10 things that have changed Life in Italy

It all started when Italy Mag published a few terrific photos taken in the 1980s by photographer Charles H. Traub for his new book (try to get past the godawful name), La Dolce Via (click name for link).
I first came to Italy as an adult in 1982, and again for a year in 1985. So I started thinking about all things that have changed since those early days of wonderment, hot summer nights and pasta binges. But one thing that hasn't changed: those Speedo-style bathing suits you see in the pictures.

From Charles H Traub's book, La Dolce Via
photos from 1980s Italy

§ 10 things that have changed the essence of Life in Italy §

• Shaken, not Stirred - I remember asking - no, begging - for some ice - even a single, solitary cube of it when ordering a drink of any kind.  I was clearly playing Italian roulette, what with ice and being stricken on the spot, right up there on the charts of health superstitions.  Time and again, I would be served a gin&tonic or screwdriver - warm (after walking the barrista through the ingredients and preparation).  Nowadays kids earn 'mixology' degrees, make mean mojitos, and, taking a cue from my fellow countrymen, serve up a huge glass of Coke - with almost nothing in it but ice.
• Tourist 'Attractions'? Really?! - Who doesn't recall those heady days of seeing thousands of tourists scratching their collective heads for something to do after lunch? It was Walter Veltroni around 1997 who finally freed museums from the clutches of govt unions who did not want their employees to work more than half a day, and we're all better for it (except maybe the scores of lovers who were now left languorously waiting prostrate by the nightstand half-cocked, so to speak).
• What do you feel like for dinner? - Granted, anyone coming to visit Italy only wants the Real Maccheroni...but for the rest of us, we used to dream of a decent plate of Pad Thai, or a genuine American burger.  Chinese eateries started the trend but then sushi came in the roaring 90s with the Japanese tourists.  Now, you can feast your eyes and please your palate on anything and everything from Argentinian beef to Tex-Mex to Moroccan, without having to hang out at the ubiquitous Kebab joints.  Not to mention something I may have had a hand in...muffins, cookies and cheese cakes served in Autogrills and bakeries and supermarkets across the country.  As a former New Yorker, I'm still waiting to 'Order In', however.
• Mad Max Parking - It used to amuse me to come across any number of cars pulled right up to the coffee shop or newsstand or phone booth-solo un minuto. Once cities finally figured out they could make loads on paid parking spots the gig was up - and enforced. But then came SUVs. So now we're just double-parked in by big egos who insist you need to wait for them to finish their cup of espresso or conversation before you're allowed to go on your way. Ahhh...the good old days...when you could at least pull off the sidewalk and out of your own parking spot.
• (Un)Happy Hours - and...what is now known as Apericena [Aperitivo + Dinner (Cena) where you can pig out at the bar with a drink and bar food for about 8 euro a head]  Only the Venetians had (and still have) their unique form of Happy Hour - served with Spritz, but what started with the fashionistas in Milan, finally spread across the Boot.  So mixed drinks are now served (with ice!) but as for collateral damage: Watching Italy go from wine-only, conversational soirees to drinks, drugs, pole dancers to open air Bunga Bunga frat parties is something that I never thought I'd live to see.
• Sayonara Siestas - I long fought for the opportunity to actually make purchases when I had time to do so: lunch hours and weekends. But now that shopping malls and continuous hours are the norm, with the advent of chain stores replacing the mom&pop shops, well...it makes me a bit nostalgic for the times when demand was as pent up as a pressure cooker with Arborio rice inside.  I used to think that Italy's economy would be on a roll with longer hours; but with our triple dip recession in play, well...clearly this hasn't helped.
• How a DJ Changed My Life - It used to amaze me that in Italy, djs would talk right through the songs they played On Air.  In a country with more conspiracy theorists than types of pasta, I was told that this was so people couldn't record the songs straight off the radio; something, we all did, of course. I guess youtube and iTunes put the kabosh on pirated songs over the radio but hey, we can still buy pirated movies on any street corner.
• Money lenders in the temples - It wasn't so long ago that churches charged money to visitors who wanted the lights shined on an artwork or two.  But in the late 1990s, they wisened up, and many took the bold step of charging to get closer to God...or at least to the gilded altarpieces with Venice - Verona - and Pisa leading the way. And while sometimes you still need to drop a coin in the coffers to see where you're going, you'll find churches - like the Bocca della Verità - charging for photo opps, or putting up scaffolding for inordinate amounts of time to make an honest buck [a plan that sometimes can backfire...when Benetton's priest & nun kissing or some very heavy cleavage covered 3 stories of an important Roman parish...] As funny as that was, churches are laughing all the way to the Banca di Santo Spirito - which leaves me wondering, 'What would Jesus think'?
• Mad Men & Movie Ads - There was a time when I knew all the RAI jingles and could settle in knowing I could enjoy a film - all the way through and without interruption. Then came Silvio Berlusconi, who imported that American-style of TV ads and everything changed (starting with burlesque starlets - maintaining a perpetual loop of 1970s Love, American Style crossed with Hee-Haw). And even though we all pay the loathed TV Tax (promising 'no ads'), well, even on the State-owned channels there they are.  On the flip side, movie theaters have mostly done away with the (hated-by-foreigners-only) INTERVALLI - breaks - during screenings [you can read my own heartfelt recollection of the horrific experience here or in my book].
• A Breath of Fresh Air - Last, but certainly not least, especially during the sweltering summer months, it was the Summer of 2003 that did the entire country in.  A place so fixated on the ills of a/c that they didn't even have it as an option in vehicles.  Today, although I may find myself covering up with newspapers in trains on occasion, I enjoy entering a bus that is refreshingly cool (unless there are older people on board who have opened the windows).  You can read here about that fateful heatwave of 100+ degrees that changed a nation - from my book, Burnt by the Tuscan Sun.

Move your cursor thru post for live links to more fun stuff...

Italy's Post Office: a new service or a scam?

Having just recently reported about the new scams hitting up drivers in Italy, I thought I'd do my best Agatha Christie impersonation and uncover another trick which I am quite sure, in these difficult economic times, is actually a scam.  This one must be a fraud since it advertises new and improved services by Italy's Poste Italiane.  But, I'm getting ahead of myself.  It might not be a scam after all, I'll let you readers decide:

Plastered all around my neighborhood, and sometimes further afield, were these bright yellow, attention-getting makeshift posters.  Crowned with a downloaded logo of Poste Italiane, they caught my attention for a few reasons.  First off, I couldn't understand why the post office would be advertising their services on phone booths and trees and garbage canisters when they love to produce brochures of every shape, size and color and inundate your mailbox - seeing that they have your address and that of every other person in the entire country [could it be because the mail carriers can't be trusted to actually deliver the flyers?]  Secondly, I couldn't for the life of me, imagine why they wanted to introduce a service that requires total strangers to enter your home -- especially for the elderly, victims time and again of nefarious petty criminals, who go in and convince old folks to hand over oodles of money, sometimes drugging them in the process.  And third, why on earth would you launch a service for homes right when everyone was leaving them for the entire month of August, never to remember that this service even exists after three weeks frying their bodies and their brains at the beach.

The Posters Read:  From now on, you can pay your bills
in the comfort of your home

All you need is a credit card and then contact any of our
reps for your zone at the numbers below

Giving Poste Italiane the benefit of the doubt, I decided to simply see if this were true.  If so, it still behooved me to think that they would want to promote a service like this, when every other utility and phone company in town was busy plastering announcements with every bill shouting out that No one will ever come to your home to collect payment of any kind -- in a last ditch attempt to convince the elderly not to be so trusting.  

So off I went to my local post office, the central one in Rome's City Center, and its huge distribution hub near the Pyramid just to see if I could find some information on this new fab service.  Nothing.  No flyers, no one knew a thing.  Again, in marketing-challenged Italy, this doesn't necessarily mean that another office somewhere didn't launch the service without telling the rest of the people.  Internal communications is a rare commodity around these parts.

Online, I went to the source:  The Post Office website, looking for info on the new home-based service.  Nothing was posted, no announcement, no news, and, after a gazillion clicks, I couldn't find a whole lot.  I reiterate, that does not signify that the service is not legit.  It's August.  The web guy is probably on vacation.  I did come across a Poste Italiane web TV channel on youtube (and now we wonder why they run such huge losses -- like I want to watch programs about the post office...of course, I can always look at postal programs instead of looking at my mail which never shows up.)  There, they promote the service but say you can only pay a certain type of bill with only a postal debit card.  Not any card, anytime.

Finally, I decided to check and see whose number that last one, supposedly ringing over at an office, belonged to.  I didn't call it, because I figured they were just waiting for people to invite strangers into the home.  According to the Italian white pages, it was an unlisted number.  Calling it, it just rings before cutting you off, but this, too, is a common occurrence for most public service establishments.

At this point, if I am to believe that the postal service is a legitimate one (in fact, they provide a toll free number to call, not posted on the posters like the ones above), I take Poste Italiane to task and ask, in this day and age of cloning credit cards, why they would attempt such a service which opens up the entire country to thieves.   In addition, with so many elderly without credit cards, I could just hear even an honest employee say, "Well, okay, you can pay me in cash."  You would never be the wiser until your next bill comes due months later, and then, as usual, it'd be your word against theirs.

If instead, it's a scam, I'd be interested in knowing about the posting of all these cellphone numbers.  Do they belong to the same person?  Did they just want to try their luck at scamming a few dozen people, cloning the cards and then, the numbers would be discontinued as soon as they got enough cards in their hands?  Hard to tell.  

But either way, scam or not, somebody needs a crash course in marketing right away.

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".   

Italian Census - My personal household inventory

This week mailboxes were stuffed with large white envelopes, taking the census of our countrymen.  It provoked a stir on the web for people with anxiety asking how to fill it out correctly, and if a coffee stained it was it now invalid, and other sundry items.  As for me, I took my own little census of my household--and, while I usually try to keep my rants to myself, I thought I'd share the pain...

- The heat doesn't go on in the house until November 15th, so I need to start revving up the space heaters from the basement.  Luckily, there is a 'pity clause' and if it truly grows cold here, the heat will go on.  Now if I just changed my 50 yr old windows & doors, well...there would be a minor blip in the global warming statistics.

- My bed is in the wrong place because the outlets on that side of the room don't work.  This, after spending thousands on redoing all the electrical wiring in the apartment to correct that very problem.

- I finally have consistent hot water (happily provided by Vaillant, the only name in water heaters) after years hearing from the plumber that the constant shutting down of the heater was due to the hard water of Rome.  So why is it that my neighbor, purportedly using the same water has never had a day run cold?

- After switching from Wind/Infostrada over to Vodafone Station for my home, I can no longer receive calls, and when I can make them, no one on the other end can hear me.  Calls to Vodafone prove useless, and although we don't have to pay for the customer "service" hotline, you're forced to listen to Iron Maiden covers at ear-shattering decibel levels until they come on the line.  They offered to come out to check the line for $50.  Why I didn't follow the old adage, 'if it ain't broke, don't fix it'...is beyond me.  I've now asked to switch back to Infostrada, costing me over $100 in total switching fees - read the fine print (the govt passed a law to stop this practice, so, like the bank credit card cos., you're not charged a fee for switching, but another for administrative purposes...)

- Some of the shutters don't roll up properly, after having them newly installed.  The guy who installed him said he'd come fix them but I'd have to pay another 70 euro ($100) to have him check out the problem.  

- I moved the refrigerator slightly only to discover that the painters didn't bother to paint the wall behind it, so now I have a two-toned kitchen Luckily, it's now all the rage...

- I have a virtual pigeon coop on my balcony, but when I went to wash it down, a neighbor across the way shouted she would report me to the police for splashing water on the balcony below.  Talk about a ficanaso!  I now have to sponge-bath my balcony...

- A screw came loose in the shower, sending liters of water into the apartment below.  The insurance fortunately will cover it - but only half the cost of repainting. I suppose, I was half-responsible for turning water on in the shower in the first place.

- My top-of-the-line vacuum cleaner kept going on & off.  After bringing it in for repair, it got a new motor and a $225 price tag to go along with it.  And it still keeps going on & off.

- My brand new kitchen stools made from plastic have oxidized inside, leaving them foggy in appearance.  Naturally, it happened after the 30 days had expired.

- My surround sound stereo system has never worked.  Trony refused repeatedly to exchange it, saying it was my fault.  Admittedly, there may be some truth in this (I am electronically challenged), but, in the meantime sounds emanate only from two speakers.

- Visiting Americans, clearly not used to apartment living, ended up spilling wine on my freshly painted wall, breaking an expensive painting, and leaving muddy footprints all on a wall where the stools are.  I've had to ship luggage to two of them who managed to break the key in the tricky door lock  the day of departure.  I'm starting to rethink my 'barefoot at home' position...maybe I should do as the Italians do and force guests to wear slippers...or, not have guests at all.

Friends have suggested that my customer service issues occur because I am a woman...(ignoring that 80% of household purchase decisions are made by my very category), but instead, I think I need to invest in some serious feng shui experts.

And then, of course, there is the flip side: items I had lovingly installed or gifted from good friends, coming from persons with whom I had developed personal relationships, and who were often quite magnanimous in their TLC, has been nothing short of stupendous.  Except my bathroom tiles which never meet at 90 degree angles.  But hey, you can't have tutto!

I just might bring back my Business Weak reports on the disservice of the week - in the hopes that someday, a PR hack will take notice...

Advertising Age - Banking Edition

Italians since ancient times have always paid close attention to the care of their bodies - after all, it's the Romans that made virtual palaces of their 'bath houses' replete with all the rituals that made you come out smelling - if not like a rose - at least olive oil & laurel.
So bankers, in their multi-century glut of good advertising gimmicks, have decided to appeal to the beautiful people of the Bel Paese.  Credem's ad agency, Republic, who actually admits to having created this pathetic campaign, has peppered Italy's train stations with profiles like hers in a sorry attempt at witticism.  It reads, "My nose knows it's the bank for me."  With the check-up line posted above, I was actually tempted to call the number to see where I could get a nose job and free checkup ('zero spese') along with it.   

Advertising Age:  about a 6 yr. old attempt

Not to be outdone, the Poste Italiane, that beacon of brilliance, has come out with a whole line of (financial) products to entice you to live a beautiful and harmonious life.  Their image?  A line of beauty care creams.  Seeing that at the Post Office you can buy recipe books, pots & pans, and every other service (except actual stamps) known to man, I simply thought they were coming out with their own anti-aging creams - to ward off the effects of time you spend in line there.    
Advertising Age:  23 yrs old / Effectiveness: 0


And, speaking of the Italian Postal Service, here's a little trick to avoid it altogether:  
In Rome, I have discovered right near the Colosseum (on via S. Giovanni in Laterano) a Swiss Post Office.  Years ago, those savvy Swiss spotted a nice opportunity, and opened their first office in Milano (on viale Jenner) as well.  Take your letters & packages there - you'll pay less and you can rest assured your package will arrive.
[click on Swiss Post for link to their facilities].

Italian Food: Worth licking your plate over

Over the holidays, when they bring onto the front burner those desultory articles of seemingly low import, some major bombshells were dropped about Italians and their eating habits.  As a 'sloppy seconds' American, these came on like tsunamis in my world view.

We know that Italians conquered the food world, right about the same time that poor man's polenta became so chic, it was priced at about $5 per sliver.  Baloney, or Bologna's melt-in-your-mouth mortadella was something you only dreamed of finding on your plate at Happy Hours.  Then, they did it again when they won over the American FDA in the 80s, and were allowed to ship over their prosciutto by the ton.  Competing ferociously for the American dollar, Italian wines -- and my favorite, prosecco, still carry the day, if not the entire evening as well.

In the 90s, we were treated to the Slow Food Movement.  Italy's singular response by a great visionary to the encroachment of McDonald's on its shores.  And in 2010, Eataly took New York by a storm.  So, what could they ever do for an encore?  Ancora! (More!) that's what.

Incredibly, Italians, by their own admission, have reignited yet another passion (for all us food lovers with peasant hearts):  La Scarpetta.  My favorite way to eat food.  I'm not even sure of the etymology here, but, it translates to...ripping off that sumptious corner of delectable bread, and scraping your plate with it until you've soaked up the very last drop.  Let's just say that in finer households, this is say, frowned upon.  But it would seem of late...that people are getting caught - shall we say, red wine-handed??  Food has never tasted more delizioso.

                               You can take the kid out of America... but can't take the American outta the kid, especially if brownie batter is involved

But then, no sooner had you scraped that last bit of walnut cream sauce off your plate than it happened. First one table, then another, at your favorite ristorante.  Not just ugly Americans were actually - ohdiomio - asking to bring home their leftovers.  People in the know say Italians leave behind upwards of 30% of their meal -- and now, and especially with the prices at record levels, and perhaps the lack of time to prepare good food like mamma used to make, a taboo has been wrapped up just like your Penne all'arrabbiata to be reheated next day.  Incredibly, these morsels of goodness go even in 'doggy-bags', in English.  Could eating with your fingers be far behind?

I had a boyfriend break up with me after I ordered a pizza to go - in a pizza box (it was half the pie, hardly just one slice).
Do you think there's anything wrong with bringing home the bacon?

Back to Business

No sooner did the lull of the holiday break subside, than we were painfully reminded of the grinds of our daily routine:  the one pitting the poor sod of a lowly consumer against the corporate pencil-pushers who would rather ‘Just Say No’ than accept the idea that, perhaps, it’s due to customers giving their custom, that they are dutifully employed in the first place. 

My own ‘giornata a no’ – the Italian expression for a ‘bad hair day’ – began like many others (and, I must say, my hair was a mess).  I tried to recycle my plastic, but every single bin within a 1/2 mile radius was filled to the brim.  So, setting my sights on the Bancomat to get some cash, it was in its customary ‘Out of Order’ status.  At the Post Office, I discover that some smart thieves – or one seriously irate customer – had rammed a truck through the front window.  Off to the main post office, the manager comes out shouting, “Tutti Fermi!” – “All freeze!”  Luckily, it was just to perform a backup (during operating hours?) and not another heist in progress.  [After they've doubled - doubled - postage rates, I pondered who, precisely, were the heisters...] Checking the movie times, I decide to head over to my favorite cinema before it is turned into a Diesel store.  Once there, I find it already bolted shut, signs plastered, “No longer in operation” – just like the Bancomat.  So much for fact checkers.  Trying to get home, I board the bus which has a ticket machine aboard.  Also out of order.

But, my favorite came in from a friend who, on his way to New York, withdrew $2000 to deposit upon arrival.  Withdrawing large sums of money in Italy comes with a lot of pomp & circumstance:  letters in writing, lots of stamps, your i.d. card; you would think you had just stolen it and they need to make up Exhibit A.  In New York the next day, his bank takes one look at a bill and stamps COUNTERFEIT all over it -- making copious copies, and having him sign declarations, and all that. 

He immediately contacts his Italian bank, forwarding the copies.

Their response: “We have nothing to do with this. How do we know it’s ours (denying the existence of serial numbers), and besides, it is your responsibility to check the bills prior to exiting the bank.”

Aghast, he mentions that, to the best of his knowledge, his iPhone does not have an incorporated infra-red machine but, besides, "Isn’t it the institution’s responsibility to check their own bills prior to issue?"

Again, the request is refused.

He then mentions his bank accounts, mortgages on two apartments and other business he may reconsider holding with them, should they not simply look into and rectify the matter.

Their response (ignoring the previous communications and reams of request papers involved): “We cannot possibly honor bills after 8 months have passed since their issue.”

He then reminds them – that those conversant in the banking world might want to keep in mind - that in America, the dates are inverted.  "And so no, it’s not from April 1^st, but rather from January 4^th," the day before, as reported in the initial request and subsequent documentation.  He goes on to suggest that his friends in the room, all NYC bankers, will reconsider their business with the bank, and one institution already refuses to do business with them for their lack of – shall we say, propriety – in conducting int’l transactions.

Their response: “We will look into it, but please know that our bank is changing hands, and you’ll have to deal with a new entity upon your return.”

After more negotiations upon his return to Italy, he finally was credited the $100.   His time?  About $800 worth.

Thinking of Moving to Italy? Think Again. Three Ways that Living There is Different than Visiting

Guest Post by Cherrye from My Bella Italy

The idea of living in the bel paese makes many would-be expats as green as fresh basilico. It is Italy, after all, one of the top tourist destinations in the world and a place where history and culture seep from centuries-old buildings and antique cobblestone streets.

However, visiting Italy and planting roots aren’t quite the same thing -- a truth I’ve been forced to share on occasion whenever bright-eyed tourists proclaim their love for this land and quickly inform their spouses, “I think I could live here.”
The truth of the matter is, it’s not easy to live in Italy. In addition to the sad state of the economy, the laughing stock of a prime minister and the forces responsible for letting 100,000 tons of trash overtake Naples in recent years, there are some things that are harder to live with than others.
And here are three of them.

1. Cibo and Vino
People travel to new countries to soak in the culture and lifestyle of the region they are visiting, and when these people are in Italy-they get to eat it up. Literally.
Italian food is arguably the best food in the world, and I’m a sucker for Calabrian red peppers, eggplants and pecorino cheese. But sometimes, a girl just wants a peanut butter sandwich on American white bread … some cheddar cheese … real orange juice.
When you’re traveling in Italy, PB&J, Mexican burritos and quick and easy sushi are the furthest things from your mind. But the longer you stay overseas, the more you’ll find that not only old cravings die hard but -- after a year--or three- they can spring back to life - with a vengeance.

2. Chiuso … Again!
You know how charming it is that stores still close in the middle of day and everyone goes home to enjoy a long lunch with their families? Well, try running to the store for tampons, ahem, personal items, in the middle of the day and being met with closed gates.
Not so charming anymore …
Not so charming at all … .

3. Red Tape and Personal Space
Italy is notorious for its never-ending red tape and just about every expat has a bone-chilling Italian bureaucracy experience to tell. Travelers to Italy generally laugh off the eternal lines and misinformation -- but when your residency depends on spending 3 hours a day over 3 full days in various lines only to be told you have to start all over again, it is not a laughing matter.

Speaking of laughing matters, there are dozens of contradictions that we foreigners come across on almost a daily basis. And, I’m sure, that for Italians moving to America, the same goes for them, too. For example, southern Italians, who hang their laundry to dry for the entire neighborhood to see, notoriously get upset when their privacy has been invaded even in the smallest way. So why they have no problem when a pharmacist questions them in front of a crowded room of those same neighbors, “What do you need?” And they reply in a loud, proud voice, “Something for my hemorrhoids.”

Do you live in Italy? What other misconceptions do you think there are about living here as compared to traveling here?

Cherrye Moore is a freelance writer and B&B owner living in Calabria, Italy. She writes for Affordable Calling Cards offering calling cards for Italy.
She also pens informative and entertaining articles on traveling to Calabria on her website, My Bella Vita.

Consumer Marketing 101

Here's a new approach to winning over customers that was tried out on me today by the illustrious Telecom Italia Call Center --

Granted, as soon as I hear from a Telecom phone salesperson, I tend to stop them right away -- as I would not sign up for their (dis)services if it were the only company operating on earth. In fact, even if they were offering unlimited bandwith and free calls worldwide, I'd probably opt for two cans tied together with a string.
Usually, I say so much and enjoy a nice chuckle with the poor soul at the other end, wishing them good luck, but, recommending (highly) they try to change carriers. The responses I get are nothing short of remarkable (coming straight from the annals of, 'It's just a job, Ma'am). None of those American Express Co. 'Customer and Company are always right' memos for these worker bees!

But today took the cake.

Interrupting my day, the woman said she was calling from Telecom. I simply told her straight away, "You're wasting your time." Usually they say, are you sure you don't want to hear about our offer, etc. etc.
This time, she answered adopting the 'Best defense is a good offense' strategy.

"No, you're wasting your time, you piece of shit foreigner." (for you English, that'd be, 'bloody foreigner', I believe.

I wonder when more companies will begin utilizing this new sales tactic. Considering the new Italian middle class is most likely filled with foreigners from every corner of the earth, it might just work wonders. For some inexplicable reason, though, I can't seem to find it in my copy of Dale Carnegie's, 'How to Win Friends and Influence People."


Part 2/Telecom Italia Calls
Just 4 1/2 hrs. later, I received a call - incredibly - from the Customer Service office of Telecom Italia (I know, I know..they have a customer service office??)This, after my very specific missive entitled, "Zenophobic insults from Telecom employees". After a long discussion with a very charming man who expressed his sincere apologies, I was left with:

- the call didn't originate with them, so they can't do anything
- if they find which of their subcontractors has my number, they will issue a fine. Too many complaints, they cancel the contract.
- he's sorry, because being a foreigner shouldn't even come into it

He also said that the 50000+ employees of Telecom is a 'specchio dell'Italia' ('a mirror image', and here, we're in dangerous waters), but he's doing everything he can to assure that these events don't occur. Problem is, his range of action is only w/Telecom employees.

I asked if my tel. number (and it's this that I desire most) can simply be canceled from their lists. I offered to be a 'secret shopper', but, he said, I'd have to join Telecom to do so (!) and so I left him with this little anecdote I once read in a marketing manual:

"Pepsi never gained customers insulting Coke drinkers"

Part 3/Telecom on the Line
Less than 5 minutes later, I receive another call from another Call Center looking to offer me Telecom Italia services. She refused to give her name, nor mention the company she works for, but, I did manage to convince her that it's in their best interests to lose my number - and fast. She said she will take me off her list, but that doesn't preclude someone else from contacting me.

The battle was hard won, but not the war...


photo by www.communities.canada.com

When the Chips are Down

One of the favorite shows for Italians in the late 70s-80s was Chips – you remember, the couple of hunks riding on their bikes doing Highway patrol. They were the male version of the infamous Veline, except they were fully clothed and were not given to gyrating senselessly on a tabletop. But, you get my drift.
I think in terms of policemen prototypes, these guys were not so tough and scary; kind of like the way the Italians like to think of their own cops. Collectively, there’s not a whole lot of respect here for the law enforcement guys, although I do think it’s improving. Following the bravery (provoking unseemly national pride) of the Carabinieri’s performance in Iraq, you don’t hear too many Carabinieri jokes these days. But still, when the guys running the red lights, talking on the cellphone while driving, or letting hotties get away with running their own lights (yes, that’s sour grapes!) you tend to lose a little bit of respect for the guys in blue.
The other day I heard an interview on the radio traffic station with a top official from the Highway Patrol (I know, I know, there’s a highway patrol???!!) He was commenting on the ways motorists can stop bleeding money thru the hefty speeding fines levied by the tell-all cameras hidden on every thoroughfare throughout the boot. His suggestion? An emphatic: Just Slow Down. Not only sage advice, but safe too. I was impressed.
Until he quickly followed it up with, “and, if you really must speed, just be sure to get to know where those cameras are hidden.”
It’s always wonderful knowing that you are fully and happily within the boundaries of your comfort zone. As for Chips? Luckily, those huge cement blocks hiding the cameras aren’t mobile. And ugly as they are, no one pays attention to them anyway.


Link to a brilliant site with everything you want to know about the Autovelox cameras, including their positionings and tips to avoid getting nailed.

Hell on Wheels

I am a feminist. I truly am. It’s just that when it comes to women drivers in Italy, I tend to side with the Saudis. The other day a report came out which proved one of my pet theories: SmartCar drivers were actually pretty stupid when it comes to using their automobiles. Incredibly, they were even more stupid than the SUV owners, who, by all accounts, simply ignore that there are things called lanes, stop signs and other petty inconveniences like other cars along their path, never mind parking spaces and pedestrians.

And, while you will get run down or cut off by both SmartCars and SUVs driven by both sexes fairly equally, I still believe it’s the women that cause more harm. Men, you see, actually take pleasure in using other vehicles in much the same way as little rubber ducks in a shooting gallery. The women don’t even see that there are dozens of ducks paddling along in the first place all desperately trying to avoid the one with the loaded weapon.

There was a time in the 80s and 90s when it was easy to spot these reckless drivers. Back then, husbands let their wives on the road as long as they were inside a FIAT UNO or Panda, basically the equivalent of a Chevy Chevette or Ford Fiesta, without the comforts. And in a sort of unspoken code, these guys collectively set out to mark which wives to watch out for – the women’s cars were always – without exception – white.
And so, when you found yourself anywhere near a white UNO (I might add the same car thought to have set off the crash which killed Princess Di), you knew to let them go ahead, or run the red light before they crashed into you from behind, or how to beat them so they wouldn’t lane drift right through your passenger side window.

But, unfortunately, with the new millennium, came the upgrade. These women insisted on immense SUVs for their one-child brood. Some sporty types opted for the SmartCars. All are now fully armed with cell phones on which they talk incessantly. They went from driving a mass weapon of destruction to actually becoming weapons of mass destruction. One look in your rear view mirror to see a woman on a mission, cellphone in hand, careening into your lane, you know you have no way out.

And after your car has been squashed like an accordion, they are the first to pop out screaming into their cellphones while yelling indirectly at you what a loser you are for having caused such a horrible scene. While you are busy checking your pulse to see that you are still, in fact, alive, they have already hopped back into their unscathed auto and taken off at full speed toward their next target – leaving you to ponder how life might look in Saudi Arabia.

False Estate

A friend of mine has been looking for an office to rent around Milan. Luckily for him, he’s been given ample time to find one; because in Italy, if you’re looking for a home or office, you have to take off a lot of work in order to do so. In one of the last bastions of la dolce vita, real estate people still don’t work weekends, much to everyone’s demise.

And so, he set out looking for an apartment in the area he wanted. Needless to say, in a country which doesn’t hold telling the truth in very high esteem, he says that half the time looking for a place is spent on sleuthing out the clues on whether or not the realtor is truly telling it like it is, or merely hedging her bets when it comes to apartment size, availability and location.

For him, anything that does not match each of the above requests is a deal breaker. For the realtor, everything is in play. Nothing is not debatable, nor not open to interpretation. His conversations are highly reminiscent of Laurel&Hardy’s “Who’s on First?” routine.

One realtor, so zealous in having found a legitimate client (it would appear there are a lot of fake clients, too), actually went around his neighborhood, calling all of the apartments he had already seen, and then telling him they were now her listings. He kindly demurred saying he knew them well, and no, no amount of talking them up was going to make him change his mind and fall in love with them.

At one point, he found what seemed the perfect place. He called the same day the ad came out. He was asked what type of business he was in. Upon answering, the woman said the place was no longer available.

- What do you mean? A moment ago it was. It’s perfect for me.
After putting him on hold, she gets back saying, “Okay. My colleague, Marco, will take you to see it, but just don’t mention my name or my office to the owner.”

Upon arrival, the owner asks if he’s a Doctor. Well, in Italy, where titles are everything, he said, in fact, he was, meaning that he had a Post-grad degree and that his business was totally on the up and up.

The woman looked perplexed. She said Dottor Marco here had told her that he was a real Doctor. Now he was perplexed. "He’s my realtor!", he innocently exclaimed, much to Dottor Marco's chagrine.
"No he’s not, he’s a Doctor." And then ensued a case of uncovering mistaken identities, right out of the play book of Oscar Wilde‘s ‘The Importance of Being Earnest’.

Needless to say, by having told the truth, he didn’t get the office he wanted.

A Day at the Roman Baths

I just got back from the gym, or palestra as the ancient Romans called it. Even though it’s a relatively recent phenomenon, you can see that the palestra is seen by all Italians as a modern update to those days spent at the baths as in olden times. Modern, because men and women now mix and thus they wear clothing -- albeit just enough to cover up their obvious disdain for such a barbaric practice.

As an American, I use the gym like I always have: as a place to work out, get sweaty and go home to take my shower; sweats and all. All I know is that the difference between me in my 20yr old Stanford sweatpants and oversized t-shirt and the hotties posing on the treadmills is like the difference between Charlize Theron in Monster and Charlize Theron – if she were infinitely more tiny.

But, it’s in the locker room where they really show their stuff. These women (at any age) work out in underclothes (and I use the term loosely) that, if the Bush Administration got a hold of them, would be used for torture at Abu Ghraib. How they can work out with strings and things riding up you-know-where is beyond me.

Call me traditional, but I’m from the Midwest where cotton was considered a good thing to wear to the gym. These women look like they were just passing through on their way to the lap dancing club just out the back door.

But, maybe I’m just not traditional enough; in Hadrian’s time, men & women alike had piercings from top to bottom, shaved everywhere and everything, and always left the baths beautifully coiffed.
No better way to show off all those tattoos.