Who Could Have Been a Millionaire?

 

     Italian TV has issues. There is usually nothing on, unless you're looking for some long forgotten 1970s American police chase movie dubbed into Italian or some tacky variety show with a 65-year old crooner singing under a disco ball in front of an overly well-lit studio audience. If you don't have cable then those are pretty much your standard options other than the news. To complicate matters, if you do happen to know of a show or a movie that you'd like to watch, then good luck actually figuring out when it's on. As Americans we have been spoiled by the hour and the half hour mark. You KNOW that if you turn on the TV on the hour or on the half hour that you'll catch the beginning of something. In Italy it's far more approximate. For instance, I've figured out that between roughly 9:13pm and 9:22pm there's a good bet that a fairly recent film will be shown on one of three channels. Yes, it takes some flipping between channels to figure out which one and what time, etc., but usually I end up successful. This took me at least a year to figure out.

      That's why one night during the first several months that I was living in Rome, my ex-boyfriend and I found ourselves watching a talent show turned game show turned talk show turned variety show. Clearly they wanted to appeal to the widest possible audience. At first it was just on in the background and then our morbid curiosity and love of the ridiculous sucked us in. I will describe it to you, but it might sound like a weird dream.

      The back of the sound stage was covered with high, velvety, luxurious (possibly blue) theatrical curtains. There was a shiny, old, fancy black car with tinted windows parked to the far right of the stage in which, we soon found out, was hidden a mystery celebrity. The car shared the stage with a four or five piece band, which was set up on a platform just slightly in front of the curtains and which split center stage with another platform adorned with two armchairs and a small table. There may or may not have been a disco ball, but let's just pretend that there definitely was and that it was positioned over the large downstage “performance space”. Of course the camera rarely had the entire set in the frame all at once. Usually it was focused on the performers/contestants who, when we started paying attention, were lined up in the middle of this performance space as the host made the rounds, stopping to talk to each one. They were playing twenty questions, trying to guess the identity of the mystery guest, and at this level the prize for guessing the right answer was €1,000,000! It had already been determined that it was an Italian woman.

      “Are you an actress?”

      Long drum roll with close up of tinted window of car. Finally a slip of paper drops out from the top of the window. YES.

      Next contestant.

      “Do you have brown hair?”

      Another long drum roll. Another close up of tinted window. Another slip of paper. YES.

      “Isabella Rossellini!” I exclaim, laughing because she's the only Italian actress I can think of and she also happens to have brown hair.

      Next contestant.

      “Are you also a singer?”

      Even longer drum roll....... YES.

      “Oh, never mind. She's not a singer.” And that was the end of my participation.

      The questions continued until the host had made it through all of the contestants. They had determined age range, that she did not have short hair (at the moment), and that she had also acted in English. Then came each contestants' turn to take a guess. I don't remember what their guesses were because, like I said, the only Italian actress I could think of was Isabella Rosellini and I didn't recognize any of the names they tried. But I do remember that no one guessed her. However for each guess there was a disproportionate and increasingly anticlimactic drum roll with the same close up of the tinted window before a slip of paper poked its way out and went fluttering to the ground at the host's feet.

      Now here's where the show got really interesting... or painful, depending on your take. The performers/contestants were all seated to the far left of the stage and then one by one got up and did their number. Several were singers, a couple were dancers, and at least one was a magician or ventriloquist or something. After each performance an applause meter measured the audience reaction and according to how high the arrow went the performers were granted between 1 and 4 more questions to ask. It was a long and painful process, full of more drum rolls and more slips of paper. Still no one was able to guess the identity of the poor actress who at this point had been sitting inside that car for at least an hour and a half.

     Then, totally unexpectedly, they opened the guessing game and €1,000,000 prize up to the viewers at home. (To this day it boggles my mind that a show such as this had €1,000,000 to give away just like that, but there you have it.) I so wished I had a guess to offer up, but neither of us could come up with anything. Apparently neither could any of the subsequent callers. But the game just wouldn't end. There were more performances and more questions and more guesses and more people calling from home. The prize kept getting lowered for each new round. We wanted to turn it off but somehow just couldn't manage to tear ourselves away. We were consumed by the need to know WHO was in that car!

      FINALLY the host announced that despite the failure of anyone to guess her identity, the car door would be opened and the celebrity would be revealed. So....drum roll. The loooongest drum roll in the history of the universe. I swear to you this drum roll went on for at least a minute. You think I'm exaggerating, but I'm really really not. It went on for so long that it got funny, then annoying, and then funny again, and then super unbelievably annoying, and then just pee-in-your pants hilarious. And when the car door finally opened.... Isabella freaking Rosellini stepped out.

      I feel that the story should end here, especially since a little piece of me died in that moment, but the story can't end here because the show did not end here. Once our curiosity had been satisfied and we assumed the program was over, we turned off the TV, feeling incredulous, forlorn, and just plain stupid for not having called. (It would prove hard for us to let go of this loss for a long time.) About an hour or so later we turned the TV back on for whatever reason and THE SHOW WAS STILL THERE. Isabella was seated in one of the arm chairs mentioned earlier and the host was seated in the other, and as they bantered back and forth a clown on a unicycle juggled bowling pins while circling the stage in front of them. We watched speechless for a moment before looking at each other in wonder and then breaking down into hysterical laugher. And then maybe tears.

Epilogue:

      I often wonder how my life would be different if I had just picked up the phone and risked my dignity to take a guess. Two things are certain: I'd have a greater respect for Italian programming and I'd let myself splurge for cable TV.

*If you are the copyright holder of the photo used in this post please contact me if you wish for it to be removed.

Close Encounters of the Post Office Kind

     A few months before I moved to Italy “for a year” I came to Rome with my mom to get the apartment ready. One of the things on her agenda for that short visit was to make sure I knew where the nearest post office was. I shrugged my shoulders and went along with it, thinking “Ok...yeah...I mean I guess it's good to know. I might have to mail a letter or send a package one day...” When we arrived at what she deemed to be the closest one, she handed me a bill to pay. I was confused. What did paying a bill have to do with going to the post office? I look back on that moment now and smile tenderly at my innocent, naïve, little self.

      You see, in the US we're all used to the bills being delivered once a month and then writing a check and sending it through the mail. The only reason to go to the post office is if you're out of stamps. Not so in Italy. First of all, the bills are delivered on either a bi-monthly, tri-monthly, and, in some cases, quarterly basis. So you basically NEVER know if a bill is late of if for some reason you failed to receive it, unless you have created some sort of organized flow chart to help you keep track. When bills do arrive, you absolutely must open them immediately because it's very possible that the expiration date for payment is the next day. At that point you have to give up on whatever else you were planning on doing the next morning and make a specific trip to the dreaded post office, which is only open until 13:30 (1:30pm) and does not reopen in the afternoon. Please note that even if the bill arrives well before the expiration date, writing a check and sending it through the mail is still not an option. You will eventually have to find time to go to the post office anyway, because if there are two things that Italians don't trust it is checks and the mail system. How ironic.

      Now, one of the few things that the Italian post office has in common with the American post office is the long wait. But, and here I've got to hand it to Italy, they have a very convenient numbered ticket system, so you can get your ticket and then have a seat and wait for your number to come up on the digital display.... If you can get a seat. There will always be a thousand people ahead of you and even if/when you finally get a seat you can count on some little old lady with a cane walking in. You will look desperately around hoping that someone beats you to it, but no. Everyone will be engrossed in conversation on their cell phone or reading the paper or just blatantly pretending not to see her. Eventually you too will become one of those people... But I digress.

      As I mentioned, there is almost always a long wait at the post office. I don't know why that is. Even if the number on your ticket is only five digits away on the digital display, you can count on waiting at least half an hour. And that's on a good day. Sometimes you're forty digits away on the display. And that's why it's good to know of a couple more post offices in the area. Since there's no need to hold your place in line, you can leave to see if you have better luck somewhere else. But hold onto your number!!! You may be forced to come back if you can't find anything better. Of course, no matter what, leaving is risky, because there's always the chance that other people before you have given up on the long wait and that means that the numbers start flying by and that if you leave you could end up getting skipped. It's a tough call.

      Post Office encounters can sometimes occur up to three times a month. That's a bad month. Maybe you get something sent by registered mail and aren't there to sign for it and instead have to go pick it up in person. Maybe expiring bills show up in the same month, creating multiple trips. And maybe you have a Post Office bank account and need to make a deposit. Yes, I said Post Office bank account. Because obviously the post office is also a bank. And a cell phone provider. It's no wonder that the one thing the Italian post office really isn't good at at all is delivering the mail. But, if you think about it, nothing in the title “Post Office” specifically says that the post office is only to be in charge of the comings and goings of people's communication. I mean, in a sense, even the US post office is somewhat diversified in it's services. I know I've used postal money orders. And I've glanced at all of those America's Most Wanted pictures like a responsible and helpful citizen. And I think they do some sort of passport processing, or something like that. So maybe it's not all that different after all.

      Oh, wait. Yes it is. Because for anything you need to go to the post office for in the US there is one line. In Italy there is a numbered ticket for paying bills and dealing with other simple fiscal matters, another for mail services, and then no number at all (which is just irritating at this point) for more complex banking issues. In truth this division of tickets according to services provided is normally a good thing. That is until you have tickets for two different services and your two numbers get called at the same time and then you have to start all over again with one of them. It's sort of like trying to be at an EPA and a chorus call at the same time (I know I have actor friends out there who know what I'm talking about). The only people who have it good at the post office are pregnant women because in Italy there is a law that pregnant women don't have to wait on lines. Seriously. I'm looking into basketballs.

      A few years have passed since that first trip with my mother to the post office. I've grown, I've learned, I've developed post office strategies. But most importantly, I now pay my bills online.

*If you are the copyright holder of one or both of the photos used in this post please contact me if you wish for them to be removed.

The Love Affair, Part II

     Yes, you've taken the relationship to the next level. At this stage some of you will realize that you're actually more comfortable with the occasional fling than with this level of commitment. There may be a few more “weekend trips” in the future, but ultimately Italy will become nothing more than a recurring one night stand, if that. Know that she will never hold this against you. Others of you, however, love how real she has now become, so fallible, and so human, ultimately even more beautiful and charming for her imperfections. You will be ready for the next phase: moving in together.

     So you start searching Craigs List for short term apartment rentals in Rome. Italy can be a big spender and she will tempt you to live outside of your means. You will have to hold firm and resist that renovated one-bedroom apartment with high ceilings, a crystal chandelier, and a terrace overlooking the Spanish Steps for €800/night, no matter how much she pouts. Instead choose the sunny studio apartment in Monteverde (which you've never heard of, but you googlemap it and it looks central enough) for €1300/month (and FYI which is my mother's and which I actually DO rent out on a short term basis). A relationship is about compromise, and the most important thing is that you get to be together. But be forewarned that she often forgets to put the cap back on the toothpaste and tends to leave her shoes in the middle of the floor.

     When you arrive it's like you've been reunited with a piece of yourself. The food, the architecture, the history, the narrow cobbled streets.... You're high on love. It's magical. You explore everything on foot. You want to know everything there is to know about her, her deepest secrets and her most hidden piazzas. Gradually you grow more comfortable with the new situation. You relax into it. You're able to spend quiet time together not doing anything in particular other than laying out in the park on a blanket or enjoying an ice cream cone while people watching on a bench. Yes, she led you to believe that you could get away with not paying for public transportation, thus causing you to get a ticket one day, but you're onto her ways so you provide the ticket controllers with a fake address in the US for them to send the ticket to. You feel yourself growing closer to one another everyday that you spend together.

     On the other hand, for some this arrangement will be the harbinger of death. The panhandling gypsies on the tram, the idea of a red light as merely a suggestion to stop rather than a command, waiting half an hour for a bus and then three show up in a row, the impossibility of running simple errands between the hours of 13:30 and 16:30 because the country is taking a nap, the use of military time!!!.... These may all just turn out to be insurmountable personal differences. People who feel this way will need to take a break. They tried, they gave it their all, but it just wasn't meant to be.

     However, for those of you who dread the approaching end of those magical three months the way you dreaded the approach of your 30^th birthday, the final step is almost inevitable. You want to make your love official and declare it to the world. It's not easy to give it all up, sell your belongings, and follow your heart to a new country, but it's like you've been left with no other choice. Your friends throw you one last hurrah before you leave the nest to begin your life together, looking forward to the day that they will come visit and get to have a little fling of their own. You bid your country goodbye, parting on good terms and promising to keep in touch. And that's when the real adventure begins....

The Love Affair, Part I

     Let's be honest. Americans (possibly the world, but I can only speak for Americans) have a love affair going on with Italy and all things Italian. If it makes you feel any better, it's actually not a one-sided love affair. I can't tell you the number of Italians that would give anything to move to the US and just think I'm crazy for leaving NYC to live in the historic center of a tiny little town an hour north of Rome with a population of about 2000. (Yes, above is a photo of said town.) Meanwhile, so many Americans think that that sounds like a very close approximation of paradise. Both sides are right, and both sides are wrong.... as is so often the case with so many things. 

      Now, my intention is not to disenchant anyone, rather it is to share the truth...both the good and the bad...so that a more complete and human picture may be drawn of this geographical and cultural object of desire. Some will fall more in love, some will be heartbroken, and some will be oddly intrigued. It's the dating process. So let's start the journey and see where it leads.

      Many of you have already been on the first couple of dates. By that I mean, you've been to Italy at least once and for a week or so. You've seen a few of her best and most beautiful cities: museums, cathedrals, restaurants, fountains, shopping, gelato, etc. You've been wined and dined and generally swept off your feet.... Let's just say that at the beginning everyone does their best to make a good impression. Italy leaves you wanting more. She's hinted at Tuscany with the rolling hills and vineyards, she's shown you a couple of pictures of the beaches and the clear blue water of Sardegna, she promised that next time, if there's a next time (eyelash flutter....) she'll take you for a walk along the Via Dell'Amore of the Cinque Terre, she may even have flirtily taught you a few sexy words in Italian to practice until you meet again. Yes, there was that one incident where you nearly got run down by a crazy man on a Vespa who then proceeded to yell obscenities at you as he drove away, gesticulating at the air, but one loud little hiccup while drinking a glass of spumanti can be so charming. And it worked. You're hooked. You can't get her off your mind. You buy The Rosetta Stone for Italian, you start listening to Puccini, you rent every Italian movie in the foreign film section of your local video store, you even sign up for an Italian cooking class. It's true that for some the relationship may peter out at this phase. France will catch their eye and the process will start all over again for them. But for those of you that are more serious, the time has come to start planning a romantic “weekend trip”.

      Ah, the first trip together. A certain degree of comfort has already been established, which is good because you will be sharing a bathroom this time. Such a turning point in a relationship. This time you want to try something different, see something off the beaten tourist path. Maybe rent a car and organize a road trip. And obviously one of the best parts: more time together. Three weeks instead of one or two. You're blinded by infatuation and you're feeling giddy and adventurous. Still, you're bound to encounter your first disagreement. Perhaps it happens at the car rental counter when you find that for some inexplicable reason they have no record of the reservation you made for a mid-sized sedan, but instead, after an hour of waiting and phonecalls, manage to find you an ultra compact Fiat 600, with barely enough room to accommodate your and your companion's luggage. Furthermore, even though you had been told, when making the now obsolete reservation, that your US driver's license would be fine, they're now telling you that they need an ACI approved license. But no problem, you can pay the ACI fee directly to them...in cash...and they'll “officialize” your license. You're skeptical, but don't want this trip together to get off on the wrong foot, so you let her have her way this time and laugh about how stubborn she is. It's sort of cute and endearing.... Oh, by the way, the car is stick shift. One more thing to laugh about. And away you go!

      Several days later the next disagreement is brewing. It could start with the crazy drivers who cut you off, weaving in and out of traffic (to be fair you were duly warned after the Vespa incident). It might build at the intersections with arrows and cities pointing in all directions repeating and contradicting themselves and generally making chaos. And it definitely comes to a head when you discover that a full tank of gas for that little tiny compact putt-putt costs approximately $80. You take a walk to clear your head, questioning the relationship and wondering if perhaps you rushed things a bit, when you come upon an adorable little hole-in-the wall restaurant (complete with drippy candles, red checkered table cloths, and a passing accordion player) where you proceed to have one of the most memorable meals of your life. See how she does that? She basically just started rubbing your shoulders before seducing you into forgiveness. That's how she works. And that's one of the reasons you either hate her or are falling ever more in love with her her.

      And that's why, though there were a few other “disagreements” as well, when you think back on the trip you mostly remember the ancient little towns built into the hill tops, the dazzling view of the sunset from the window of a B&B gazing out over an olive grove dappled landscape, the fragrant fruit and vegetable stands from where you purchased your picnic ingredients, the wrinkled toothless old man who's eyes twinkled as he asked if you'd like to sample the wine from his vineyard. Yes, there was the minor incident where you mysteriously “lost” 100 Euro from your pocket after a kind stranger offered to help you with your suitcase, but at least it was only cash (and you were sharing a bathroom after all so what did you expect really?).

To be continued.....