While some say a knowledge of Italian or possession of a visa are essential in order to live in Italy, I believe the most indispensable requirement is pazienza. A foreigner can not live in Italy without a reservoir of patience. Even Italians get frustrated with the way things are run (or, more accurately, not run). It is clear to me after very little time here that I will drive myself crazy if I do not accept the disorder and learn to be more patient.
I don’t know why Italians stick to a system that is so broken. They are a first-world country that acts like a third-world country. I can’t get my head around why things are so disorganized when they have the resources to change them. The Italians inherent disorganization, coupled with their apparent lack of interest in trying to fix it, can be incredibly frustrating.
Nothing in business makes much sense and government is even worse. Buses are late with no explanation, you are made to fill out forms and pay fees for permits and certificates you’ll never see and there are endless rules which are routinely bent as much as they can be without technically being broken. The bus system alone begs people to be disobedient. It is an honor system where you purchase a bus ticket that you validate once on the bus. When I use the bus, I am part of the 2% who diligently validate my ticket, even though I never once see tickets being checked. Everyone else just stands by a validation machine with their ticket, ready to validate if someone ever starts checking. It’s like people have grown accustomed to living in a country with silly rules they have little respect for, so spend their time figuring out how to get around them.
One such nonsensical rule is that you are not allowed to eat or carry food in the school stairwell. It is a rule so strictly enforced that the porter chases me up the stairs once when I am eating an apple to demand I come back down the stairs and dispose of the contraband. The rule is more ridiculous when you take into account that we are allowed to eat in class and have food anywhere in school, so I’m not sure how they think the food gets there if you aren’t allowed to carry it up the stairs. But reasoning is not the way to understand anything in Italy.
Italians are enormously talented in many ways: food, fashion, language, art, beauty, passion, living life, but organization is not one of them. Sometimes they try, but ultimately they just don’t seem to have the gene. A perfect example of this is the “take a number” system common all over the world for its simplicity: you take a number from the red dispenser and wait until your number is called. When I first see it in my local bread shop I am delighted to find a no-fail system perfect for a foreigner. Luckily I know my Italian numbers as often there is no screen to tell you what number they are up to. Soon I realize this knowledge is irrelevant when I discover that the person behind the counter never knows what number they are up to anyhow. Even if the shop assistant does know, they lack any conviction in enforcing the system in the presence of older Italian ladies who bypass it in favor of old-fashioned pushiness. There is something very powerful about an older Italian lady: a power that intimidates foreigners and garners respect from Italians. The person behind the counter might not like the woman pushing up to the counter and demanding attention, but they won’t say anything about it and will help her immediately. The Italian nonna is the trump card in any situation.
Even when Italians do understand the system, pushiness and feigning confusion get them to the head of the line faster. Not only are the stores so packed that it is a battle to get up to the front to get your number, you then find yourself pushed to the back of the shop as the people ordering push you aside. Good luck getting back to the counter when your number is called before they move onto the next person. I consider it the job of the person behind the counter to have control over the situation like a traffic cop, but often they just go with the most aggressive. For whatever reason, there seems to be a bit of a war-time panic after pausa. Everyone is desperate to get to the various bread/meat/fruit and vegetable shops, as though if they don’t move aggressively someone will try to stymie them out of their rations. The Italians’ lack of manners often infuriates me. In some ways they can be so well-mannered, but then think nothing of pushing in front of you in line or walking into you without even a whisper of a scusi (excuse me). But if you turn down an invitation to stay for dinner or a second-helping of food, they are insulted.
Surprisingly, for a system that doesn’t work well, the number system is in place elsewhere too. The post office thinks it’s such a good idea that they have elevated the number system to a new level of confusion. Upon entering, you have to choose from an array of number vending machines. One set of numbers is not enough for the post office, they need three or four sets differentiated by different letters. Each letter pertains to certain issues, although the classification of what each letter will help you with is tricky enough to guarantee that you will most certainly select the wrong one. Of course you don’t know this until you present yourself (smiling, thankful at finally being helped) at the front of the line and are promptly told to go back and pick another number from the “L” booth. I quickly get into the habit of taking a ticket for each letter, so that when they inevitably tell me I have taken the wrong number, I just need to wait a short while before they call another of my numbers. I quell my triumph at out-smarting them for two reasons: I don’t want to arouse any suspicion as surely what I am doing is not allowed (and really, who am I to ruin their fun at seeing me look so dejected) and I can’t experience too much glee when I look at the dozens of poor souls hanging around for their chance to be told they have just wasted 40 minutes waiting for someone to refuse to help them.
It is soul-destroying, which I believe is the point of it. The more people they deter, the shorter the lines are and their day less busy. I don’t know why they don’t think it will make their overall job more tedious and less efficient, but again I am making the mistake of thinking about it rationally. What do they care? It is not like their lunch hour will be shortened or their day extended to accommodate the amount of people. Nothing is altered when the system breaks, they just kept doing the same thing over and over until you are driven crazy and give up or miraculously persevere and get what you want: a couple of stamps to send a postcard or a health insurance stamp necessary in order to have an internship.
While I expect patience necessary for this sort of government entity, never did I think it would be necessary for something as simple as buying produce. Italians are very particular though and you just can not rush them, especially through this almost religious transaction. There will be endless discussion ranging from which artichokes to buy, if they are best for braising or eating raw and should they be bought now or tomorrow when the merchant might have even better ones to whether the ricotta is fresh, what the sheep were fed and if they were kept warm when they were milked. While discussing every aspect of the produce, pieces of cheese, fruit and cured meat are thrust towards the customer to taste.
“Prova!” (try), they implore. “See how sweet these peaches are! They would be perfect eaten fresh for dessert, but these ones here should be grilled.”
As I wait my turn, I become increasingly aware of how little I have ever thought about what I buy in such detail. Obviously I would choose an unbruised piece of fruit and one that looks good, but I have never thought about whether it is something I should have crudo (raw) or cotto (cooked) or how the ripeness or quality of the produce influences how I should prepare it.
While endlessly waiting for customers in front of me to select their products and be rung up, I listen in on their conversations, trying to understand what they are saying and hoping to glean some secrets of Italian cooking. The attention they give to everything is enchanting (when you aren’t hungry or in a rush). Nothing is hurried, quality is paramount and you are encouraged to take your time. If you even try to rush them they think you are a crazy, frantic American who always has to do, do, do and can’t relax. Instead of standing there impatiently wondering when it will be my turn, I begin to try a different tactic: acceptance.
This is all a part of Italy. I can take it or leave it, but I can’t change it. The sooner I let go of all memories of efficiency and organization, the better off I will be. After all, I didn’t come to Italy because it is just like America or Australia. I came to be swept up in the difference-ness of it. And it definitely is different. Italy is teaching me patience and to slow down and enjoy the details. Each day I am getting closer to letting go of the need to know why things aren’t done in a certain way or time frame. I choose to look at the brighter side of the disorder: I have finally found something the Italians don’t do well and it is quite a boost to my confidence.