Italians, I will never understand them
Seventeen years ago, when we decided to set up our tent (this is metaphorical, you understand: rather eating dry pasta on the Via Lanza in the centro storico than nibbling caviar in a folding trailer) in Rome, questions were raining down. ‘To Italy? Aren't you afraid of the mafia? The chaos?’
I wasn't so afraid of the mafia, because they would be very bad at their job if we were their most interesting target. I would be hunting for a bigger fish if I were them. And the chaos seemed charming to me. Always spread fingers in front of the eyes through which you could see a lot. An officer pushing his ticket book back after you looked at him with your head tilted and hands in a praying position in front of your chest. A school that would never start on time. I actually only saw advantages.
Even before we started our Italian course at the Piazza d’Orologio, I was already introduced to the overregulated Italy. Italians were not at all part of the ‘I-see-it-through-my-fingers’ club, but turned out to be fervent lovers of stamps, stickers, diplomas, registration numbers, copies, and other 'documenti'. Buying a simple scooter almost caused me a burnout. And that during your sabbatical.
That the lesson always started promptly at 8:45 AM and the insegnante became furious if you hadn't done your homework surprised me less than it would have three weeks earlier. Live by the rules became our new motto, because otherwise you had no life here.
During the corona times, the belt of the rules was tightened even more in Italy. If you walked from your beach chair to the sea, there would be a man in uniform armed with a thermometer. Wanted to walk from your table to the toilet in a restaurant? Face mask mandatoryissimo. But that all Italians then stood on the beach chatting, packed together so tightly that even sardines would feel claustrophobic, the supervisors completely disregarded. And that face masks were smoothly moved from mouth to elbow (the elbow mask was the beach trend of summer 2021), that of course didn't matter at all.
One and a half meters was hugely important when you entered the restaurant, but that entire families huddled together at the table: nessun problema.
This Saturday, I left our beloved Italy again. Letter from the doctor stating that our eldest has a face mask exemption due to her intellectual disability, all our vaccination books (with stamps: yay!) and fresh face masks ready, I obediently jump through all the hoops to get into the airport. Temperatures, and again showing that corona app and yellow books (I do both, I can't be caught off guard), disinfecting hands and so on. Just before boarding, suddenly everyone needs to pee. I pull my girls to the toilets and open the disabled toilet. My daughter is not in a wheelchair, but she also needs help with all ‘actions’. And since I'm there anyway, I naturally take my little one with me. The door swings open and a stern-looking man steps out. A jacket with a glowing edge over his uniform, the epaulettes proudly pushed towards the sky, shiny buttons, and a cap that just leaves room for the firm eyebrows. He looks at us, sees no wheelchair, and sternly waves his index finger. ‘Non, non, your toilet is over there’ and he nods to the right. I straighten my back, shield with the term ‘disabilità mentale’ (I just looked it up) and put on my tremendous I-won’t-take-no-for-an-answer look.
The man looks a bit stunned but lets us in. Now quickly pee and then we'll just make it. My youngest looks at me with squinted eyes. That it stinks here. I nod. Breathe through your mouth and hurry up: the best remedy. And the only one. But it really stinks, differently. I lower my face mask and am hit by a huge coughing fit. I don't smell the familiar toilet odors, but the steam of a cigarette just hastily extinguished. That strict supervisor with the pointing finger, he had just been sitting here enjoying a smoke for a quarter of an hour. In the disabled toilet.
The Italians, they continue to amaze and surprise me.
