Straight from the Headlines, #2

This is fantastic . . . "Straight from the headlines":

"Palermo: He doesn't fit in the cell; they'll have to set him free.

Too fat to enter the bathroom of his cell, and accused of belonging to a [Mafia] clan allied with Salvatore and Sandro Lo Piccolo [ironically: "the Little"]. For this reason, Salvatore Ferranti, 36 years years old and 463 pounds, will be remanded to house arrest. The decision was reached after an odyssey around all the Italian prisons: none had doors big enough to let Ferranti pass through."

I don't even think it needs a comment.

And yet - naturally - I have one: Have you ever noticed that Mobsters are necessarily obese? Just for fun, I Googled "Mafia," and on the first page of images, I found this champ:



It's not "the guy" in question - in fact, I think this arse belongs to a New Yorker - but nonetheless I'm certain it merits a place on this blog.

Healthy Mediterranean Diet, anyone?

Why my program is the best program ever

Honestly, can anyone imagine a better program? I spent this afternoon working on a presentation on herbal-based medicine, and this evening I went on a research project. By this I mean, specifically, that I went to a wine tasting. The Association of Montepulciano Wine Producers (or something like that) was having their 2008 Preview at a swanky hotel here in Bologna. I attended. For the sake of alimentary research, naturally. My primary notes:

1. Vin santo rocks.
2. Studying the History and Culture of Alimentation rocks.

That about sums it up.

If you’re wondering, though, I did actually treat it as a research project. I had a great time chatting it up with the wine producers. We talked about the presence of flavors such as cherry and blackberry, the oak barrels, how long the wine ages, the various grapes, and wine that is very “approachable” (What that means remains a mystery for me: If it's not approachable, how do you approach it?) Also the cheese was good.

And I have to go right now, because the pot on my stove is overflowing. On another alimentation note, I have discovered that boiling orange peels makes an awesome herbal tea. (Which is not actually a tea, as I have been corrected many times by Europeans, who prefer to call such non-tea teas “infusions.” But I continue to call them teas, probably because I’m testarda, stubborn.)

The National Uniform Laws

I went for another run today, and had another “cultural insight.” I have a lot of “cultural insights” during my runs. I know you’ve been awaiting my commentary on this one, though, and for precisely that reason, I’d been trying my best to avoid it. But I can wait no longer . . . Live from Bologna . . . Italian Fashion!

I preface these observations by declaring that, if there’s one person on the planet who should not be making any observations at all about fashion, it’s me. (But I will comment nonetheless.) There is clearly a marked difference between Italians and Americans regarding what it takes to look good, and, probably more importantly, wanting to look good in the first place. But the difference between Italians and me is . . . well, I’m not sure it even qualifies as a difference. It’s more like a different topic altogether.

As a starter, we’ll review the two principal Italian uniforms, and the regulation regarding their use:

Men and boys: Must wear jeans of reasonable tightness. Winter coat is of utmost importance and hence governed more strictly than other accessories. It must be white, brown, or black, and must be down or imitation down. The compartments containing the down must be horizontally segmented, and the jacket should be reasonably “puffy.” It should have a hood, a faux belt, and – this is very important – a furry collar. Shoes should be trendy. Cap should be of the 1930s newsboy style. Large sunglasses (“facial” style) recommended.

Women and girls: Tight jeans for the casual look and short skirt for the classy look. Nice shirt. Obligatory scarf, ideally one of extraordinary length and complicated-issimo wrapping. Winter coat, similar to that worn by men, should be white, brown, or black, and must be down or imitation down. Compartments again must be horizontally segmented and should be reasonably “puffy.” The hood, faux belt, and furry collar obligatory for men are optional for women, but the woman’s coat must be thigh-or knee- length. The accessory of highest importance for women is footwear, and leather boots, preferably knee-high, are obligatory. Tall, skinny heels are best, but shorter heels may be considered marginally acceptable. Hats are best avoided, but, if worn, should be the feminine version of the 1930s newsboy style. Small, pointy, trendy eyeglasses are recommended, even in cases of outstanding vision, and large sunglasses (“facial” style) are, for women, obligatory.

Rules for use: All Italians between the ages of 18 and 65 must dress according the general Wardrobe Fashion Law. (Dispensations are allowable for health or age-related problems, and individual requests should be directed to the Bishop.) In the event of a violation, the Italian’s (fashionable) electronic ankle bracelet will activate upon crossing the apartment threshold, and the user should return to his or her wardrobe to remedy the violation. Upon returning to conformance with the regulation wardrobe, he or she may then leave home with no further imposition of penalties. In the event of wardrobe negligence carried into the public sphere, however, the penalty will be social ostracization, imposed on a scale escalating in accordance with the frequency and severity of the violation.

These really are the rules, and the penalties (as you can see) are stiff. I’m not kidding. (I’m searching for the governing legal document on the internet right now.) Some people have gotten so used to the rules that they begin to follow them before the age of 18 and continue to follow them after earning the age-related automatic dispensation at age 65. For example, today I saw a woman who – “I am not making this up” – was at least 85. Check that, at least 85 but really most likely edging into her mid-nineties. You know what she was wearing? Knee-lenght skirt; regulation “puffy” coat with faux belt; four-inch heels; fashionable fishnet stockings; and – this is the winner – the Italian signature, “trendy” eyeglasses. Awesome.

Anyway, this is the insight I had on my run today: I realized why all Italian runners wear a uniform. It’s not just because they belong to a team, as I’d thought before (though it remains entirely possible that they belong to the team just to get the uniform.) It’s that there’s an important exemption to the Wardrobe Uniform Law (as described above). Here it is:

Athletic Exemption: IF the user is leaving home to participate in an activity that has as its express and sole objective fitness, the user may exempt him- or herself temporarily from the general Wardrobe Uniform Law. However, he or she must then abide by “Rules of Dress for Athletic Activity” (see below), must return home within two hours and immediately return to compliance with the general Wardrobe Uniform Law, and must not combine the outing directed toward fitness with any other activity. (For example, this specifically prohibits stopping at the supermarket after running or even walking fast.) The (fashionable) lectronic ankle bracelet will be disactivated only pending compliance with the “Rules of Dress for Athletic Activity.”

“Rules of Dress for Athletic Activity”: The rule applies identically to both men and women. Users must dress in clothing that unmistakably identifies the purpose of their outing as athletic. The clear preference is given to Spandex pants and zip-up spandex shirts, both of which should be brightly colored and imitate, as closely as possible, the sponsored uniforms of professional cyclists. (Though helmets, of course, should be avoided.) It is permissible to add a single piece of non-spandex gear to the athletic wardrobe, as long as (1) it is manufactured from another expressly “athletic” material, such as Goretex, and (2) it contains a reflective stripe. (The ideal piece, therefore, is obviously a Goretex, wind-resistant vest with a reflective stripe.)

Note that this rule is applicable whether used by semi-professional athletes or by overweight old men out for a stroll: The important thing is that the user alert everyone that he is doing an athletic activity and hence merits exemption from the general Wardrobe Uniform Law! To illustrate the danger of less than full compliance, consider this cautionary example: wearing loose-fitting pants or a hooded sweatshirt is ambiguous and hence could be confused for non-athletic, unfashionable clothing; hence such clothing, and clothing that is similarly ambiguous, should be at all times avoided.

That’s what I figured out today. It makes a lot more sense, now that I know about the national law. And I’d thought that everyone just bought into appearances a little too much!

Did I tell you, though, that I inadvertently acquired two pieces of fashionable clothing?! Yeah, it shocked me, too. At the flea market, I bought (1) a pair of jeans that fit me, for two euro; and (2) a winter coat for five euro. This was because I had only two pairs of pants and a spring jacket (thanks to my Camino weight frugality), and it was snowing. Turns out that the pants are Tommy Hilfiger, and the coat is very nearly compliant with the official coat regulated by the general Wardrobe Uniform Law. If anyone is concerned, however, you can take a deep breath and relax: I have no trendy eyeglasses and continue to wear my hiking-running shoes (which have now walked about a zillion kilometers), holes and all. And I kind of like the looks of the running shoes. They’re red.

And before the internet?

I've been a technology fan for quite some time (with the exception of TV, which I continue to boycott, though now not by choice: my landlord refuses to fix it). But I made an awesome discovery today: Google Scholar. If you haven't made a trip to the "Google Extras" page, I recommend a visit. Last year I got hooked on Google Desktop for finding "stuff" that I'd buried away in long-lost folders of my desktop, and now - wow! - I'm becoming a huge fan of Google Scholar and Google Books. They're awesome. You can find full-text articles from authoritative but obscure journals - and full-text versions of some recent books. Man, am I ever a fan of Google.

Let's hope Google doesn't have any major ethics problems in the next twenty years - because they just about control the world of information. If Google were to blackball someone, some country, some ideology - I think that person, place, or idea would, for all practical purposes, cease to exist. I guess that's kind of what Google does in China, right? I'd like to think that "the West" has a kind of tradition of inquiry and innovation that would prevent something like that from controlling the "informational patrimony." But I know it doesn't: Has anyone yet seen dead soldiers on TV?

Straight from the Headlines

A wise, messy Swiss man once gave me a great piece of advice: Wherever you go, even if you don't know the language, you should read the local newspaper.

If you want to get a feel for what's on the mind of Italians, here you go, "straight from the headlines," from Bologna to the USA, here's a summary of what's in the Bologna newspaper these days:

- Walter Veltroni vs. Silvio Berlusconi. Elections coming up in April. Did you guys know that the Italian government "collapsed" recently? Yep. If you didn't know, you should go to the internet and try to follow this story. Man, is it ever complicated. I'm still trying to wrap my brain around it. It goes something like this: There's a (one of many) scandal with some politican being connected to the Mafia. That guy (Mastella) withdraws from the majority alliance. (He's forced to step down to avoid further controversy). That makes the majority alliance (and Prime Minister Prodi) lose the majority. That makes the government collapse. That leads to a big controversy about what to do now: Elections? Appoint a temporary government? Change the electoral law and then have elections? Anyway, they're having elections in April, and Veltroni and Berlusconi are on the campaign trail. In fact, Veltroni is coming to Bologna on Thursday night, and, just for kicks, I'm going to go see him.

- The bodies of two disappeared boys are discovered in a well. We, the curious public, get to follow every moment of police investigation and family agony.

- The "carovita" - literally, the expensive life. The high cost of living. Prices are constantly on the rise, and everyone's favorite hobby is complaining about it. One on hand, they are entirely justified. When they introduced the euro about a decade ago, the euro was worth about two thousand lire. So, the number part of everyone's salary was halved: If you made 40,000,000 lire before, you made 20,000 euro after. But! In a marketing trick that wasn't so tricky but stuck nonetheless, all the prices remained the same: A loaf of bread that cost two thousand lire before cost . . . two euro after! So for all practical purposes, everything doubled in price instantaneously and people lost half their buy buying power. And it continues to get more expensive. (And, I will add, for an American abroad, it continues to get even more expensive.) On the other hand, they don't seem to be dealing with the problem particularly effectively on an individual level. For example, another "I am not making this up" observation, this is actually a headline I read recently: "High Prices Change the Buying Habits of Italian Consumers: Less Pasta and Vegetables, More Chicken and Eggs." I thought it was just a misleading headline - maybe they were substituting, say, beans for pasta, and they were substituting chicken for, say, beef. Or something like that. But no: They actually interviewed people who substantiated that they are actually making these types of decisions. That is: Because pasta got lots more expensive than it was yesterday, people aren't eating so much of it; but because chicken isn't so much more expensive than it was yesterday, they're eating more chicken instead of the pasta. Let's review: One serving of pasta for one person: about 15 cents (instead of what, ten cents yesterday?). One serving of chicken for one person: 1 euro (instead of 95 cents yesterday?) That reminds me of a saying I heard once about the lottery: "The lotto? It's really just a tax for people who are bad at math."

- The San Remo Italian Music Festival ("Volare" . . . oh oh) is a bust this year!

- The debate over abortion. Law 192, which legalized and regulates abortion, and Ru486, the pharmocologic abortion, are hot topics, expecially given the election. It's an interesting climate: The Pope, the Church, and "the Catholics" (that is, the politicians allied with the Church) are obviously against abortion and talk a lot about it. On the other hand, I haven't heard anyone in the "general public" who's against abortion, they're all against "those crazy religious folks," and their favorite hobby is bashing the Pope. It's noticeably strange: The Pope gets a lot of play here, but no one (in the general public) seems to have much respect for him.

- Immigrant-bashing in the "Text Messages (forget letters!) to the Editor." If there were a way to measure racism and xenofobia, South Buffalo and Italy would both be in the playoffs. They both have some features that make them strong contenders for the title: Aging populations. Lack of good employment opportunities "on the homefront." Generally homogenous communities historically. I'm not sure who else would be in the playoffs, so I'm not putting any money down on the eventual champion. But should South Buffalo and Italy face each other, Italy would definitely win.

Age 15, Forever and Ever

You know another thing that bothers me? Yeah, I’m in a bothered mood right now, I’ll admit it. The average emotional age of the Italian man is fifteen. As I’ve said before, I didn’t like high schoolers when I was in high school, I try to avoid high schoolers now, and I’m certainly not a fan of adults who act like they’re in high school. Which is a fairly high percentage of Italian men.

I promised to return to the story of how I’ve been confused for a prostitute more than once. Right. Upon arriving in Bologna, I put up an advertisement for a language exchange partner. I’d done the same thing in Rome and Florence with great success: I met a few great people, and really enjoyed getting to know them as we practiced Italian and English with each other. I figured the same thing would happen in Bologna. Apparently not. Well, that’s not entirely true. I have met a bunch of great people. But, God, the others!

I started to receive phone calls – the “sexy voice” phone calls.
- Hello?
- Ciaooooo . . . :0) ;) (Really, I could hear the emoticons.)
- Ciao. (Silence.) Ciao? Si?
- Yes . . . . I’m calling . . . about your ad.
- For the language exchange?
- Yessss . . . When can we . . . get together?
- You’re interested in a language exchange?

After getting a few sexy voice phone calls, I’d had it, and starting giving it to them. But two phone calls were just classic.

The first one came at seven in the morning. I answered, thinking that, if someone was calling me at seven in the morning, it must be an emergency, right? Well, an emergency of sorts, I suppose . ..

- Hello?
- Ciaoooooo ;) 
- Si?
- Yes . . . I’d like to get to get together with you . . . (This guy got right to the point. Forget the pretense about the language exchange.)
- Listen, I have no idea who you are. Could you please call back another time? (Apparently I have some semblance of politeness, and a major lack of Snappy Answerability, when I’m not yet awake.)
- No, I’m really really . . . hot . . . and I want to go out now. (Panting.) Pleeeease? (By now pleading, whining, pouting.)

Ickkkk!

The second one started off as a typical sexy voice phone call, so I told the guy to get lost and hung up the phone. Then he sent me an MMS – a video message. My phone doesn’t play videos, and hence I’d never received a video message, but the written message from the phone company said there was a way to go on the internet and retrieve it. Curiosity got the cat. Yeah, you guessed it, it was a borderline-inappropriate picture of him, in the gym, all jacked up, half naked, with the written message: “If you change your mind and want to talk more about it, send me your photo. :) :)”

God!

The latest Exhibition of Immaturity is my landlord, who keeps inviting me to do things. On one hand, he’s my landlord, and he actually has been very nice, so I don’t want to pis him off. I’ve also been running with his running team (I told you: everyone here needs a team.) On the other hand, he’s a fifty-year-old Italian male who keeps touching me inappropriately. Ick! This is probably why we have sexual harassment laws in U.S. offices. Fortunately my studies are keeping me busy and my social ineptness can be amplified on command. "Really? A Sardegnan dinner? Cool. I'll have to tell my classmate, who's going to do his internship in Sardegna! He'd love it!"

As on Sesame Street, but in a much different spirit, I leave you with today’s special word. Saturday has been brought to you buy the word:

ICK.

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.