Monday, November 26, 2007
the rotten apple
Do I remember why I couldn't bear to live in Italy one more day by the time I left? The land of poets and artists, the place that so many people dream about?
We cut off our telephone service (if you can even call it service) in our former home in June. We had no telephone line for the last few weeks we lived there. Cutting off our service was like most things in Italy, akin to having your wisdom teeth removed, and required long phone waiting times and various faxes. (Yes, I said faxes).
The beauty of this is that a phone bill recently arrived in our Italian PO box, a phone bill for the new services we apparently subscribed to in October. This would almost be funny if it weren't so common in Italy. Legal robbery, no one accountable, frustration and fury.
My mother-in-law, widowed in July, is still trying valiantly to redeem 10,000 Euros from the bank account she shared with her husband. Apparently the fax of the photocopy of her ID card wasn't legible. She is 71 and just lost her husband of 50 years.
There is a beautiful golden apple, so shiny and succulent, so aromatic and perfect, that once cut open is crawling with worms. Rotten to the core. That's Italy. The bel paese.