Category Archives: living in Italy

Commuting Culture Clashes in Italy

On the train from Lecco to Milan the other day, the conductor came down the car, as they usually do, to check tickets. A Spanish-accented woman in the seat in front of me had a generic (distance) ticket, but had not stamped it at the station before getting onto the train, as you are required to do with all tickets. She told the conductor that she had been late and had to rush to get onto the train, and hadn’t had time to stamp it. There are two legal solutions to that problem. One is to seek out the conductor as soon as you get on and ask him to stamp it for you, the other is to write the departure station, date, and time on the ticket yourself. She had done neither. Had the conductor not come around (sometimes they don’t), she could have saved it for another journey, as perhaps she planned to do.

At first I thought the conductor was unnecessarily rude to her. “Pay 5 euros to ‘regularize’ this ticket right here and now,” he said brusquely. Which sounded odd to me; did he mean: “Pay me 5 euros to leave you alone, and we’ll both avoid the hassle of me having to write up a fine” ? But the woman vociferously refused, continuing to complain that she had a ticket, she simply hadn’t had time to stamp it. “You can pay 5 euros, or you can pay 20.46 euros as a fine,” he snapped. “Show me your ID.” (Which he would need to write up the fine.) She refused to do that, either, and was both whiny and abusive about it. “The fine is 70 euros!” he shouted. “You’re refusing to show your ID. Do you want me to call the police?”

We pulled into a station just then, and the conductor used his cellphone to call the local railway police. He may have been faking it, but his “conversation” persuaded the woman to leap off the train. She then stood on the platform complaining loudly to someone who happened to be standing there about how badly she’d been treated.

I was in two minds about this. I disliked the conductor’s manners and attitude, but I had witnessed a very similar scene just a few days before, possibly with the same conductor, and I couldn’t blame him for being tired of the flimsy excuses and bad attitude he was having to deal with. It was clear that each party went away with its own pre-conceived notions firmly embedded: “Lousy, stinking immigrants, they’re all liars and thieves,” on the one hand. “Nasty, overbearing Italians, they pick on us just because we’re immigrants,” on the other. Both sides are right. Both sides are wrong. <sigh>

Raising the Roof: Expanding Housing Space Vertically

For several months now, we’ve had a close-up view of a major construction project in a neighboring building. When you buy a top-floor apartment in an Italian condominium building, you often (usually?) also buy the right to some or all of the attic space under the slanted the roof, called the solaio. Where building codes permit, you can use this to increase the size of your home, by transforming the solaio into living space, sometimes lifting the roof while you’re at it. Most new townhouses (rowhouses, to Brits) are designed this way, with a top floor mansarda, a room carved out under the slanted roof. These often have only skylights for looking out of – a terrible waste of a top-floor view – but the better-architected ones have real windows, and sometimes terraces sunk into the pitch of the roof.

There are tax advantages to building this way, because, under Italian property tax law, any space with average headroom less than a certain height is not considered living space, and is therefore taxed at a lower rate than other parts of the home. A lower tax rate also applies to the underground and semi-underground rooms that you find in homes that are built into a hillside (as many are in Lecco) – if it can’t have a window, taxes are lower.

So the folks next door have only recently had the scaffolding removed from their building, after months of construction. I originally thought that this was about cleaning and repairing the outside of the building, as had been done to our building last summer (and very annoying it was to have scaffolding blocking our balcony all summer. The landlord had conveniently not mentioned that, and it started going up the day after we moved in). But the scaffolding in this case went up beyond the edge of the roof, and in short order they had ripped the roof completely off and redone it, maybe a little higher than it was before. They put a new plywood skin in place and covered it with plastic sheeting, held down by a lattice of thin laths.

Then they let it sit for quite a while. I don’t know if the weather was simply too bad to be working up there – we had a very long, cold winter, and could hear the plastic sheets flapping in the wind all night – or if there was some reason the whole thing had to sit for a while. At any rate, after some weeks they came back with terracotta roof tiles and new copper sheeting for the gutters and the bottoms of the chimneys. These are cheerful bright metal right now, but with exposure will soon turn green.

Then, having completed an intact roof, they cut holes in it for terraces and skylights. Don’t quite see the logic here – why would you build a new roof and then cut holes in it? Why not just leave the holes you would need to begin with? But that’s what they did. The final touch was to water-blast the outside of the entire building to clean it, before the scaffolding went down – a sop to the downstairs neighbors for having put up with the scaffolding for so long.

The interior still appears unfinished, or I’m guessing it is since terrace doors have not been put in yet. I haven’t seen much activity lately, but maybe it’s taking place indoors.

Americans may ask themselves why Italians go to so much trouble and expense to make such extensive renovations – if you need more room, why not just buy a bigger place? One reason is expense: housing costs are very high in many parts of Italy, and the considerablec legal and financial transaction costs of buying and selling property are an additional burden. The cost of moving itself is also high, especially when you consider that you will strip the place you are leaving down to bare walls – kitchen cabinets, light fixtures, everything but the toilet goes with you. The place you move into will be similarly stripped, so you need electricians, plumbers, etc. to help you reinstall everything. You’ll probably also want it painted before you move in. Italians are rather sensible on this score: house paint is all water-based and easy to work with. But ceilings are high, so you need ladders and long-handled rollers – easiest to leave it to a specialist.

For many Americans, especially young ones, moving means getting a bunch of friends (paid in beer) to help you pack boxes and load and unload a U-Haul trailer. Americans tend to have a lot of stuff, but it’s usually more easily-moved stuff than Italians have. In Italy, you need a team of specialists to disassemble enormous closets (no such thing as built-in here), take down those kitchen cabinets and put them back up (fitting them into a new space usually requires a carpenter), and so on. Most of us live in condominium buildings, and you don’t use the building elevator for moving: it’s usually too small to hold a lot of what needs moving. Your moving company will show up with an extending crane on the back of a truck, so that furniture and boxes can be passed out a window to a van waiting in the street below, even from a high floor.

So where do you park the crane? The street is full of parked cars, and, frequently, so are the sidewalks. You need a permit from the city to block off the street and sidewalk that day, putting up signs in advance to let people know not to park there. Professional moving companies will do this for you; on a DIY move, you’ve got to, well, do it yourself.

Aside from the costs and hassle of moving, there is the Italian propensity to stay in one place. When people do decide to move, they often look for a new home in the same neighborhood where they’re already living, or even in the same building. There are many cases of grown and married children living in the same building as their parents, giving easy access to famously intrusive Italian mothers-in-law – a large number of Italian marriages have foundered on this arrangement, but no one ever seems to learn the lesson. In fact, home-enlargement projects often come about because of parents making more room for their grown children, or the children, in turn, making room for their aged parents to live with them. The strength of the Italian family unit, for better and for worse, is thus reflected in architectural habits.

You Want Me to Put that Where?!?

Cultural Differences in Medication Methods, US and Italy

There are cultural differences between Italy and the US even in seemingly small things, such as how medicines are administered. I got through a childhood of many, many medicines without ever using a suppository – except once. That once is still imprinted on my mind as one of the more humiliating, not to mention uncomfortable, experiences of my life. So I was unpleasantly surprised to find that suppositories were routinely prescribed for Rossella‘s childhood fevers. I guess the logic is that it’s easier to ensure that a small child gets the correct dosage that way, but it wasn’t fun for anybody.There are even adult-sized suppositories, though I’ve never heard of anyone actually using them. But then I don’t suppose that’s something you’d discuss in casual conversation…

The favored medicine format for adults is the bustina (little envelope), of a powder which is mixed with water, forming a fizzy and more or less palatable decoction. Beyond that, it’s plain old pills – none of these wimpy American capsules or gel caps, just swallow it down and quit complaining.

Then there’s my once new, now old, friend – the aerosol. This is a machine with a noisy little motor that compresses air. You attach a rubber tube to it, then a glass “nebulizer” into which you put liquid medicine. The final glass piece, connected by a rubber joining ring, can be a nasal “fork” (in two sizes), a mouthpiece, or a soft plastic mask that covers nose and mouth. The compressed air is forced through the nebulizer, where it mixes with the medicine to create an aerosol which you then breathe in – excellent for getting the medicine to where it’s actually needed for respiratory problems. A beneficial side effect, for people like me who often won’t sit still long enough to rest even when we need it, is that you are tethered to the machine for the half-hour that it takes to inhale all the medicine. But that’s a drawback when you have to treat a small child.

Because I am often clumsy and drop things, I was initially nervous of handling all that delicate-looking glass, but it turns out to be not as delicate as it looks, and in any case you can buy replacement parts at the pharmacy.

Another area of cultural difference in medicine is how you obtain it. It pays to make friends with your local pharmacist, because, once she learns to know and trust you, she will often let you have things that technically are supposed to be available only by prescription – very handy when you know exactly what you’ve got and how to treat it, but can’t get hold of your doctor to write the prescription.

You do eventually want to get the prescription so that you can get some money back. Most pharmacies will sell you something on an emergency basis, then refund your money when you come back with the official prescription form which allows them to charge it (in whole or in part) to the national health service.

Apr 27, 2004

Mike Looijmans says re. suppositories: “The Dutch words for those are many, and translate into things like “ass grenade”, “plug-in” and “stick-up”. I cannot even recall the official word for them…”

He and others rightly pointed out that they’re often used for children (and sometimes adults) when they might be expected to throw up any medicine taken orally.

Italian Winter Weather

The first time we visited Milan, in January of 1991, there were about four inches of snow on the ground. It melted the next day, and in the 12 years we lived in Milan after that I only saw snow falling once or twice a year, some years not at all, and rarely enough to stick. For the last few years, February has been mild, April cold and rainy, and everyone complained about how the seasons weren’t what they used to be (a lament that has probably been heard since the australopithecines).

Today it’s snowing in Lecco. A lot. Just like it did the week before last, and the week before that, and I lose count before that. A few weeks ago we took in “refugees,” six of Ross’ classmates who had commuted up to an hour to get to school, only to find it cancelled because snow was falling and the heating system wasn’t working.

The kids weren’t a problem, but I’ve had enough of winter. I never liked cold weather in the first place. I was born in New Orleans, subsequently lived in Texas, Hawaii, and Thailand. I never saw snow actually falling out of the sky until we got to Pittsburgh, when I was 11. I hate having to dress up in layers and layers of clothing to go outside, then when you go into a shop or come home again you’re too hot and have to undress. I have no circulation in my hands and feet, so they’re always icy cold (cold hands, warm heart – I’d settle for the reverse). I even have chilblains on my toes this year, probably from wearing wimpy shoes in a misguided attempt to be fashionable, before I found a pair of decent-looking fur-lined boots in England.

One problem specific to Italian winters is that most of us have no control over home heating – condominium buildings are usually centrally-heated, and the thermostat is set according to government regulations. Heating goes on October 15th and off April 15th, regardless of actual outside temperatures. And it’s turned way down during hours that most people are out of the house, e.g. 10 am to noon, which happen to be my peak working hours in my home office. So I’m sitting at my desk wearing ski socks and fleece slippers (still going strong – thanks, Laura and Larry!), a turtleneck, corduroy trousers, and a Kashimiri shawl.

Heating also gets turned off at night when we’re all supposed to be in bed. There are few things more miserable than being wide awake at 4 am with jetlag, and you can’t even read in bed because it’s too cold to put your arms outside the covers (yes, there is another activity which could warm you up in bed, but that only works at 4 am when both of you have jetlag).

The Post Office: An Italian Tradition of Bureaucracy

I hope that my friends and relatives have forgiven me for the fact that I have never mailed presents to them from Italy. I either have something shipped directly from a company in the US, or I wait til I’m in the US myself, preferably actually visiting the person in question, to give gifts.

This is because I hate the Italian post office, which symbolizes all the worst of Italian bureaucracy: poorly organized, sluggish, and completely uninterested in self-improvement.

Part of the problem is that it tries to do too many things. As in other European countries, in Italy the post office functions as a kind of government bank, where pensions are withdrawn and some types of payments to the government are made, e.g. the annual television tax, and fees for school lunches. It is also possible to make payments to third parties, such as utilities, via the post office.

As you can imagine, this banking function leads to long lines, especially during the early part of the month when all the retirees show up to collect their pensions. And, in the early years, it somehow never occurred to anybody in authority to separate postal functions from banking functions: same line, same window, whether you were paying a bill, collecting a pension, or just trying to mail a letter.

If you only needed to mail a letter, you could always buy stamps at a tabacconist. But registered letters could only be registered at the post office, and, given the unreliability of the delivery service, it was necessary to register anything whose delivery you actually cared about. Once, after standing in line for half an hour behind little old ladies carefully counting their coins, I asked the man why they didn’t have a separate window for just plain post. He gave a bored shrug. “This is the way it’s done.”

Yet, six months later, they started doing it differently: suddenly we had one window for any kind of mailing, one for stamps only, and three for banking. At first I heaved a big sigh of relief, but I soon realized that they had assigned the dimmest bulb in the office to the post window. It would take him ten minutes to figure out postage (they were still doing it by hand then) and fill in (again by hand) his part of the registration form. Sometimes he gave me the wrong form, so I would have to fill things out twice. Once, on a very urgent item, he called me when I had returned home and told me I’d have to come back and pay more, because HE had made a mistake on the postage. And he wouldn’t send this urgent letter until I’d come back and paid.

The banking function didn’t work so well, either. Each payment slip had three portions: one that vanished into the system (although the transaction was also recorded on a computer somewhere), one that you gave to the payee to prove you had paid, and one that you were supposed to keep. Unfortunately, I did not realize how critical it was to keep these receipts for the rest of your natural life. We were dunned for payment, three years after the fact, for three months of Rossella‘s 5th grade school lunches. I had entered into our home accounting system the date that these had been paid, in a single transaction, but had not kept the receipt to prove it. Enrico spent days in postal administrative offices all over Milan – the system was centralized enough to accept payment from anywhere, but not enough to allow the local branch to trace a payment that they had taken. The amount of money was not huge, but Enrico got stubborn about it, and eventually prevailed.

Another fun thing about banking in the post office is that it means that, during the early part of the month, a relatively insecure office is holding enormous amounts of cash, and doling it out to tottery old ladies. This leads to regularly-scheduled muggings and fleecings of old people just outside the post office, and to the national sport of post office robbery. I once arrived at our local PO in Milan to find a robbery underway, with a huge crowd milling outside to see what was going on. I hightailed it in the other direction.

The good news is that global competition has affected even the Italian postal system. Mail now arrives more quickly and reliably than it ever has in the past, and many post offices have become sleek, computerized, and almost a pleasure to be in. It’s no longer necessary to register everything; priority mail seems to be fast and trustworthy.

Now I’m making a real test of the system: I mailed my first-ever package from Italy, to my mother, a few weeks ago. It was a heavy book, so I didn’t send it priority, and I’m therefore not surprised that it hasn’t arrived yet. If it eventually gets there, I’ll be pleased, and maybe not even too surprised.

Feb 22, 2004 – I am happy to report that my mother received her book a day or two after the above went out.

Feb 23, 2006

I must say, the Poste Italiane are really modernizing. You can do a lot of stuff online now (such as track a registered letter), and their site even has an English version.