endangers public health and fuels violence and organized crime. I'm talking about the injustice, the outrage of human trafficking, which must be called by its true name, modern slavery.

"Now, I — I do not use that word, 'slavery,' lightly. It evokes, obviously, one of the most painful chapters in our nation's history. But around the world, there's no denying the awful reality. When a man desperate for work finds himself in a factory or on a fishing boat or in a field, working, toiling for little or no pay and beaten if he tries to escape, that is slavery. When a woman is locked in a sweatshop or trapped in a home as a domestic servant, alone and abused and incapable of leaving, that's slavery. When a little boy is kidnapped, turned into a child soldier, forced to kill or be killed, that's slavery. When a little girl is sold by her impoverished family — girls my daughters' age — runs away from home, or is lured by the false promise of a better life and then imprisoned in a brothel and tortured if she resists, that's slavery. It is barbaric and it is evil, and it has no place in a civilized world."

Obama makes his case against the horrific and grotesque practice of human trafficking - something that we all know is going on right under our noses.  He brings that above phrase (in color) to its natural conclusions...that is being sold, beaten, threatened, locked up, forced to kill or be killed makes you a slave.  But I have another view of the part I've highlighted.  It is the plight of millions in Italy, and I imagine in much of Europe, it is the plight of an entire generation, and often their parents' as well.  I have said it before, and I will say it ad nauseum...Italy's economy is wholly dependent upon slave labor.  It is the unspoken secret that no economist looks at, because non-payment doesn't even make the figures.  Besides, economists are so busy looking at the multi-billion dollar underground economic figures, they don't have time to calculate the non-paid work as well.

It starts innocently enough: With kids and moms helping dad out at all hours of the day or after school in the local coffee shop.  It's entire families who shake the trees for weeks on end of olives to make the olive oil that then gets sold.  It's a friend asking you to tutor her child a few evenings a week, or another asking their doctor for free consultations, prescriptions and more.  Another who asks you to edit or translate their website; or produce a conference presentation or pick up their kids after school.  And we won't even think about the millions of grandparents who provide unpaid daycare, with healthy three course meals included.

With immigrants, it becomes 24/7 jobs taking care of granny in which the family conveniently ignores the fact that the help should be paid for night duty; even if they're sleeping (and I've yet to hear of an 80-something sleeping steadfastly through the night).  They are docked pay for time off or forced to swap their salary with a friend who pinch hits in the meantime.  Italy has specific rules governing their in-house COLF labor; the majority of families refusing to abide by them.  The unspoken rule of the day being, 'put up or push off'.  Not willing to lose their job, they endure.  And in a country that has one of the oldest populations on earth, the hours can truly add up.

It turns to the business world, where new graduates or young workers are lured by the false promise of a better life and start working earnestly on that magazine article, that website, that art book, those shoes.  They are asked to work, 'give it a try' in hopes they'll be brought in full time.  It never happens.  Once the project is over, a new line of free labor is signed on and you're out the door.  Or, they're brought in for such little pay, they're forced to live with their parents until well into their 40s, getting out of it only by default; their parents are dead.  Thankfully, in family-oriented Italy, inter-generational cohabitation isn't the torture that Obama describes above...

Professionals are forced to carry a six figure project up for bid by assuming all the costs first, and (hopefully) remaking the money back once the project's launched.  It rarely makes the money back in the end, and employees are let go without any remuneration.  Or, the employees get paid -- but two years in arrears.  Those same employees must first pay taxes on what they were to make, however.  If the Company stops paying, they're left holding the bag.  Or, talk to the people in the hundreds of 'call centers', Italy's sweatshops in a digital age, and Obama's description starts to make sense.

Even companies with the best of intentions might end up in the red (under-funded due to lack of capital and no venture capitalists to come by); employees carry on for months on end, hoping to turn things around.  Newspaper and magazine, one after another folds; with employees turned out without their euros in back pay.  A photographer is asked to do a shoot to 'get their foot in the door', a video producer a new music video, an actor...a few plays, an ad firm a few creative meetings and mockups.  Demos are bid on and delivered at great expense to their creators, only to see the project - should it happen to come to fruition (an unlikely result)  - given to a few unpaid 'interns' (I prefer the term 'slaves') who merely turn out a brutto copy of the original professional proposal.

In 30 years of doing business in italy, I have never - never - seen someone called back for the second round.  Suing is not an option, because you will be in retirement by the time the case is ever heard.

It is not enough that Italy suffers from wage stagnation (wages for workers, excepting for managers, political hacks and their high-paid whores and especially the bankers, have been at a standstill since 1992), there's an even more insipid problem in our midst - and that's an economy based on slave labor.  And as President Obama so accurately stated, "It is barbaric and it is evil, and it has no place in a civilized world."

Nota Bene:
This is not to imply that Italy holds the pole position on these practices.  The USA is choc-a-bloc filled with sweatshops, illegal immigrants toiling in the fields, and wages are at a standstill since the early 1990s.  I was screwed by a Tennessee company, Linguality.com that not only regularly fleeces unsuspecting people of their subscriber fees, but jilted me out of $22,000.  Good thing it's run by two lawyers, one of whom (Jim Roberts) also works for their candidates in the GOP - the party espousing 'values'.  The difference is, the U.S. economy does not depend on these practices and, usually (save for my lawsuit) one has recourse - and speedy trials to make up the difference.  

Coffee, Tea, or Me? A question of cross-cultural relations

Anyone who follows the Dove Sono (Where am I) column in my blog will know that I'm in the USA, taking in some of the cultural differences, and standing agape at the many similarities in political campaigns, and of course, the notable differences (and in both cases, for better or for worse).  On the cultural side, it feels real good to be able to glide into a lane, glide along it for miles upon miles, and not have to worry about staking my claim, vying for position, or being squeezed out at a traffic light -- although in both countries texting and cellphone use is fairly even.  I still feel more safe on Michigan roads, however, due to the fact that: a) they're wider, offering more wiggle room, b) they have shoulders in case you need to make a mad dash somewhere else and c) we're still going at a slightly less speedy clip and there are the men in blue to enforce it.  But, you get my drift.
After numerous trips to the U.S. and with an abundance of coffee bars to hang out in, I found things on that front - you know, picking up a quick coffee with a colleague - was essentially just like in Italy.   Well, okay, albeit for the super-sized drinks and an overabundance of calories contained therein and the Henry Ford approach of ordering and receiving down the line one's potables...

picture from Being Latino
click for a lively debate
on who pays when

I recall when first coming to Italy on business as a (very) young woman, how horrified I was to find that, at coffee breaks and business lunches alike, the guy at the table would very courteously pick up the tab.  I was stunned to think that it might appear as if we had been on a date; In my book it both unleveled the playing field and put the gals into play.  Although it took some time, I did finally get used to the practice, but in extreme situations in which I truly wanted to generously offer a meal, or thank someone for their time over coffee, I took to insisting that my company was owned by men, so...Please don't get offended, a man is ultimately picking up the bill...On many levels, my generosity was most likely an insult to my guest, but for 'working gal' me, it was something that I felt was the right thing to do at the time.
Which brings me to the USA.  I always worked for and with Italians when I was there, and, being quite junior, it was only natural that the guy in the group most often sprung for coffee or lunch or dinner even.  As I gained in seniority, suddenly I realized that I should pay the piper.  But then, Starbucks came into the fore; and a new etiquette seemed to arise that left a lot of women bewildered.  Arranging quick meetings in these cafés, the American man would rush in, grab his very own cappuccino or apple cider, sit down and start in.  Embarrassed that no one asked me what I wanted before heading for the cashier, I would migrate up to the counter, all on my own, and order for my little ol' self.  Not only did I have to pay for my order, I was unable to offer any sort of generosity to my business contact.  I felt like Snow White calling a meeting and all the dwarfs showing up with their lunch pails, leaving her to fetch something out of the woods for herself.
In the U.S., when it comes down to business, I've not come across someone ever even feigning to want to pay for the other (and at $5.27 a cup, I can see why that is).  Time and again, it jars my sense of chivalry, while at the same time, opening up a world of feminist rights and what those struggles now boil down to; each person treated equally--even in a coffee shop.  And yet, after decades in Europe, I now found it a bit disturbing.  I mean, in Japan, your prospects may shower you with gifts, in Turkey they pull out all manner of teas and silver platters lined with cigarettes.  And in the U.S., we can't manage a chai tea with soy?  Maybe it's because I am a woman after all.  With all the options at my disposal, when a guy thinks I may start in ordering a decaf light cream latte, no whipped cream, tall cup with cinnamon sprinkles...men have reached the accurate conclusion that some things are better left alone.

Italy: A Snapshot from the Past

I occasionally enjoy thinking back on 'how things were' in Italy, in the not-so-distant past, and how far things have come in terms of services and general quality of life issues.  In these overheated summer days, you can bet that the appearance of air conditioning is right up there in my top three improvements over the years.   And of course, whenever I can get close to an octogenarian, those old war stories or 'slice-of-life stories like when the most exclusive parts of Rome were once considered the dregs of the earth, or the earthquake that hit in XXX, or hearing tales of family outings on one single scooter... well, they provide food for the soul.  Occasionally, I post my own features here on the blog.

During the summer, many of the movie theaters in Italy take a hiatus.  It doesn't really matter, because you can go to any number of outdoor arenas that put the 1950s American drive-ins to shame.  Italy loves cinema, and cinema loves Italians.  You can find a wealth of movies for almost every taste at any number of movie houses, in a vast array of art houses, and at cinema clubs showing films dubbed to perfection.  Today, you can choose from films from nearly every country, and practically every century since celluloid.   But you don't have to go back as far as Cinema Paradiso scenes to recall what movie going was like before the age of mega-cinemas and Dolby Sound.
It may have taken awhile to get the refreshment stands in cinemas (something that most wise Italians will insist is not an improvement), and a bit longer to get them from stopping the film mid-reel (a heinous event that still takes place, much to the moviegoer's chagrin)  but, the comfort level at most places small and large has gone up in my lifetime exponentially.  Even in tiny cinemas, you can be seated in huge lounge chairs and treated to two hours of great cinema, some seats even sporting cup holders attached.  Under these conditions, I could even get through Bertolucci's 8 hr Novecento masterpiece.

After this charming specimen met its match and ended up as kindling wood, cinemas often were furnished with regular old folding chairs, carefully lined up in rows and rows.  This was circa 1980s Milan.
The chairs were not the issue.  The problem was, of course, the flow.  If a tall person happened to sit down in front of you, your viewing was impaired along with the blood flow to your legs.  I remember watching entire movies without the benefit of the right hand corner or mid-section of the screen.
It's a problem resolved only recently by the airlines with mini-screens at the back of each seat; and one in which I'm quite certain, if churches ever succeeded at tackling, perhaps more people would attend the sermons, concerts and other offerings - instead of winding up with an obstructed pew seat.
Nowadays, and only after extensive restoration work altering the slope of cinemas and inserting layered seating, can the Italian movie experience be rated four-stars.
And seeing that Italian movie buffs rarely interrupt their films with the sound effects of munching on popcorn and treats, if we can now just stop the darned intermissions countrywide, we would win the Oscar for movie-going.

Click here or Check out my 'Favorites' listed on the blog (right hand column) for my book excerpt on Cinema intermissions.

Getting an Italian ID Card - not for the feint of heart

The stories surrounding the Carta d'identita' process are legend, as are the stories of obtaining the mysterious Permesso di Soggiorno (resident's permit) in Italy. Mysterious, because your success doesn't depend upon the bureaucratic hassles, but by the mood of the person behind the desk wielding their power from behind thick glass windows. Switch people: the process is entirely different. Ditto for driver's licenses.  Following is a brief recap of one foreigner's experience in ID Card renewal (and he hails from "United" Europe - where this stuff should be a piece of cake).  Instead, he found it was no cakewalk:

I needed to go and renew my Italian Identity Card (Carta d'identità).  Everyone reassured me, "Oh! It's so easy nowadays! They just stamp it and extend it for another five years!"   Living in Italy, I should have known better--I discovered (the hard way) just how wrong they were...
I head down to Roma centro storico City Hall, armed with an entire file folder filled with every recorded document about my life history that would be an archivists wet dream.   This, as a preventive measure in the (not so uncommon) instance that the clerks suddenly require my birth certificate, my tax returns for the past 5 years, you name it.  Confident that I would make the grade today, I take a number at 10:20am. There are 28 people in the queue ahead of me. Only to be expected of course. So I go home, get my computer and some reading material, come back and sit down with a book. I am called at 11:55am.  I go up to find a grouchy blond lady behind the glass.   She takes one look at my expired ID card and says, "Oh, but we can't renew this one - it is in 'a deteriorated condition'"  [Not only must you have your paper i.d. with you at all times for five or ten years, it must be produced in absolutely pristine condition.]  Looking down, I could see that it had been dog-eared.  I challenged the verdict.  She replied, "It is unacceptable.  You have put Sellotape on it." 

[Her comment also begged the question, Who Cares??!  It's expired.  I need a new one anyway... But, trying logic proved useless.  Seeing that I was being sent over to PARKING, without being able to pass GO, I tried my hand to ply her for all the other information I may need to carry out all the Herculanean Tasks which would be delivered to me like a slow drip in an Intensive Care Unit.  She would have nothing of it, saying only curtly, "You have to buy the form to apply for a new ID card." "Where?," I ask.   "It's upstairs on the first floor," she says dismissively.  Game over.  Before it begins.

So on I go up to the first floor and wait in line at the CASSA (cash desk).  I count my blessings.  I'm only the tenth in line and it only takes me around eight minutes.  I pay €5.62 for the new id card module.  I fill it out, trudge downstairs and go back to the same grouchy blond lady (mercifully,  I didn't have to take a ticket again, and can go back up to her bullet- and sound-proof window).  Hurdle no. 1 surmounted, I hand over the form.  

As if seeing me for the very first time, and pretending to not have heard my foreign accent (Scottish, to say the least) through her solid window, I hear her say, "Oh, but you're not Italian -- in that case, you need to produce a new document, your "Attestato di soggiorno" (Permanent Residence Certificate).  With all the documents I had with me, this one I didn't have.  That's because, I had never even heard of the darned thing.  Turns out, it's a doc that I am entitled to as an EU citizen -- and as someone who has been in Italy for more than ten years.  Why don't I have it?  Because it came into existence after a law decreed number xxxx/yyy of 2007; only five years prior and pursuant to the time I last renewed my ID.  Again, I pull out my best tweezers and attempt to extract some information as to how I get one of these newfangled forms.   She refuses to give me any hints, telling me to go to the information desk to ask.  Hurdle no. 2 - non-surmountable, try your luck at no. 3.
Naturally, you have to take yet another numbered ticket to access the information desk.  Much to my dismay (but not surprise),  it was by this time past noon, and I discovered that the machine does not emit tickets after 12pm.   Not to be easily defeated, I simply barge up to two ladies who were actually very helpful.  They gave me a piece of paper listing all that's required to obtain the Attestato di soggiorno: 

1.  Two tax stamps (marche da bollo) of € 0.42 each (to be purchased from the cassa on the first floor - again!)
2.  Two tax stamps of € 14.62 each - to be purchased from a tobacconist
3.  Photocopies of my passport, last ID card, tax code and health card, VAT number certificate and my entire last Italian tax declaration
I had actually brought most of these docs with me, but still needed to pay the piper upstairs and up the road.  I decided to take advantage of the lunchtime closing (when pretty much any fulltime workers could, in the real world, get any of their transactions done).  It would reopen again at 2pm.   Hurdle no. 3:  In progress.

So up again I go to the friendly cashier at the CASSA on the first floor, and buy my two damn stupid tax stamps for 42 cents each.
I then leave the town hall and head for home to make photocopies of the missing docs, stopping at a tobacconist on the way to buy two more damn tax stamps for €14.62 each.  I make the copies and eat a bite of lunch and return to the beloved City Hall at 1:50pm.   There, I find a queue of 40 people already hovering around the ticket machine, waiting to take a ticket and (not) be attended to by the friendly staff.  At 2pm sharp, we're admitted and the machine starts spitting out little tickets!  I take one for my immediate procedure, one to pass GO later.  Incredibly, I am called up to a serious lady seated in an office behind the counters, who takes me almost immediately.  She swiftly issues me with my "Attestato di soggiorno" (permanent (yay!) residence certificate), making a photocopy for me to give her blonde colleague at the other counter who (doesn't) issue darn ID cards.  In the process, she also informs me that she could have done the entire deed for me right then and there, extending my i.d. card too, but at this point, and since I'd already paid the fees for the forms, I might as well carry on down the hall.  Down, but not out, I go to wait for the next window.  Hurdle no. 3:  Complete.  Onward to Hurdle no. 4.

Italian I.D. Card - Fill in the Blanks

Fortunately for me, I had already taken my afternoon ticket.  Wait time: only another ten or so minutes.  This time, I'm invited up to the counter by another grouch, a red-head.   She takes one look at my docs and says, "Oh!  But your old ID card is dog-eared and therefore invalid!  In order to proceed, you must stick (yet another!) TAX STAMP of € 5.62 on the application module."  I tried protesting--in vain.  Game Over.  Onto the next person to refuse service to.  I scale the stairs once again up to my newfound friend at the CASSA, with whom I am now on a first-name basis, and purchase YET ANOTHER measely tax stamp for € 5.62.   Hurdle no. 1 (or no. 5, but who's counting?!):  Still a work in progress.  The outcome?  Anybody's guess.  

I go back downstairs, but this time must face Grouchy Blond -- the same person that started all this trouble in the first place.  By now, confident of my document and tax stamp wielding agility, I give her a smug look while I slide all of the documents on hand directly her way.   It is by now nearing 3pm; a full five hours since my morning attempt at automated document renewal.   Miraculously, and without a further word (clearly seeing that five hours of penance at her hands, not unlike Juno wreaking vengeance on one of her ex-lovers), she...ISSUES ME WITH A SPANKING BRAND NEW ITALIAN ID CARD!!  I am elated by my success.  Unfortunately, my balloon was burst before I even had a chance to take a step away from her window of doom.
Standing there, watching her in earnest, goosebumps percolating on my skin, whilst she busied herself stamping and initialing all sorts of documents, I swear sixty million times, I happen to notice - to my shock and horror - that the Passport Number on my newly-minted Permanent Residence Certificate is TOTALLY INCORRECT!  In fact, the number posted is that of my OLD passport which expired back in 2007.   They must have still had that number in the system...my heart sinks and visions of tiny ticket numbers and light-hearted conversations with Mr. CASSA come into my head.  I am crestfallen.  Hurdle no. 6:  In progress.
BACK AGAIN I go to the serious lady in the office behind the counters.  At this point, I simply barged straight in, going behind the counters with a vengeance.  Of course, no one stopped me (so much for 8 inch thick windows -- I could have been coming in there with a bomb, for all they knew - In fact, I am still amazed that there are no instances of wild-eyed foreigners 'going postal' in the Italian City Hall offices nationwide).  

I catch the lady walking back into her office and advise her that the passport number on my certificate is wrong.  She gets a worried look across her face.  I am losing all hope.  I can't believe my ears when I hear her say, "Oh dear -- I don't know what to do about that!"   She turns to ask a little man who is filing reams of paper files (in this day and age!) what to do.  He shows her how to make the correction [It goes without saying, on the system that SHE supposedly uses every single day].   BINGO!  Out comes the corrected certificate with the correct passport number on it! Hurdle no. 6:  Surmounted.

But once again, before I even have time to utter, Hip Hip Hurrah! I look down on my spanking new certificate.  I look over at the old one.  I see that they are different -- the old one bears two neat tax stamps -- and they are now stuck onto the wrong certificate!  Hurdle no. 7:  Another trip to the CASSA office in store?  Read on...

I tell her in no uncertain terms that I will be damned if I am going to go and buy any more tax stamps, especially since it was their error.  And, for the second time all day, Fate is smiling on me...The nice office lady takes her fingernails and gingerly PEELS THEM OFF.   She sticks them right onto the corrected certificate, and then rubber stamps them, initializes them, and does the hokey-pokey, for all I care...All is well in my bello bungalow of bureaucracy.  Hurdle no. 7: Done Deal.

But doing her duty to see that of course, no document shall be issued from her office with any ease, she then asks me to return the photocopy of the previous (incorrect) certificate.  I reply casually,  "I gave that to the grouchy blond lady who issued me with my ID card!"  Mercifully, she accompanies me over to her colleague across the room.   At this point, and upon seeing me once again,  the grouchy blond I am sure starts to wonder what the heck the fat Brit is doing back here again.  Eureka!  The old photocopy is replaced with the new photocopy... Hurdle no. 8: Hercules would be proud.

I thank both ladies profusely, who in response simply frown at me...And I finally leave, no longer an illegal immigrant, with my spanking new Permanent Residence Certificate and my new 10 year ID Card.  I am overjoyed at the prospect of not having to enter those hallowed halls until - 2023!  Maybe by then, things will be automated.

Eat your heart out Olympians.

As for me, as a dual citizen, I've never encountered any of these problems, save for having to buy a few extra forms because on one my middle name was left out, or, like Tony above, my expired i.d. was one form, the fact that the paper doc was torn was another...Nonetheless, I have found out (the hard way) that my officially issued by the City of Rome i.d. is still invalid in many circles...Although sporting all the official seals and stamps, it was handwritten in pen.  Which since its issuance, is no longer accepted.  Each time I get pulled over or go thru customs, I am told it's not valid and asked, "Why is it in pen?"  My reply:  Try asking your colleagues in the office that issued it - not me.  I should hardly think I'm the one who requested "pen only".   

Life in Italy Top 10 Reasons You've Not Got Mail

Anyone who lives in Italy knows that the Italian Post Office in all its forms (from mail clerks to carriers to delivery to home banking) is the bane of one's existence.  Simply put, it's the flip side of the frittata to stunning scenery, passionate people, magnificent monuments, unbelievable food, events, culture and more.   I'm amused daily by tweets and facebook postings on people's Italy post office blues.  I often repost them in the right hand column of my blog, under Overheard or on my own fb page, but I dedicated an entire chapter in my book entitled, The postman never rings even once.
After the mail carriers (supposedly) shipped back 100 copies of my book rather than bring them to my doorstep -- I have bets placed that I will never live to see their shiny Burnt by the Tuscan Sun covers -- and yesterday's defeat at the hands of the despotic desk clerks, I have decided to share with you my very own David Letterman moment:  The Top 10 Reasons Why We Refuse to Take Your Mail.  But, unlike Letterman, each and every one is an actual response I've received from the people who I am by now quite certain live out their measly existence by wielding power in their pat refusals to provide you, the person keeping them gainfully employed, with this most basic service.  Giving you stamps.

The Top 10 Reasons Why the Italian Post Office Clerks Refuse to Take Your Mail

10.  You've written the address in green pen  [note:  the same applies to red pen as well]

9.    Your envelope has been stapled [and the metal staples might cause harm to our carriers]

8.    It's ten minutes prior to our ten minutes before closing time and we won't take any more transactions [ignoring the fact that you've been inside the place for over an hour]

7.    We have a new order that only 5 transactions are allowed at a time.  You have seven envelopes requiring postage.  I will give you postage for those five, but you'll have to take another number and wait to do the next ones

6.   The USA has stopped accepting packages

5.  Waiting for my number to be called so I could post three letters, I found out they had closed down the letters & packages window altogether to provide for more windows to the hundreds waiting for their financial transactions (avg transaction time:  12 minutes per customer).  I can't reopen the window - it's the system that closed it down - you'll just have to wait til all others before you are helped [note: term used quite loosely]

4.   I can't weigh the letters at this window to determine the postage - you need to go to the window across the way and get them weighed [implying taking a new number and waiting hours in line] / [postscript to this entry: I did just that, the co-worker penciled in  the postage amounts, to wit the clerk then said How do I know that you didn't just write them in yourself and they, indeed correspond to the correct postage?

3.   You wrote 'UK' for United Kingdom on the envelope, and it should be Gran Bretagna (Great Britain) 

2.   [No explanation] They just left you standing there and went on their coffee break

1.  We have no stamps here [this excuse comes in many other forms from 'we don't have the right denominations', 'you want too many stamps', the meter is down, the meter can't post to the USA, the list is endless]

For anyone attempting to apply logic as in...Why don't they just give us postage stamp machines?  The reasons are two-fold:  

a) It would imply someone filling them up with envelopes, money and postage labels to keep them running, which, after day 3 would no longer be in service and 

b) in a country in which the second favorite national pastime is beating the system, they would need someone to check that the postage on the package was accurate, as everyone would simply weigh out boxes empty, get the stamps, and then and only then fill up their boxes with leaden materials and pop them in the mail.