Like drawing blood....

Since the expat blogosphere could obviously do with a few more long, drawn out tales of bureaucracy, frustration and system failure (note the teeny-tiny hint of irony..), I thought I would add my 10 pence worth. Don’t worry – this blog isn’t going to turn into one of those moan-moan-winge-winge Italy-bashing forums… Hell, who am I kidding? It totally is….Anzi, it ALREADY is!! Just kidding – it won’t. Promise.
Anyway, following on from my little visit to the lovely non-judgmental doctor (irony’s my thing today), I took myself off to the San Matteo hospital in Pavia this morning to get my blood work done, arriving at 8:40. I’d already warned my boss that I may be a few minutes late for work (snigger snigger), but even though I was mentally prepared for long lines, lots of paper shuffling and some potential high blood pressure moments, I didn’t realize that the lines would be quite so long, the paper shuffled quite so much, the blood pressure…..well, through the (public health system and therefore probably asbestos-filled) roof.
Here is what followed - in notebook format in order that you don’t fall asleep whilst reading:
8:40 – arrive and go to “Ticket Desk”, wait in line for 10 minutes before being told that this is the old ticket desk and they are no longer paid for here (despite the sign above the window) –“no, Signora you have to go to the other end of the hall and take a number”. In case you don’t know, the “ticket” is the “standard” payment you have to make prior to any kind of specialist visit, blood work etc. Prices seem to vary according to what you are there for, whether or not there’s an “R” in the month, and the usual exceptions to the rule.
8:45 – locate correct ticket desk and take a number. I’m number 74, and they are currently serving number 45. Ho hum…
9:15 – make it to the (I have to say, friendly and efficient) lady behind the window, only to be told “Sorry signora, you have to do a prelievo (blood test), and for those you pay the ticket afterwards. Go straight up to the 3rd floor and take a number”. Booooooooo
9:17 – arrive at 3rd floor to find another sportello (window), staffed by 2 very slow people, another numbering system. Take a number. 90. Currently serving…… 63. Sit, wait, snooze.
9:55 – make it to window to register for my prelievo. They take my details, make me sign a few forms, huff and puff a bit, and have me take a seat in the “waiting area”. So I waited to wait to wait, effectively.
10:05 - They call me in and do the scary needle bit with no fuss ( I will emphasize again that the staff were friendly and efficient despite my very low expectations!) and then they remind me to go back downstairs and pay the freakin’ ticket.
10:10 – Get back to the ticket line and it has HUNDREDS of people in it. OK, maybe not hundreds, but enough to make my already spinning head go that little bit faster. Ah, but there’s an automated machine over in the corner with just a small line (Italians hate technology) – I’ll go over there! It even has a credit / debit card sign on it, YAY! I – somewhat victoriously – join the end of the queue and just 15 minutes later it’s my turn. This is good news as I’m now feeling seriously queasy, having left my emergency banana in the car (who was to know that they would make me wait AFTER the appointment???). As I go to get my bankcard from my wallet, the old guy behind me – obviously an expert – points out that “Signora, non funziona il bancomat”. What? How do you mean you can’t use cards?? It’s written on the machine that you can! “Eh sì, but it just doesn’t work. There were 5 of us trying earlier and we all ended up going to the cash-point down the street”. Ever the optimist (haha) I try anyway and the machine almost eats my card, so I give up and head to the little number machine. I hate that bloody number machine! I take number 202; they’re serving 151. I’m already two hours late for work. I no longer care…. Sit, wait, snooze again (feeling green this time and dreaming about the cappuccino and brioches in the bar across the road).
10:45 - I get to the window, pay my 75 euros - which hurt more than the needle – and get out of there. I am obviously exhausted and vulnerable as a charity person with a stall outside the front door of the hospital stops me and I give him 10 euros just to stop talking. I’m lying actually – it was a charity close to my heart, they seemed legitimate, and there was no line so I got to go straight to the desk. That was worth 10 euros if nothing else….
I arrive at work (35 kilometers away) at lunchtime, and glance at the papers they gave me in the hospital for the ‘ritiro’ (collection of results). Tuesdays and Thursdays from 12:00 to 16:00. Marvellous….

Judgement Day...

I am insulted. And indignant. And slightly annoyed. I am not, however, surprised. When you live in a place like Italy – or rather when you live in the greater Milan area – you get used to being judged for your appearance, pushed out of the queue at the fish counter, harassed from a distance of precisely half a meter by the car behind you and forced to dodge the “doggy doo doo” that decorates every urban pavement. After a while you (almost) get used to it, put it down to experience, and get over it because, at the end of the day it’s not personal. People are what they are, they behave like that with everyone and you just can’t take it to heart.
Being humiliated by your own GP when you go to them for advice is another matter, and this is what happened to me last week. I needed to see the doctor anyway, and since I had to request a referral to get some blood tests done (which had been suggested by my Gynecologist), I thought I’d kill two birds with one stone. You see, here in Italy the system is as badly organized as they say it is. Going a little off-topic now, but I went to my Gyno to have a random annual check-up and we discussed the fact that I’m starting to maybe-possibly-sort of-think-about-starting-a-family-at-some-point-in-the-not-too-distant-future (before anyone starts getting excited!), so she ‘prescribed’ some standard blood tests, reminding me that I would, however, need the referral from my GP in order to actually get them done. A 120 euro an hour specialist is evidently not enough to physically refer you to the lab, so I paid my bill, left and, a few days later took myself off to see my new (and therefore never previously visited) GP. It was all going so well – the 12 people waiting to see her when I got there had dwindled to just a couple within an hour (the last time I visited a no-appointment doctor in Italy it took 3 and a half hours to be seen – this is how many of them operate). I took my turn, discussed the current problem and then pulled out the note from the Gyno listing the blood tests she wanted me to do. “And why do you wish to have these tests?” she asked, taking no prisoners, bearing down on me over her glasses like some kind of scary school teacher. “Because I just turned thirty and we were thinking we might look into having a family at some point soon, and I thought it best to make sure…..” “How long have you been married?” she positively snapped, cutting me off in no uncertain terms. “Ummm…..errrrrr…..I’m not married…. I….. ummmmmm…. live with my partner”. The woman gave me such a look it still haunts me a week later. She literally looked me up and down for 30 seconds, before pulling herself together enough to tell me that my Gynecologist has no idea what she’s doing, these tests are not the right ones, why do I even go to her, etc. etc. No querying my family history, my medical background – nothing. Great first meeting between medical professional and new patient. NOT. Ask me personal questions so that you’re capable of managing my health, Dottoressa; keep your personal marital status issues to yourself! I repeat, I am insulted, indignant, but not particularly surprised. Just another day in paradise!

Nonna

Last night at around 8:30 I was busy organizing the house and clearing up following somebody’s great idea to paint the spare bedroom when my phone rang and, glancing at the display I realized to my horror that it was that time on a Sunday and there was no escape – the weekly call from Luca’s grandma in Sicily, except that I was home alone and she speaks only Sicilian dialect, making no concession for the fact that I don’t. It’s sweet that she called, knowing that Luca was at work and thinking that I have nothing to do while I await his return(!) but she speaks no Italian whatsoever and so what followed would for sure make a great anecdote in one of those cutesy “Under the Tuscan Sun / Driving over Lemons / Another freakin’ novel about the expat bella vita”-type books. In reality I immediately broke out in a cold sweat, knowing in advance just how much effort the next few minutes would require. She talked about the weather, the fact that her family have all “abandoned her” to live in the north, her work as the village seamstress, how she’s convinced she’ll be dead before Luca and I bother to pay her a visit, how I never call her and do I have both her landline and her mobile…..? How did I get all of this in pure Sicilian? Good question! Let’s just say that the 1 in 4 words I managed to pick up were enough to understand the subject, and for the rest I just kept up the “uh huh… sì…. mmmm… ho capito”, hoping that I was understanding enough not to respond “wow, che bello” when she told me someone died. Luca found it all very amusing when I recounted the story to him later on that evening, admitting that she had called him first and asked after me, and he had suggested she give me a call. That smirk was soon wiped clean when I told him that I had promised we would make a trip down to see her before the end of the summer, and to make sure that the aunts, uncles, cousins etc. would all be ready to welcome us… I don’t think he'll be giving out my phone number any more!

Happy new year, happy birthday, happy valentines…

Well, I am no longer a 29 year-old blogger. I am now a 30 year-old blogger. To be honest I don’t really consider myself a blogger at all, considering that I now update roughly every 10 years and take no notice whatsoever of the interesting cultural issues/ news worthy items / current affairs that real bloggers dedicate time to. We were talking the other day in the office about how you can understand a lot about a person from the way the use Facebook. I’m a big psycho-analyst of myself and others, and Facebook is my daily bread. If you think about it, you can group your friends into very distinct categories, and notice how their FB personality betrays who they really are – even though they may not know it.
Firstly, there are the people whose status updates are always something thought-provoking like “love is like gas – light, indestructible and always right in front of you, even if you can’t see it…”. YUCK! I tend to skim over these ones - it’s Facebook, guys - not the latest Coelho bestseller… Plus you can always SMELL gas and you can’t smell love so HA!!
Then there are those who constantly make comments about the latest big news items, politics, culture – all trying to out-do the next person for just how much intellect they can cram between a post and a poke….
Next come the needy updaters. “Sarah needs a hug” 13:01; “Sarah really needs a hug” 13:15; “Sarah really needs a hug right now or she might just cry” 13:21 etc. etc. Will someone please call up Sarah and ask her if she wants to get a coffee???? I haven’t spoken to her in 15 years and I live in Milan, so that’s me off the hook…
Then there are the self-promotion Facebookers. There are subtle ones and not so subtle ones – and I’m not sure which bother me the most. The subtle ones go something like this “Elizabeth is very tired from a long week of business meetings in New York, Paris and Rome”. Ah, poor poor Elizabeth – that must be terrible for you, dear. You have our deepest sympathies. Now go have a quick nap – you deserve it! This type of Facebook update – no matter how subtle - can really hit a nerve if you’re a bored housewife / new mum covered in baby sick / unemployed / have no life. The not-so-subtle ones (of which there are very many) are more like: “Katy is trying to decide whether to wear Gucci or Prada to the Business Woman of the Year Awards tonight. Gucci is more comfortable but Prada will look better when I go up to collect my award from the Duchess of Kent”. Now this is really annoying. More than anything because we all know that Katy is NOT trying to decide what to wear, but just couldn’t think of any other way to get the message across and so added that bit in at the beginning for good measure – desperate to overcome her insecurity by convincing other people that she’s worthy, even though she probably doesn’t really believe it about herself. We all know at least one person like this. I know about ten. Am I just unlucky or do I hang out with the wrong people?!
As for my FB personality… “Emma is wondering what to have for lunch today – a sandwich or a salad?”… “Emma is wondering whether it might rain later”….. “Emma is tired”…… Very boring, very predictable and the best way to avoid being psycho-analyzed by fellow facebookers!

Like – Dislike – Comment - Block

Justice??

Yesterday we got back from a lovely four-day visit to the UK where we spent Christmas (minus 1 suitcase, thanks very much British Airways) in the old-fashioned way: too much food, too much alcohol and far too much monopoly… It was great to be ‘home’ (although home is very much here) but after four days Luca was starting to tear his hair out just a little so we were pleased to head back. There’s nothing quite like sleeping in your own bed, cooking in your own kitchen and staying in the shower for as long as you like without somebody complaining about the water bill!! Ah, you’ve gotta love ‘em…
Anyway, this post is not about the fun and festivities of the past few days. It is about a far less pleasant experience which started the night before we left and will be ongoing for a while….
It was 18:30 in the evening and the snow had just turned to rain. The roads were icy and so, since I have winter tyres on my car and Luca doesn’t, we decided that I would take him to work and pick him up. As we were leaving the apartment, it started to rain quite heavily so Luca ran towards my car to get the umbrella and bring it back to me. His car was parked on the road just 10 metres or so away. All of a sudden we heard a screech of tyres, followed by a loud crash and as I picked up the pace to reach the road I heard the roar of an engine followed by Luca’s voice yelling “Ferma! Ferma! Stop! Stop!”. The next thing I saw was BMW X3 sliding from one side of the road to the other in an attempt to regain control, before speeding off and out of sight as Luca chased after him, running up the street screaming the registration number to me. Shaking like a leaf I managed (somehow) to get it in my phone, sending it in a panic to a confused K, before realizing the extent of the damage to Luca’s car. Basically the crazed lunatic in the BMW had taken the corner at high speed on the icy road and smashed straight into the side of Luca’s parked car, pushing it against the wall and into a lamppost. We immediately called the police and were told that they couldn’t do anything unless someone was injured (fortunately no one was, but had Luca been going towards his car rather than mine I dread to think…) and that we would just have to contact the insurers. The next morning as we left for England, Luca’s brother got in touch and they told us to come in and file a report as soon as we returned. We did, and they managed to trace the details of the car’s owner, which we then took to the police and they called the guy into the station. I was left waiting while the scarier than scary maresciallo took him and Luca into a room. I didn’t want us to have any immediate contact with the guy – after all who knows what someone who’s capable of leaving the scene of an accident like he did is also capable of doing… It turns out that the guy denied having caused the damage, having already filed a report with his insurers saying that the same night he had FOUND his own car parked with damage to it, so now we have to go to court. We have witnesses so the guy is in BIG TROUBLE and there’s no doubt that we’ll win but, being in Italy, it’s likely to take a long time and be a great expense. Tonight we have to go back to the police station with the other witness to make the official statements. And so the bella vita in the bel paese continues….

Plug!

If you haven't done your christmas shopping yet, or you still can't decide on gifts for your nearest and dearest, then look no further than:

www.accessorize-italia.com

The site and the ebay store are both still in the early stages, but you can still find some bargain products - without having to sharpen your elbows for the annual Christmas crush on the High Street! We sell genuine Made in Italy products, delivered direct to your door...

If you want to go straight to the store, visit:

http://stores.shop.ebay.it/Accessorize-Italia

Happy shopping!!!

Foggy and smoggy and dull... Oh my!

Milan is not the place to be in November - it's official. Cold, damp, foggy, grey and generally depressing, the city appears to have gone into hibernation. Its inhabitants are permanently wrapped up in black coats, black scarves, black boots (they like black here), and everyone has some sort of sore throat / swollen glands / croaky voice issue... And think that when I tell people in the UK that I live in Italy, their first reaction is almost always "how wonderful to live in such a sunny climate!" Noooooooo invece...
On a more positive note, the next few weeks will be packed with days off (many thanks to Saint Ambrose for the long weekend!), family dinners, christmas parties, and on the 23rd December, the annual repatriation to the motherland! The black cloud covering the silver lining, however, comes in the shape of threatened strikes by British Airways staff, starting on December 21st. They should be aware that I will personally hunt down and seriously injured anybody who gets in the way of my christmas trip home... BA, you have been warned!!!
I've started a new project a work which involves contacting hotels across the world to negotiate tariffs on behalf of a client, and I have to say it has (once again) opened my eyes a little bit. I now have a little chart in my head as to the relative friendliness and efficiency of each nation / city. Top of the leader board is Amsterdam, followed close behind by Dublin, and then Helsinki. Nice, friendly, relaxed people to deal with. Where does Italy come? Where do you think?!! HA! Back to the old favourite of Italians having NO IDEA of client care (one place even refused to put me through to the corporate booking office because they pope was due to arrive the following week, and they were all busy praying - or something like that...) and answering calls with a "What the hell do you want from me??" tone of voice...
So, I've complained about the weather, I've complained about Italians... What else?
Ah, I'm planning an Open House christmas party, which is a new concept to most Italians I know (provoking the fear that they'll all turn up at 14:00 and stay til 20:00), but I have no idea whatsoever as to what to cook / prepare. Anyone have any ideas of good party/finger food, preferably with a UK / US theme to it?