Archive for the ‘uniquely italian’ Category
Malocchio: Conquering the Italian Evil Eye One Plastic Red Horn at a Time
The roots of the Italian superstition of malocchio (Evil Eye) are in envy, and its symptoms can include headache, excessive yawning, and a general malaise.
Read on...My Birthday Gifts Have Arrived!
Here’s the postmark:
Today is January 18.
My birthday is October 18.
At least the number of the day is right.
Thank you Poste Italiane (and Jenn)!
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[tags]italian postal service, poste italiane, post office, life in italy[/tags]
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.
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 a Job in Italy
So remember when I mentioned a sort of interview the other day? When I was suffering from the flu (I’m mostly recovered now, thanks)?
Turns out that it was to be a kind of oral exam in front of a six-member commission. There were two candidates, another girl and me.
And I didn’t get the job. But neither did the other girl. Actually neither of us ended up even getting interviewed.
Have I mentioned that I love Italy?
Let’s start back at the beginning, about nine months ago.
My local health clinic called me with news that someone in the larger, regional agency needed some English translations. They were applying for European Union funding for a pilot project to help improve immigrant access to health care–and the application materials had to be in English. I had never done any translating, but the people at the clinic figured I was American, I knew some Italian, and they were desperate. I stepped in.
So I did the translation, and quite a few emails and letters thereafter, all gratis, as we say, with the understanding that if they did indeed receive the funding, I’d probably end up working with them–not so gratis.
Fast forward to October of 2006, and they got the funding. It was time to hire a translator/interpreter for the project. Well, since it’s a government-related job, they had to advertise the opening and do the whole interview process.
The people in charge happened to tell me about this the day before the materials were due. So I put everything together in an evening and was ready to go hand deliver the application packet to the Director of the health agency, a 45 minute drive away.
I stopped in the local clinic first, though, just to make sure I had everything, and Teresa, the woman I had been working with, told me that I could just send the packet the Italian equivalent of certified mail–that the postmark stamp would be enough. So I did.
You see where this is going right?
About a week after I sent the packet, I got a letter in the mail telling me to come for the oral exam/interview on January 3. So, last Wednesday, after making the 45 minute drive and waiting another hour and a half for the Director to show up, I was called inside the conference room. As I’m taking my coat off, they tell me not to bother, and explain that they can’t consider my application because it arrived after the deadline.
Hah!
I explained why that happened, but they didn’t much care. After all, why should I be able to rely on another person in their agency for correct information? That’d be a lot like the right hand knowing what the left is doing, and well, we all know that doesn’t happen much around here.
I was a little annoyed at this point, as you might imagine. It wasn’t so much the loss of the potential job part as the I felt like hell and then waited most of the morning only to find out they weren’t even going to speak to me part.
Um, why, then did you send me a letter telling me to come here? If you weren’t going to look at any application materials before we actually showed up, why not just tell us to just come and bring our things?
On my way home, I got a call from Teresa, and she told me that the other girl didn’t have the qualifications they wanted, so they didn’t end up interviewing her either. So on her behalf, I again ask why on earth we both had to go there to find these things out?
Talk about a huge waste of time!
But all is not lost. Teresa tells me that now we’ll do the whole thing again. They’ll advertise the post, I’ll send the stuff on time, and hopefully I’ll actually be interviewed this time. I’ll let you know.
And on the really bright side, on the way to the interview, I saw snow for the first time this year–on top of the Sila Mountains overlooking Catanzaro. Didn’t have the camera though. No room in my bag between all the nasty used tissues and cough drops.
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[tags]italian bureaucracy, bureaucracy in italy, employment in italy[/tags]
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
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