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”

Globalization and Charades

Two subjects to pontificate about today. Probably unrelated, but equally provide some thought provoking reflections on my part.

First, and obvious observation, I am a long way from home and home is a long way from me. I am bashfully surprised how much goes on in the world that I never bothered to know about or notice. To reside in Europe is to live in a much more global community. Just by geographical location, you pay more attention to a bigger part of the world… or at least I have. In Philadelphia the local news was my main source of information, and the weather was usually the main topic of discussion. Here, my news comes from the BBC and the US portion is only a tiny segment in the day. I know more about the Korean Hostages, India’s woman president, Turkey joining the EU and the floods in England than what is going on in the states. This has definite advantages, I am clearly being a better informed global citizen, but I miss knowing what is going on at home. I miss being a somewhat informed American. Now, I think this will improve when I have an internet connection and my sole source of English isn’t from BBC world channel, which is the only one I can understand from our selection of Italian cable channels. In fact, the Internet itself has become a major obsession in my life. Senza il Interneto, I have been suffering greatly. Right off, I have been having trouble keeping in touch, emailing, blogging, etc etc. All of our US bills and accounts are online, all of the Visa information is online. Everything, it seems is online, when you are not! How is the world so big and so small at the very same time? I must reflect on this greatly… perhaps in another posting I will have an answer. For now I will let this fester in my mind.

Now, Charades. Perhaps the most important tool that I have taken with me abroad is the ability to gesticulate. In relation to the ponderings above, I have found charades to be a global tool for communication. The rules are not necessarily followed on a global scale, but everyone knows enough of the game to participate. So far charades have made life possible in Italy. Most of my recent banking excursion was supplemented by rounds and rounds of charades. Moving all of our stuff from one apartment across town to the next, charades. I was able to communicate to the landlord of the old room that I had swept and cleaned and that I was leaving by just a few simple mimicking gestures. I was able to secure taxis (hailing a cab does seem to be a universal motion of the arm), load all of my bags (and the cat) into three separate cab rides and arrive in the new apartment with little vocabulary. All through the miracle of a giant charade game called “life as an Italian illiterate”. My favorite charade round involved cutting a curtain rod.

I bought a small curtain rod at the local (for lack of better word) “junk” shop. Instead of a Wal-Mart or my blessed Target, the Romans have little teeny shops filled with odds and ends. In our neighborhood, I am intimately familiar with three of them. They are filled with things like Roma t-shirts and miniature coliseums, hammers, toilet paper, laundry detergent, hosiery and curling irons… totally random. Alas, in my favorite shop (with the best prices and the biggest selection) I found a curtain rod, which, by chance happened to be on my list of things that I needed for the apartment. In the bathroom there is a big marble sink, below the sink is a nice space for storage, but it had no door, it was just open to expose my ablutions to the world. Very unacceptable to a private girl like me, so I decided I would make a curtain for the vanity, hence the need for a curtain rod. This made finding the curtain rod a very big accomplishment and I was very happy. Until returning home with the rod to find that it was at least six inches bigger than my cabinet. I knew I should have measured! I was so mesmerized and enchanted by the rod that I bought it in a frenzy of happiness, without thinking that it might not be the right fit.

Here I had two choices, I could take the rod back or I could make it work. Taking the rod back would have required a bigger charade vocabulary that I currently have in my arsenal. So I was determined to make it work. First I took out the kitchen scissors, even the cat seemed to laugh as I tried to take a pair of kitchen shears to a metal rod. Than I thought about bending it until it broke, too risky, it would never bend off cleanly. So I sat down on the couch with my rod and looked at it, waiting for a bit of divine inspiration. Perhaps it is because there are so many churches in Rome, but I have had a run of good luck with the divine. Just then, what do I hear out of my apartment window? The hot summer air lofted in, and with it, the sounds of a power tool, a saw! I had observed earlier that across the street, adjacent to the auto repair shop was some type of woodworking shed. I could see saw dust and hear drilling, pounding and sawing most of the afternoons. So off I went to meet the neighbor. Sure enough, just inside the slightly opened door was a whole room full of cutting appliances.

“Scusi, senor? Il mio Ilaliano es molto male” That is as far as I can go, it was time for the round of charades to begin. I showed him my curtain rod and then made the universal scissor motion with my index and middle fingers. I made a sad face and shook my head back in forth. Meanwhile, saying in English, “I cannot cut this, can you help?” After only a millisecond of furrowed brow, he understood either my English (which is doubtful) or my charades (which is likely) because he walked to his wall of cutting, proudly picked up a handsaw and said “eh?”. “Si, Si, Si!” I cried, with the customary bobbing head to show affirmation. I offered to do it myself, but maybe because I had already been so pathetic or perhaps because I was in a skirt, the nice man but the rod into the vice and made a nice clean cut, right where I pointed and then proceeded to sand down the end a bit. I offered to pay (again, through a series of overly animated gestures), but he politely declined. Now, I have a curtain in the bathroom vanity and a friend across the street!

Home Sweet Rome

We are officially unpacked. Last Thursday we left the room that Josh had been staying in and moved into a cute little one bedroom off of Via Cavour. Not a moment too soon either, staying in one room with Josh, the cat and all of our belongings was not my idea of a good time. I didn't even bother to unpack much in the short time I was there, so I was really anxious to find a more permanent solution. And a more permanent solution we found. We signed a 12 month lease, eek! I guess we are here for awhile. Securing the apartment may have been my first true taste of the Italian way of life. Josh had looked at the space before I arrived and set up a time for me to see it shortly after. We decided that it was a great deal in our price range (of course towards the top, but isn't that always how it works?), in a nice neighbourhood, clean and got good light (which I am convinced that only artsy architect types are overly concerned with, but I too have come to appreciate a space with "good light"). So it was agreed that we would take the apartment. And here the adventure begins! To secure the apartment we had to give the real estate agent, Angela, who is very nice (and tall and blonde and tan, very Italian, she intimidates me a little bit) the equivalent of one month's rent in cash. This seemed to be a normal enough procedure and something that in the States I could have done with the flurry of a pen or a flash of the plastic. Not so here in Italia I discovered. My first logical option for securing this much cash was my bank. I had switched to a Citibank account before we left, so I could take advantage of their "Global Reach" and thousands of ATM's worldwide. It was around 11am. I then learned that the Citibank in Rome closes at 1:30PM and it is on the other side of town, about a 45 minute walk at least from our room in Trastevere. So, I hope in a cab (I am sure I was not taken in the most direct route) and arrive at the Citibank branch with plenty of time to spare. Here I find out that the Citibank location in Rome, is indeed a Citibank, but does not do the business of personal banking and is only an investment center. They have no way of helping me, but did suggest that I simply use the ATM outside on the street. Not a bad idea, so I did just that. All would be well except that to protect my own interests, Citibank has a limit on the amount of cash I can withdrawal on my account during any given business day. Thank you Citibank. So I am still short about half of the cash. I have yet to purchase my Italian cell phone, so I am on the other side of town and have made plans to meet with Josh over his lunch break at 1:30 by meeting him at the statue in the Campo near his office. At this point, I am skeptical of another cab ride and I hate to take cabs anyway, so I embark on the 30 minute hike to his office in the midday sun. This is fine, I have water and it gives me a chance to mull over my current predicament. On the way back, I pass by a Deutche Bank, also known for their worldwide banking presence. I figure that it can't hurt, so I stop by. The queue was long, but I had a good feeling. I got to the front and the man behind the glass said that he couldn't help me, but I had to see the man in the "little box", which I than figured out meant the cubicle across the lobby. He was busy and while I was waiting another man in a little box offered to help. I explained to him my situation. That basically I had plenty of funds, I just couldn't access it. I could not get my own money. I was holding my own self ransom. He told me that I could open up a non-resident Duetche Bank account and we could transfer my Citibank funds into the Duetche Bank account and viola! I would have a "local" bank to deal with. I was prepared for this type of thing, I had all of my Citibank information, I had my Italian tax ID number, I had my passport, and what else could this man want!? He needed all of that, but in addition for me to open up an account at Deutche Bank, he needed a Teletext from Citibank that included "phrases of introduction". Basically he wanted a formal introduction from Citibank that said, "I am pleased to introduce you to Kim Mackley". He didn't need them to confirm my account or say that I was a good customer, he simply needed an introduction. I guess our handshake ten minutes prior was not enough. So, with the chances of getting a hold of Citibank and anyone in Italy making this introduction before everything closed for lunch was slim to none, I headed back out on the road to ponder further with Josh. One more stop on the way at the scary Western Union place, I learned that indeed, you can't send money to yourself (try explaining that in broken Italian\English). The fat lady behind the greasy glass did offer some help though. She suggested the ever dreaded cash advance. Everyone knows that you should try to avoid this cash advancing at all costs, but desperate times call for desperate measures. I made it back to the Campo with this idea and a sunburn. Josh and I talked it over and indeed this was the way to go. In the meantime, Angela had called Josh (because I had no phone) and they set up an appointment for me to meet her with the cash at 4pm. I had one and a half hours to find the rest of the cash. So we grabbed a quick Panini and parted ways. My first stop for the cash was Banca Roma. No luck, they don't do cash advances after lunch. Second was Banca di Lazio Populare. I waited in the room for quite sometime and no one even looked my direction. I cut my losses here and headed for another branch of Deutche Bank, afterall, I had a bit of progress with them earlier. No luck here, they were nice enough to put a giant sign in the lobby though "NO TRAVEL CHEQUES. NO CASH ADVANCE". It was getting closer to four, so I decided to cut my losses, head for the apartment and pray for two things. One, a bank to be on the way. Two, the ability to convince Angela that I would give her the rest of the cash tomorrow without looking like a total idiot. So I dredged up Via Cavour and although filled with many things, mostly souvenir shops, there were no banks in sight. Finally a block away from the apartment was the last and only bank on my route. I gave it a shot. I went in (temporarily confused by the door, which took your thumbprint before it opened) and immediately had a good feeling. There was no line and a friendly older man behind the glass. I explained to him that I needed a cash advance. He told me that they do not do them in the afternoon's (where does all of the Italian money go in the afternoons!?!??!). I told him that I need to pay a deposit on my new apartment, please, couldn't he help. He said alright and asked how much I needed. I told him, he said he could give me half of that. I begged again. Finally he agreed!!! I got the cash and dashed out of the bank like I had just robbed it. I have never been so happy to win my own money! I proudly handed it over to Angela a few minutes later and the apartment was mine!

Sorry Blog Fans!

I am still here, the new apartment is wonderful, but alas, no Internet connection yet. I am relegated to checking my email with the masses at the local Internet point. Just to keep you coming back, here are some potential post topics to look forward to!

1. Renting the apartment, six banks in two days.
2. Moving, 10 bags in 12 hours.
3. Unpacking and playing charades, a universal game.


More later, sorry!

Kimmie

Safe, but Sound?

I made it! I am here and better yet, physically all in one piece in Rome. Unfortunately after two days of little sleep and 12 hours of traveling to another time zone, I’m not sure about the current state of my mental abilities. It feels really odd to be here. I know this is where I wanted to go, where I planned to go, but still a little odd that I ended up here. Besides this odd feeling, that I’m sure will take days, weeks, months to shake, the actual travel part was great.

Friday was all about adrenaline. I work up promptly at 8 (after a short night of 4 hours of sleep on the floor). I threw away any item that was possibly left in the apartment at that point and turned in the keys. It was much easier to leave place than I thought, it stopped being our home a long time ago, mostly I felt a sense of accomplishment because it was so empty and clean. For awhile there at the end, it seemed that there was perpetually one more thing to sell, give or dump. I made one last stop at work before hitting the road, said some last goodbyes and turned in the Corporate Amex. A very final action; no more gazillion dollar line of credit for me. I headed out across the Ben Franklin Bridge and said goodbye to Philly in my rearview mirror. As a final farewell blessing, even the New Jersey turnpike sent me off with good wishes and the traffic was light all the way to JFK. The scene at the airport was comical, and I was the scene. Here is the list of luggage that made the final cut and I took to Italy: One medium-large rolling suitcase, one backpack, one purse, one rolling carry-one suitcase filled with books (so I could sneak it in if it was overweight to check), 4 army issued “officer bags”, filled to the brim with everything that I own. The army bags are great, because they can fold up and are easy to store, as opposed to bringing 4 suitcases, but they weren’t so easy to shuffle around through the airport. They are no frills bags: canvas, a zipper and a handle. These bags had to be dragged or carried like dead weight in true military fashion. I think I managed to make a lot of people’s days a little better throughout the airport as they witnessed me wrestle with these bags. First the man checking in the rental car was amazed as I stacked them up one by one on the cart. Everyone on the tram was amused as I had to use every last ounce (or kilo) of my weight to brace the cart from rolling around in the crowded car as it made way to the different terminals. Next was the look of astonishment when I joined the queue waiting for the check in counter to open. Many comments of “long trip?” where made, and I was asked often how many people I was traveling with. The look of horror on the check-in clerk’s face may have been the best of the day. This was another moment of pure spectacle. Once the cart was loaded, it was unwieldy, but manageable. At the check in counter I had to take each heavy and cumbersome piece off the unwieldy cart one by one to have them weighed. I think I probably made the line move quickly for the people behind me as they witnessed this feat of sheer willpower. One man asked me if I was the equipment manager, although I did note that no one really offered to help me. I guess I must have looked like I had it under control. Then, because I took a budget carrier, I had to load all of the bags back onto the rolling cart, go to a different desk to pay for the excess baggage and then take all of the bags to off load at the security check point. At a few points I worried that I ran over a few small children, the bags were packed so high, I couldn’t really see over the front of the cart! Besides the intense physical labor involved, after the bags were checked the travel was easy. I had a good 8+ hours to think about how I was going to get the bags off the belt in Rome, that is, IF they came in!

The flight itself was manageable; I would highly recommend aer Lingus. If nothing else it is soothing and pleasant to listen to all of the on board announcements in the Irish accents. Getting into Rome was just about flawless. All bags miraculously arrived, no one at customs even looked at me and after a brief wait, Josh was there to take his turn in schlepping the bags.

The taxi ride from the airport was fun. It was a 30 minute Italian lesson. The driver, who looked a bit like an older Italian George Clooney, spent the whole ride explaining the finer points of the Italian language. He also pointed to my skin and shouted “molto Bianca” and told me I needed to get to the beach. Not bad advice on your first day in Italy.

The day from here consisted of me sleeping and Josh working. . I can feel the travel trauma wearing off and the clouds in my head clearing. The breeze is pleasant and the room is cool and out of the hot roman sun, I’m safe and with my husband and my cat. I can’t ask for much more than that.