Playing Bureaucracy

I’d made up my mind that Italian bureaucracy wasn’t going to bother me. It was going to be a learning experience, a chance to see things from another perspective, another window to a different culture. And I definitely wasn’t going to complain about it. Well: resolve broken, resolution broken! I’ve officially “had it up to here.”

I got a letter from the Immigration department fixing my appointment to “finalize” my permesso di soggiorno, the magic document that makes it legal for me to be here, in March. I put “finalize” in quotes, because I’m certain that there will be a problem and that it won’t, in fact, be final. Italian bureaucracy is kind of like Monopoly. I mean: Do you know anyone who’s ever finished a game of Monopoly? I don’t. You just leave it there, set up on a folding table on the front porch, for days and days and days, until finally fall comes and your friends go back to school, and you have to reorganize all the fake money and find the little silver shoe that somebody lost and pack it all away.

They scheduled the appointment, naturally, for Easter week. Since I’d hoped to use my Easter vacation to go trekking, I decided to see if it might be possible to change the date of the appointment. To be honest, I didn’t have high hopes that this would be possible, but I figured it’d be worthwhile to “ask the question.” Naturally, I tried calling the phone number. There are lots of phone numbers to use when playing Italian Bureacracy, but rarely anyone who actually answers the phone. Having become accustomed to this, I didn’t expect to succeed, and already had the city map in hand. I went to the Immigration headquarters and talked to a nice policeman. He talked to a colleague on the phone, handed me a slip of paper with an address, and told me to head across town to another office. “There’s a bit of a crowd, though,” he said. “Be sure to check with one of my colleagues there where you should go.”

“A bit of a crowd.” This could possibly be the biggest understatement I’ve heard in my entire time in Italy. The Immigration office was so crowded, so chaotic, so breathtakingly disorganized that it’s hard even for me to describe. Go to your mental Rolodex – not to be confused with Rolex – of images, and pull out “Moroccan street market” and “Tower of Babel.” For those who have been to South Bend, add “the ‘Backer on a football Friday,” and, for those who haven’t, substitute “your local dance club” for the “’Backer.” There were loads and loads of people, all jockeying to be at the front of the “line” – ha! there was no “line”! – and I just kind of pinballed about the throngs for a few minutes before managing to collect myself and take some kind of constructive action.

It turns out that there were two “lines” – ha! – one for carrying out immigration-related activities, and one for getting information about carrying out immigration-related activities. Theoretically, you would stand in Line 2 to find out what you needed to then do in Line 1. I wanted some information – to see if were possible to change the appointment – so I went to Line 2. I took a number (like at the deli counter, which is a great system, according to me). My number? 122. The number they were on? 19.

Holy smokes. To hell with the trekking plans: I figured I’d be in line until Easter week if I wanted to change – or see about changing – the appointment. Forget that.
Which reminds me of another round of Italian Bureaucracy that left me dumbfounded. I needed to established myself as a “resident” of Bologna. This required a trip to the Anagrapher’s Office, taking the number, waiting in line, and so on and so on. When I got up to the window, I presented all my documents, carefully prepared. After a little while, the woman took my passport, consulted a colleague, and returned to inform me of the problem:
- But . . . you’re not in Italy.
- Bu . . . I . . . what????
- We have no record that you actually arrived in Italy. There’s no stamp in your passport.

So I took my passport, I found the stamp, and I passed it back to the woman.

She looked at it quizzically for a few minutes, consulted the colleague, and again returned.
- But this is a problem. See? She pointed to the stamp. It doesn’t say “Rome.” It just says "Fiumicino."
- But isn’t there only one Fiumicino Airport? The one in Rome? Hence if I arrived in Fiumicino, I must have arrived in Rome? And hence I must be in Italy?
- Yeah, I see what you’re saying – she was real nice – but it doesn’t say "Rome." This is the problem.
- Ah . . . but . . . if that’s the stamp used by the Italian Immigration office at the airport . . . ?
- I know. Odd. Hmmm.

And so, I am not an official resident of Bologna, because I haven’t actually arrived, officially, in Italy. How do you like that one?

If the United States treats its immigrants half as badly as the Italians treat theirs – and I imagine they do – I’m about ready to start welcoming illegal immigrants into my house. For me – ok, in the end, everything will work out. But can you imagine if, instead of coming from a friendly country to study for a few years, you’re fleeing poverty or persecution in a lesser-developed, possibly unfriendly country? I can’t imagine how they treat you.

Chilled out? Not a chance.

I bet some of you think I've chilled out in my old age. (I turned 28 in January, which seems really old to me. Plus I'm in Italy after having finished my "career" as an engineer. It's kind of like I'm a retiree.) I myself thought that perhaps I've chilled out a bit. But we're all wrong!

I did a race this morning. This was because my landlord is also a runner, invited me to do a run with him last weekend, discovered I was reasonably fast, and told me I should do this race today. It was an important race, he said, with important prizes: The first five women would win a prosciutto! (A prosciutto is a giant fatty ham, super-tasty.) Man, I thought about that prosciutto all week. Even though I don't really eat prosciutto. A slice, maybe, but not much more than that. I just wanted to win it! My classmates would love it, too. I haven't raced in a long time - I did the Corporate Challenge in Buffalo last spring, and that's about it. But I've been running, so I figured - why not. I'll do the race.

So I did the race. It was pretty interesting also from the "interesting cultural notes" front:

Every Italian runner belongs to a team. This is mostly, as far as I can tell, for one reason: if you want to do something athletic, you have to have a uniform. It's impossible to run or bike without a fully color-coordinated spandex outfit. Fashion doesn't take a vacation at the track! And how can you have a real uniform without belonging to a team?

Membership cards are huge here. In fact, in order to "belong" to many bars, you have to buy a membership card. Or . . . want to do a painting class? Buy a membership card to the non-profit community organization first. Similarly . . . want to run in a road race? You got it. Buy a membership card. Fortunately, my landlord is in the "In Crowd" and got me one on the fast track. Which makes me mention this lesson: The key to success here is knowing the right person. (Which, really, is the essence of one of my favorite DiSarno phrases: "I got a guy." As in, "Yeah, I got a guy at the post of office. Let's give him a call and see if he can take care of that for you.") It's a great system . . . if you "got a guy."

Off the interesting cultural sidenotes variant and back to the main point. The race. The hyper-competitivity. Naturally I wanted to win a prosciutto, which meant I had to be in the top five. I did my usual strategy of slightly negative-splitting the race. I started out in about tenth or twelfth position and picked off people as they got slower and I got just a bit faster. My landlord and his buddies found me at various points in the race to tell me my position. Everyone had me pegged at #5 - which meant a prosciutto! Fatty ham for everyone! Woooooo!

But. I was actually #6. No prosciutto. Was I ever bummed out.

Here's where the hyper-competitivity comes in. I actually probably ran a great race. I felt like I was at the limit, couldn't have gone much faster. And my time was pretty good. It was 39:53 for 10K (or 6.2 miles) . . . 3:59 kilometers or 6:25 miles. And as long as I thought I was #5 (Prosciutto!) I felt like I'd run a great race! As soon as I found out I was #6, I was super-disappointed . . . But it was the same race. For the record, the top woman was at 37:05 and #5 was at 39:09. And I did win a booby prize for being first-in-category . . . which did include some other type of fatty sausage. But no prosciutto.

Bloody . . . carnivores! Or cannibals!?

I'm reading a book right now, "Food, the Body, and the Self," by Deborah Lupton - though I decidedly prefer the Italian title, "L'anima nel piatto" ("The Soul on a Plate"). If you'd like to check it out, here's a link to it on Amazon. Usually I go along in my course and my readings very analytically, detached, hesitant to make any judgments without seriously considering the various arguments. I guess that's my idyllic vision of the academia I want so badly to be a part of: I picture an old professor, rocked back in his chair, hand caressing his goatee, head cocked back a bit as he wrestles with some new idea that's disrupted the security of whatever understanding he had "before." And he likes the disruption. It doesn't bother him at all - it invigorates him. He says to his student - or himself - "I'll have to think about that some more. Let's talk again tomorrow." I want to be "that guy" - well, without the goatee and all. But it's the model I'm going with (since - speaking of paradigms before and after - it's the one I come up with most naturally; probably because women hold only 11% of full professorships in the US).

And, off interesting cultural sidenotes and back to the original point: I'm reading this book, and in one part it talks about foods that we consider edible and inedible. Meats, for example. Some people are vegetarians, and they consider beef inedible. Some people live in Buffalo, and they consider dogs inedible. (Generally. I'd eat dog, though, or at least try it, if someone offered it to me.) But then the author brought up the point about eating blood, and I moved a little closer to the edge of my comfort zone. You guys are familiar with the "black pudding" in the famous Irish breakfasts, right? You know that it's basically congealed pig blood? Same deal with the famous Spanish morcilla. In fact, here's a Wikipedia page elaborating on dozens and dozens of different kinds of blood sausages; vegetarians and squirmies beware. But I was still ok with that idea. I've tried both black pudding and morcilla, and - even recognizing the fact that I'll never eat much of it for health reasons - I thought it was good. Right. But then the author mentioned something that made me say, "Eeeewwww, gross" - which isn't exactly the intellectual response I would've hoped for. What about eating human blood? Apparently an Australian chef, Gay Bilson (I confirmed it), advertised an "avant gard" blood sausage meal she'd make from her own blood. Now: she's not slaughtering anyone. No one's getting hurt. Apparently human blood and pig are almost identical (I'm taking her word for it). So - I had to ask myself - where am I drawing the line? What's the difference? What's my hang-up? (For those interested: Bilson's proposal was wholeheartedly rejected.)

I'm really curious: What do you guys think? Would you eat the human-blood sausage? If not - why not? I'm not sure I'd eat it, but I'm not sure I can come up with a good reason why not. I think that means I'd have to eat it.

More thoughts on the Sidewalk

Aside from my bewilderment , I've become rather intellectually interested in the "sidewalk thing." The testing phase is over, and I've positively identified it as a national cultural trait. And, interestingly, I think I'm beginning to place into a kind of psychological context. First, a few general rules to define the "ideal case," allowing for slight varations, of course. Just like Real Gases are allowed to differ from Ideal Gases, so long as they're more-or-less the same. (I'm feeling very engineery.) Here we go:

1. Walkers will be aware exclusively of themselves.
2. Therefore they will consciously offer no concessions to other pedestrians.
3. On a subconscious level, however, they will sense other walkers . . . and they'll respond to this sensation by subconsciously veering into the other person's space or trajectory.
4. There are no concepts, even vague ones, defining right-of-way or direction-of-flow. Right side, left side, longitudinal motion, transverse motion: it's all fair play.
5. Given a choice of places to pause, the walker will always choose a place that is congested by either people or objects.
6. For walkers in groups, there's an "entropic" principle of expansion: A group never condenses but always expands, even when confronted by a constricting space.

I had a conversation a few weeks ago that helped me place these observations into a kind of psychological context. Well, rules #3 and #5 in particular; rule #6 seems contradictory, doesn't it? I'm going to have to call it a paradox for now; maybe my next run will shed some light on how it coexists with rules #1-#5.

The conversation was about TV. Italian houses typically have at least one TV in every room, sometimes more than one, and they're always on. I hadn't actually noticed this myself, but when someone in my language class pointed it out, I realized that it's absolutely true. Even given the American couch potato image, I'm giving the blue TV ribbon to the Italians. Anyway, my classmate asked - basically - "What's the deal?" The professor, I thought, gave a great answer: The Italian culture generally values "relationships" more than other cultures. People want to have company, to be accompanied, to talk, to feel, etc . . . a preference that's easily contrasted with a British culture that values a stiff upper lip or an American one that values lots of space and lots of independence.

I really liked this explanation because it concords with my own experience. In Sicily, I felt constantly bombarded by people. Unless I was sleeping or running ( - ecco! that's probably why I started both sleeping and running excessively in Sicily!) - there was Zero Chance to be alone or silent. I'm not saying that I wanted to move into a convent, but . . . it's just too much for me to be constantly engaged. How can you think?! I got up one morning very early and sat in the kitchen with a book. It was great . . . and it lasted about five minutes. The Signora had heard me rise, dragged herself out of bed, still bleary-eyed and sleepy, and got up herself to - this is the quote - "give me company." ("But the last thing I want is company!" didn't seem like quite the right thing to say . . .) In any case, there is, I think, this real need to be accompanied. Hence the TV. If you're the only one around, who can accompany you? Your pals from the game shows. Walker, Texas Ranger. Possibly the TV newscaster.

Which brings me back to the sidewalk. I think the tendencies to veer subconsciously into other people and to stop in construction bottlenecks are tendencies that satisfy precisely this need. Maybe you don't know the other person - maybe you don't even consciously know that he's there - but, in a way, when you veer into him, you're also nearing him emotionally: you're being accompanied. And maybe where you stop to have a smoke is in the middle of a construction scaffold. Not the most personable environment I can think of - but better than being alone with all that . . . space! . . . around you!

So that's my analysis. I'll admit I'm stymied as I try to fit Rule #6 into the theory. Any ideas?

Crossing the Street

I heard on the tv-internet today that 70 people die in Italy every day trying to cross the street. I just caught the story in passing, so I'm thinking that I probably missed something important. (Maybe it was 70 people per year?) But here's the thing: I believe it. This reminds me that I came to a decision yesterday: I will never ski in Italy. How did I come to this decision yesterday? Yet again I was running, and yet again I was amazed at how little awareness the average Italian pedestrian has of her surroundings. Top example (just of Yesterday's Examples . . . the Universe of Examples is almost overwhelmingly dense, and certainly too difficult to survey for this morning's commentary): Space for two-and-half people across the width of the sidewalk. Little old lady walking on the right. I go to pass her on the left. I'm about a pace and half behind her, in the "passing lane," and - BAM! - a middle-aged woman approaching us, and carrying - as Dave Barry would say, "I'm not making this up" - a scooter moves from her position in the (my) right-hand lane, into the passing lane, directly parallel now with the little old lady, and entirely blocks of the sidewalk. She embraces the little old lady, mounts her scooter ACROSS the passing lane, and starts a lengthy conversation. And here's the thing: she was APPROAcHING us! So she could clearly see (unless she was blind, in which case she shouldn't be allowed on that scooter) the unfolding traffic pattern. She could've waited literally two seconds for me to pass. But no.

Moral of the story: If Italian sidewalks are this dangerous, no way I'm chancing the slopes.

Bologna: I've "arrived"!

Hi everyone! I’ve been meaning to write, and meaning to write, and . . . well. It’s true that I’ve been busy: I’ve been waiting in lines for three weeks straight! I did write a few posts – which I didn’t post – and I’ll add them to the blog shortly, even if they’ll be out of order. I don’t think it matters.

The brief update is this: I’ve moved to Bologna, and I’ve started the Master in the “History and Culture of Food” here at the University of Bologna. I love the program. My classmates – there are only six of us – and professors are great, the material is really interesting, and there are a lot of “incidental benefits.” For example: all of my classmates are – this is probably pointing out the obvious – passionate foodies. We had our first feast of the program last week, when Antonia invited us to her place for an epicurean fish dinner. I’m not sure if I’ve told you, but I’m hooked on octopus. On the Camino de Santiago, the Spaniards I was walking with kept talking up this town “up ahead” – Melides, at the eastern border of Galicia – saying that it was famous for its octopus, oh-wow-is-it-amazing, can’t-wait-to-get-to-Melides-for-the-octupus. I’d never tried octopus, but it seemed fun to look forward to Melides so intently, and so I got excited about the octopus, too. We walked four or five hard days in a row to get to Melides, “to get to Melides!”, and the pulpo awaiting us was – I confirm it – amazing. Since then, and forever-after, I think, pulpo retains something of a legendary status for me. So I especially liked Antonia’s pulpo.

Anyway, I love going to the classes, I love doing the readings . . . and I love Bologna. I have a great apartment right in the center, and it’s a small enough city that you can walk – or run, if you’re an eccentric like me – everywhere. The coolest thing about Bologna is that there are porticoes extending 44 kilometers – that is, just about everywhere you go, there’s a portico. I’d read about the porticoes before arriving, but – unlike the octopus – they didn’t really captivate me until I arrived. And now, I really, really like ‘em! Have you ever seen a cloister – where the nuns and monks can walk around “outside” in their courtyard, but protected from the elements? I always thought of the cloister as a kind of covered “track” for the nuns, though I think they probably emphasized laps around the Rosary beads more than laps around my “track.” Anyway, imagine a cloister that goes around an entire city: that’s Bologna! I ran the other day on a world-record-winning route: you can go eight kilometers without ever leaving the porticoes!

On the downer side, I’ll admit that I’m discouraged by certain elements of Italian culture. I had a conversation the other day with a Spanish guy who’s been here since September, and I think he summed up what I’ve been thinking but not wanting to say or even think: When you first get here, Italy is just enchanting. Fascinating, historic, sensual, full of flavor, full of life. But after you’re here for a while, it gets . . . tiring. And not really in a good way. The things that tire you out are bureaucratic absurdities, a personality that tends way too frequently toward arrogance, and an inappropriate juvenility that is, again, far too pervasive to be incidental. These traits aren’t universal by any means, and I’m really happy to have met a lot of great people. The coordinator of my program, my professors, my classmates, my language exchange partners – they’re great. Interesting, intelligent, thoughtful. But - I hate to say it – I’ve begun to think of them as “exceptions.” I’ve tried to avoid reaching this judgment, and not least of all because I liked being wholly enchanted by Italy. But I think it’s a valid evaluation. I’ll fill you, shortly, on some of the episodes that brought me to this point. Such as, for example, how I’ve been mistaken for a prostitute. More than once.