Good Things Come in Small Boxes… And to Those Who Wait

Both of these cases are true for me. After waiting what seemed to be a lifetime plus eternity, finally finally finally I picked up a tiny, indiscrete box from the realtor. It contained, well, basically, the world.

At least my world. Oh blessed sap of interconnectivity, I rejoice in your ultimate access to knowledge and am humbled by your small stature yet mighty influence (sorry, I’ve reading my favorite Helprin novel for the 4th time)!

To install a DSL modem, register it and for everything to actually work is a miracle of the divine for sure. Instruction manuals in English are confusing enough, let alone in Italian, thank god for the pictograms. Actually, perhaps this current technical feat was easier because I didn’t even bother to pretend to read the directions; I just kept pushing buttons until my hotmail worked. A very macho approach I think. Actually, after pushing buttons and crossing wires on and off for six hours yesterday, it was Josh who came home and was finally able to solve the last piece of the mystery which allowed us to connect.
Today is a good day in Rome! Since I now have the sweet sweet internet, I have many things to read, emails to write and time to waste ruining my eye site and developing carpal tunnel. So that my readers are not disappointed, I have decided to offer you blog fans a real treat today, a special guest writer!!
Here is an email from my good friend Matt, who decided that I wasn’t posting enough, so he created an addition to one of my previous musings on banks in Rome. Don’t be confused, he even went as far to write the entry in first person:

“I left all of your blog readers with, "I'm safe and with my husband and my cat. I can't ask for much more than that." But, when I awoke the following morning, and turned my head left and right to gain my bearings following the exhausting trip from the United States, I realized that I, my husband, and my cat had all spent the night in what could have been mistaken for a large cardboard box. It barely had space for the 12 bags that I had brought, and seemed like perhaps Charlie had taken more of a liking to the corner, and my lazy husband had simply ignored it for the past 4 weeks. So, I set out to find a new apartment.
Before starting the joyous search on Craigslist.com, romecityapartments.com, romerents.com, and contenitoreDiCartoneRoma.it
, we decided that we should establish ourselves in Rome by putting some money in a local bank. So we set out on foot, and the first one we came to, and probably the most popular in Rome was the Banco di Roma. It seemed like a nice place, the tellers were all dressed in Armani suits, and it looked like a reliable place to deposit some Euros. But being prudent Americans, we thought we would take a look elsewhere to see what the other area banks had to offer.
Down the street was the Banco di Napoli. Upon entering we smelled something unpleasant. It did not seem to effect anyone else in the bank, which was pretty busy on the Thursday afternoon we were there. When getting to the front of the line and speaking with a teller (all of whom were male) the teller must have noticed that we smelled something. As much as we were trying to hide the fact that this odor was foul, we were unable deceive the teller. He handed us a brochure, as if to explain about the smell. It was completely in Italian, of course, but on it we saw Mount Vesuvius erupting, and lava flowing down its sides directly into the front door of what appeared to be the headquarters of the Banco di Napoli. Aparently they have not been able to get rid of the smokey smell in the past 1,928 years.
The next bank we came to was the Banca Popolare del Verona. When we walked into this place, we fell in love. The atrium of the bank was gorgeous, absolutely luxourious. The staff was friendly and comforting. We immediately decided that this was the bank we were going to put our money in. We had seen two other popular banks, and they paled in comparison to this one. So we were able to speak to the manager, and sat down at the most beautiful desk you had ever seen, to open our account. In Italy, they make you fill out a form with the name and address for the new account, so we did. Josh wrote Joshua E. Mackley, and I wrote Kimberly J. Mackley, we put Josh's work address since we were about to move, and handed the form over to the bank officer. The officer, in the gentlest, warmest way possible shook his head at us, and began to explain something in the most beautiful, but unintelligible Italian we had ever heard. We simply could not understand what he was saying, but it was so beautiful we sat there for a minute listening as if in a trance. After a few minutes of explanation (the Italians can go on talking for ever) he resorted to charades. Still unable to understand the weirdly seductive gestures he was making towards us, we simply put up our arms and said "no lo so!" Frustrated, but still gentle, the officer took the form from us, crossed out a few parts, and scribbled in some other information. Satisfied, he smiled, and walked off with the form telling us, "un minuto." Quicker than we expected, the gentleman came back with some official forms declaring that we had opened the account. At the top of the form we read the names Romeo E. Mackley and Giulietta J. Mackley. We tried to point out that this was incorrect, but the bank officer was not listening to our complaint. Out of fear of having to produce identification to withdraw from the account, and having no ID that said Romeo E. or Giulietta J. Mackley, we sadly left and went back to the drawing board.
Down the street, around the corner from the main street Via Del Corso, we turned down a shadowy street the size of a back alley in the United States, and found the entrance to another bank, the Banca di Nuovo Girsi. Inside was only one teller, although we could see a door partially open in the back and some activity taking place in the room. The teller greeted us with a smile and was wearing a black shirt with a white tie and fedora. He was smoking a cigar, and looked at us as if to say, "how ya' doin'". He seemed strangely familiar, and when we said hello to him, he asked if he knew us from somewhere. Apparently he has a brother named Vinny, and thought that he might had seen us last time he was in the States on a train around Trenton. He spoke English with a heavy accent, but was understandable. He seemed like a friendly guy. Lowering his voice to tell us a secret, he warned us that Trento, Italia was much Trenton, New Jersey, a place that you probably did not want to go. On the side of the Fiat factory in Trento, he said, is a big sign that reads, "marche di trento, gli introiti del mondo". Then before we could ask him about a checking or savings account, we were startled by the sound of silenced gunshots in the back room. Fearful for our lives, we were frozen and unable to move. Out came Vinny from the back room with blood spattered on his white shirt. His fedora was slightly out of place, and he calmly told his brother Guido that he had taken care of it for him. Fearing that we would get fish in our monthly bank statements from this place, we calmly backed away, never turning our back on Vinny or Guido, and rushed down the street to what we hoped to be our final destination.
The next bank that we came to was huge. It was all white, and very modern. On the inside, the floors were brilliant travertine marble, and there was quite a number of white square-sectioned columns and glass. We even noticed that as we approached the bank, there was a big plaza in front, which was very unusual for a bank. ...
Banca Fascista di Como”