Archive for January, 2007
Navigating the Italian Health Care System
So I finally went and signed up for the Italian health care system. As expected, it wasn’t what I’d call a normal experience, but then again, it wasn’t awful, so I’m counting my blessings.
I walked into the local clinic, greeted by paint peeling off the walls. As an aside, I was told today that it’s a law in Italy that private service-oriented businesses must repaint their walls every year or risk fines/being shut down for a while. And come to think of it, I’ve never seen paint peeling off walls of bars or restaurants . . . but health care clinics and hospitals? Whole other story.
Anyway, there were two large rooms off of the main hallway (full of sick people), but only one of them had a person inside. Really far away from the door and at a really small desk. And he was wearing a rather bulky jacket despite the fact that it wasn’t even cold enough outside for it. Looked like he hadn’t quite settled in yet for the day, so he’d be in a good mood, right? I mean, it was only 10 a.m.
So I picked him for lack of any other choice.
I told him that I needed to register for the health care system. He merely raised his eyebrows.
I added that I had never been a part of the system because I just got my Italian citizenship. He asked where I’m from. Why that matters, I’m not sure, but I told him anyway.
Another three second pause and he said, “You need a certificate of citizenship.”
I told him I have an Italian ID card. FYI, this lists your citizenship on it.
“Codice fiscale?” he challenged. This is a tax code and like our Social Security number in the States.
“Got it.” Hah!
He told me I was going to have to have some pazienza and wait for his colleague to show up. Again, 10 a.m., so I’m not sure when we were expecting the mystery man. Any minute, I imagined, but the pazienza comment wasn’t very comforting.
So I sat down in the hall as far away from all the sickies as I could. I’m just shedding this nasty cough, so I’d rather not repeat the last two weeks. As I waited, two different people asked me questions about where to get some kind of receipts. Right. Um, I’m sitting in the hallway on a plastic blue chair. Maybe you should ask someone inside a room at a desk, mini as it is? But no problem. I took it as a compliment that I look knowledgeable. And not sick.
After just 20 minutes of clipping my fingernails to pass the time (I’m not lying; I forgot a book), the guy went out for a smoke, about 10 feet from me, glancing at me every now and again as if throwing subliminal messages to leave. At least that’s what I got through the haze.
When he finished, he came over to me, asked for my documents, and then took them and made photocopies. Note this verbal request because this is the last time this man spoke to me for a long while. Also note that this is the same man that told me I had to wait for his colleague who was nowhere in sight.
He motioned for me to follow him, and so I did. We walked down the hall past the sickies (I held my breath) and into another rather large room. Anyone who has ever been in an Italian waiting room of this sort knows the kinds of looks I got from the other plastic blue chair occupants. I fiddled with my ID card, stuffing it in and pulling it out of its plastic holder repeatedly to avoid the stares. I’m pretty sure they still hated me.
Two small desks inside this room. Not sure what the deal is with the mini-desks, but I imagine it has to do with funding issues. And the fact that Italy is the opposite of Texas, i.e., everything is smaller here.
He pushed out the visitor chair (padded!) and motioned for me to sit down. Then he typed some stuff into the late 80s model computer, wrote some more stuff on an application-like form, filled out a little card that I’d get to take with me — probably a good 10 minutes of complete and utter silence. The pen was broken off at the top so that the ink had leaked down the side a bit, and I couldn’t help but wonder why he didn’t just throw that one away and use one of the other 30 identical ones in a little cup on the desk.
Right. Funding? Are we sensing a trend?
He scared me a bit as he barked at me to choose a primary doctor; he literally only said “Dottore?” Luckily I already had a name ready. I hate to think I’d have had to ask for a list from which to choose.
A series of ink pads and stamps (bam! bam bam! bam! bam!), my signature (he pointed to the X), and I was holding my new (handwritten) health care card.
Then, I swear, the man gave me a little “ciao” wave like you’d give to a baby — scrunchy fingers, opening and closing rapidly. At least it wasn’t the backwards ciao, which would have been way too familiar for our relationship in my opinion. Although scrunchy fingers? Yeah, that was pushing it too.
So I left thinking that this guy maybe didn’t actually have the authority to do what he just did, being as though he wanted me to wait for his “colleague,” which I began to think was code for “boss.” But when I got home, I compared my card to P’s, and guess what? Same handwriting.
Guess it just wasn’t his turn to work, and he held out as long as could.
But then he must’ve felt sorry for me or something, so all is forgiven on my end.
And so I say, Signor Scrunchy Ciao: grazie mille! I am now free to injure myself.
honoring mlk, jr.
Recently on the Expats in Italy Forum, Joanna, a fellow American living in Italy posted a link through which we can keep track of what our senators and representatives are up to in Washington. Quite coincidentally, I came across this quote by Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. today:
“Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter.”
It’s easy for those of us in Italy to forget that today back in the States is MLK, Jr. Day. I hope everyone will take a moment and remember all that Dr. King did and dreamed for our country and for the world; I believe that one of the best ways we can honor his memory is to let our politicians know when they’re not listening to us.
What are your senators and representatives doing?
Calabrian Door Knockers
Buona domenica!*
Today turned into a working Sunday for me, but not before I took a long walk with Luna and snapped pictures like these:
Someday these will be part of a larger collection of Calabrian Door Knockers. I do realize that I’ll need a different name as that one just sounds kinda dirty.
FYI, the second one above is on P’s house. He tells me there’s another head somewhere in the village although he can’t remember where, so now we have a mission. OK, that sounds kinda dirty too, so let’s move on.
Another series in the works is of the original arches of the village. Here are two of those:
Now back to work for me.
*This means “Happy Sunday,” and believe it or not, they actually say this on a regular basis here. Weekly in fact. There’s even an all-day variety show of the same name.
Yes, you read that correctly: variety show. Yes, it’s 2007.
Getting Fowl: Meet Our Hens, Turkeys, and Rooster
A few days ago I promised that I would show off our hens (and other fowl). This beautiful sunny morning, P, who doesn’t take much joy from anything technological, asked for the camera. He’s really proud of our fowl, and rightfully so.
Before we get to the pictures, though, let me explain something. We don’t live on a farm, but we also don’t keep farm animals in or near our house. We live in a typical walled medieval village on a mountaintop, which means many of the houses touch. A skilled driver can squeeze a small car down the main corso, but all the other streets are narrow, winding alleys. Not a whole lotta room for vegetation within the village itself except for balcony plants and trees and flower boxes. Don’t worry, someday I’ll do photos of those too.
As you ascend the mountain, if you look closely, you’ll see stone chicken coops and pig pens tucked into the greenery. Although the demarcations are known only to those to whom the properties belong, the entire mountainside is split into plots, usually passed down through the family. Here village residents have their gardens, growing everything from tomatoes and eggplants to lemons and oranges and keeping various small farm animals. The larger plots of land more outside the village are where you’ll find crops like olive trees and grapevines and many more farm animals.
Here’s a piece of our little plot, although this isn’t where the fowl are because it doesn’t get enough sun. In case you didn’t know, hens need sun/warmth or else they won’t lay eggs.
We have lemon, orange, and almond trees, as well as cucumbers, peperoncini, eggplants, parsley, basil, rosemary, celery, and probably other things I’m forgetting. Sadly, no tomatoes–again, the whole sun problem.
The pollaio is on P’s brother’s plot; he lives in Perugia, so he’s not using this chunk of sun-drenched land. The garden and the pollaio are a two-minute walk apart, and they’re each a five-minute severely downhill walk from the house–going down is fine, but coming back up? Let’s just say I don’t need an elliptical trainer.
Ready to meet some fowl after the longest photo introduction ever?
Below is the outdoor meeting place. I like this shot because you can also see how the land is parceled up. None of the other structures on this picture belong to us or P’s family, and as far as I know they aren’t being currently used either.
The big white thing among all seemingly tiny friends is the turkey we were supposed to eat for Thanksgiving. We used to have three total, but two weeks before Turkey Day, a feral cat celebrated early by taking one of ours. Happy to oblige, Thanksgiving Party Pooper, but you left us with only two turkeys–a girl and a boy, who need each other for company.
We ate chicken instead. No worries, since that’s what my grandmother always made anyway because she didn’t like turkey, but still. Maybe next year.
Now how pretty is this little dude? He’s what they call here a “gallo americano,” an American rooster, but we know him better as a bantam. P waited for ten minutes to see if he could catch him singing, but no dice.
Here he is with one of his hen friends.
And here’s my arsty photo of Signor Bantam, as I call him:
Can you tell he’s kind of our favorite?
On a sad note, some of the roosters will meet their demises very soon. Probably tomorrow morning in fact. But I won’t point out which ones because I don’t know, and I like it that way. Rest assured, though, that the turkeys and Signor Bantam are in the clear.
I most certainly won’t be present for the killings to document it either, so you’ll just have to rely on some Discovery program or something for that. And in the same vein, I won’t be cleaning the birds.
Why? Because I’m no plucker. Hah!
Virginia Woolf’s Diary: On Being Brilliant
Virginia Woolf’s writing is always evocative and gorgeous, but the characters in her real life are every as bit as entertaining and eccentric.
Read on...
Michelle Kaminsky is an American attorney-turned-freelance writer who lived in her family's ancestral village in Calabria, Italy for 15 years. This blog is now archived.
Calabria Guidebook
Recipes
