Living in Italy isn’t all sunshine, wine, great food, art and architecture (although, really, it mostly is!). Sometimes the bureaucracy just gets you down. This letter from the Veneto describes some of the challenges of living in Italy.
We have been traveling in Australia and my dear little apartment in the Veneto was empty for a while. Now that we have returned to Italy, there are many things which need my attention. Some simple, some not.
In our building, there are eight apartments and a list is hung each January to show whose turn it is each week to mop the communal areas. Upon my return, I knew I needed to designate the weeks in which I would take my turn with the work.
Bills were a big problem while I was away. A neighbor collected my letters from the mailbox and paid any bills for me from the jug containing €100 I had left on the table. Unfortunately, some friends had arranged to stay in my Venice apartment while we were away and when they arrived, the electricity had been cut off. I had received no warning! It was very difficult to sort out from Australia. The electricity mix-up was rectified, but not before my friends had to spend a few days in a nearby hotel. Luckily, they were given a very good deal and offered spa treatments!
I haven’t mentioned the other bill which has to be collected annually from the Municipio. When I first turned up to enquire about it many years ago, I was presented with the bill and a fine for late payment. When I protested that I hadn’t received a bill, I was told that I should know when it is due. (Apparently there are adverts on TV, and notices displayed). I now need to collect my next bill from the town hall and worry that once again there will be a fine to pay…and of course the relevant office is only open on Tuesdays from 10-12 am. The bill then has to be taken to the dreaded Post Office for payment – see below.
We needed to stock up again as I had defrosted the refrigerator-freezer and the cupboards were almost bare. Arriving in the early evening we had to rush to the nearest supermarket before it closed at 7:30 p.m. We just made it and grabbed the basics knowing that the market the next day would provide all the fresh food we needed. Going to the market is always a pleasure and takes the entire morning. We walk down a couple of streets with everyone heading the same way, and before we even get there, we will already have met several friends who stop for a chat and details of our journey, or simply shout “Ciao! Ben tornati!” (welcome back) from across the road.
The clothes stalls come first. There are racks of cheap dresses and tables of underwear, with pajamas and tee shirts swinging from hooks above. Around the corner are the plants and flowers. At this time of year seedlings and bedding plants are very popular because later in the year the locals know that there will be a competition for the most beautiful balcony.
The fruit and vegetable stalls are always a riot of color, and it was good to notice the latest seasonal offerings: radicchio tardivo di Treviso and asparagus grown in the fields which we can see from our balcony. Italians are horrified to hear that we can always get out-of- season fruits in England and the U.S. and exclaim that they must be absolutely tasteless. Nearby vans sell fish from the Adriatic and cooked meats which make a good lunch.
A new bill had arrived and I needed to go to the Post Office to pay it. This always fills me with dread because of the queues and the petty rules and regulations. I assumed on market day that the queue would be out of the door and along the street, but there were only two ahead of me. The usual comical performance of getting my number from a ticket machine for my place in the line took place. Quite often people come and collect a ticket then go and do their shopping and fail to return in time, which upsets all the customers as well as the cashiers. It wasn’t too chaotic this morning, apart from a new, unfamiliar machine on which I had trouble finding the correct button to press. When my turn came, I presented my bill for the garbage tax and the assistant asked me if I had a discount. This sounded hopeful, but I answered truthfully that I didn’t know. She assured me I was entitled to one, then charged me the full amount. I knew full well that there would be an extra tax just for the privilege of paying the bill. They never see the absurdity of paying extra tax on a sum which is already taxed.
There you have it: life in Italy, warts and all. Would I change it? Not for a moment.
