She's just Donna, Donna next door

 When we first arrived in Italy the only other resident in our building was an old lady upstairs.  She had a little balcony out front, so often, as we would come and go, she would be out there watering her plants and we exchanged greetings.

That winter she suffered a fall somewhere in town and broke a wrist.  

The following spring she fell down the stairs in the courtyard and broke her other wrist.  We started worrying about the next accident.  Naturally, we were concerned, especially since we were the ones who found her lying in the courtyard, in the cold, in the dark....and I attempted to find someone to help as my husband got her up off the floor.

Last year, in the late spring, this same woman moved out of the upstairs apartment and into the small studio that is next door to us downstairs.  We are not sure of all the details, but it seems that the neighbor may be related in some way to the woman who owns the studio apartment.

This studio was previously a cantina, which means it was simply a storage room.  A kitchen and bath were added approximately 15 years ago.  It really is  just one big room with a couple of windows facing north.  The woman who owns it came to our door the second day I was here.  I was without heat, extremely tired, a bit disoriented and also busy trying to arrange for a new boiler to be installed, a new refrigerator, we needed a decent bed, and acclimating my dog to his new surroundings.  

Ding-dong!!  Someone is at the door.  I open it to find a dark haired mature woman who said, "My husband died"...that part I understood...took me a couple of minutes to figure out she wanted to know if I was interested in buying the studio.  It was very strange. She kept showing up and asking...so I looked at the place...it's cute, sort of.  We could use extra storage and it would be nice to have a separate place for my daughter when she visits....but, ultimately, once I was able to pry it out of her,  the asking price was ridiculous. 

So, there it sat for almost two years until the old lady upstairs moved downstairs.  The upstairs is owned by a realty company and is now rented to a working man who comes and goes and generally minds his own business. 

The old lady upstairs was innocuous while she was upstairs, but downstairs she became a bit of a pain.  First of all, she had someone move all of her plants downstairs.  There isn't room in the studio for them all.  We told her, repeatedly, to put as many as she could out front but she refused.  She had them all lined up in the courtyard.  The enclosed, dark and often very cold courtyard.  And there she continued to water them every damned day as if they were still in full sun and getting lots of windblown air. We watched in horror as they inevitably, one by one, began to wilt and die.

I gleaned from various people and my own experience that this woman is hard of hearing but also stubborn and clearly not very bright.  She is someone who makes me wonder how the hell she managed to get through life.  Seems that someone must "look after" her somehow.

Again, we don't know who nor do we know the relation, but someone sends a cleaning lady to her three times a week.  Three times a week the floors are thoroughly cleaned and also the courtyard. Someone brings by bags of groceries.

I feed the feral cats in the courtyard often and caught the old lady trying to kick a cat one day.  My husband caught her in the act just recently.  Once when I was sitting out there, supervising the cats, she toddled out and asked why I wasn't wearing shoes. (I had socks on)  Then she asked why I don't cut my hair.  I got the distinct feeling she disapproved of merely sock covered feet and longer than short hair and frankly, Scarlett, I don't give a damn. 

Then there was the gas.  We kept smelling gas from time to time.  The part time occupants of the fourth apartment smelled it when they were here for Natale.  

I walked through the courtyard one day and felt nauseous from the strong odor.  It was REALLY bad!  So, we called in our neighbor/handyman....it was coming from the studio.  It wasn't a leak, either, she left a burner on!!  For days!!!  Can't she smell???  It wasn't the first time and probably won't be the last, but by this time I had begun to really dislike our next door neighbor. Sort of amazing she didn't manage to kill herself and take the rest of us with her.

Now we come to the piece de resistance.  We have been here two and a half years now.  Only recently, within the last few months, my husband has noticed a leak outside, under our apartment, where the rest of the cantinas are.  It's a bit hard to describe, but we are built into a hillside, so the house is ground level at the front door, the courtyard...but in the back, we are about 7 stories high.  Beneath our feet are cantinas belonging to the woman who owns the studio and the agent that owns the apartment upstairs.  

Back to the leak.  Over the course of the last several months, it has been noted that this leak is getting worse and there seems to be a crack in the bricks of the building.  Seems there may be a broken pipe somewhere...but exactly where?  And whose pipe?

We contacted an engineer (the same one whom we employed when we had the balcony reinforced) and he asked if there were any damage inside.  We didn't know.  Well...there is.  The cantina that belongs to the agency...has a bad leak inside.  Cement is falling off and disintegrating.  Ancient bricks are getting damaged.  My husband saw this cantina last summer and there was no damage at that time.

It also turns out that OUR pipes (kitchen, bathroom) are running under the floor of this cantina, so it isn't our pipe.  It seems that it belongs to the woman who owns the studio where the old lady now lives.  And the timeline fits...she moved in about nine months ago.  

Seems simple to an American...BUT...since there are multiple owners here, we supposedly are ALL responsible for something like this.  At this point, I don't think anyone has contacted the owner of the studio.  I don't know if anyone has a way to contact the part-time people or if they would even care.  The agent is trying his best to deflect any and all responsibility.  None of this would be a big deal, except that it really is because........if the leak is causing structural damage to the foundation, the city could declare the building closed. As in...get out and find someplace else to go.  !!!!!!!!!  That is, we are told, the worst case scenario.  Well, hallelujah!  As the Beatles say in a song, "Can't get much worse!"  Second worst...we have to move temporarily until it is declared safe to come back.  Best case...fix the damned leak and repair the damage done and we all chip in.  

There are 2 engineers and 2 plumbers coming Saturday to evaluate the situation. Monday is my husband's birthday and our beloved dog is dying.  Perhaps I will have an addendum to this on Saturday. Did I mention I can't freaking stand the sight of the old lady next door?

Addendum:  Two engineers and two plumbers later and it seems we will not need to vacate the premises.  However, the leak is coming from a pipe that belongs to the owner of the studio next door.  It is causing considerable damage to the cantina that belongs to the realty agency.  The leak is somewhere inside a wall that has to be revealed and we still are not sure who initiates the repair, which really needs to be done quickly.  Haha.  

It's just another day...it's just another day.

 When I was less than a teen, I looked forward, like mad, to turning sixteen.  My sisters (twins) had had a spectacular sixteenth birthday celebration..not sure of the restaurant, but it might have been the Waldorf.  There were white tablecloths and candlelight...music and gorgeous dresses, high heels, gloves (!!)...gosh, it was nearly magical...I couldn't wait to turn sixteen.  I used to look through the newspapers and I remember seeing an ad by Lord and Taylor for a dress...it was a drawing...but it was so beautiful to my childish eyes.  THAT'S what I want to wear when I turn sixteen!!!

My actual sixteenth was spent alone. No party, no nothing. Much like my graduation from high school, met with a whole lot of nothing, while my sisters had fancy white dresses and bouquets of roses. 

My grandfather (maternal) was, according to me, a wonderful guy. I know my father didn't like him, because he even, stupidly and cruelly, really...an example of the WORST parenting...made a cutting comment to me when he was getting me out of the lake to dry off because "big mouth" had shown up.  I was five.  His comment stung and stuck, along with others.  

I loved Grandpa and have many fond memories with him.  I wish I had more.  I wish I had sought more and insisted upon more.  At any rate, he had the audacity to die on Christmas Eve.  I don't mention it, I don't make it topic of conversation because it is not relevant to anyone but myself and might be considered inappropriate or rude, but I remember it each year.  Oh, damn it, Grandpa...you had to go and die on Christmas Eve??!!!

My work life in the US healthcare system lasted forty-four years.   At one point, I became a "unit clerk" so I could work nights and weekends and be home with my child more in the daytime, during the week.  I did that until she was in school.  They were some of the most demanding years of my life. 

Not only because my child had autism, not only because my husband, going through law school and the first stages of bipolar disorder (unbeknownst to anyone), but because the job of a unit clerk is not an easy one.  They are, in fact, grossly underrated and underpaid.  They work shifts, they have tremendous responsibilities and they are perceived as "peons."  All that being beside the point, when I was training, I trained on various hospital floors and one was the children's ward.  It nearly broke me.

Michigan is not known for its glorious weather. One absolutely perfect and spectacular day in May, during my shift, which began at 4 in the afternoon, a family gathered at the bedside of a twelve year old girl.  She died before my "lunch" break.  The sun was still shining, the birds were singing, flowers were blooming and I walked through the halls of the hospital until I came to a spot by a courtyard and there was no one around.  I sat and cried.

It was then I realized that bad things happen every day.  Good things, probably, too.  I sat there, in the late afternoon sun, on a splendid day, and tried to understand how a young girl could die on such a spectacular spring afternoon.  We don't get to choose our birthdays...or the day that we die.  We don't get to choose when a serial killer will attack, or when a car accident will happen (every day, somewhere) or when  a virus strikes a population or a volcano erupts.  Bad things happen...on someone's birthday, on someone's anniversary, on a holiday.  We don't get to choose.  

What we do get to choose is to recognize that and pay homage, in our way.  We don't get to burden other people with our loss or our sorrow that they may not understand or share.  Not that they shouldn't know....at all.....I told my husband about my Grandpa, once.  I've never told anyone about the little girl in the hospital.

I could walk around carrying my weight of sorrow all the time....I remember when a certain person died, when a certain beloved pet died, when a past tragedy happened, old anniversaries and endings.  But, I cannot continue to live in constant, crippling pain.  I nod my head to it and I raise my head and move on.  The burden is heavy and gets heavier with passing time, but I cannot foist it on someone else.  It isn't theirs to bear.  They will know their own.

We can tick off the days in sorrow or choose to meet them with, I suppose a degree of courage...and stamina....rather than with debilitating grief.  

We don't "do" holidays much anymore.  We don't live in the US, so those don't make much of a blip here and with time we tend to forget, but they were losing their meaning for us anyway.  We don't make much of other "fake" holidays either...Valentine's, for instance....we acknowledge our birthdays and anniversary....and do a "Festivus" dinner every December.  And I remember Grandpa...silently.

Oh, yes, wait a minute Mr. Postman!

When you are an American living in a foreign country, you have to have a mail forwarding service.  Only because the US Post Office does not offer this service.  In other words, they forward mail within the United States but not overseas.  They could.  You could sign up and pay a monthly fee and extra fees for those things (packages) that go above and beyond....it would help the Post Office and it would help ex-pats.  But....no such service exists.

What you have to do, as an ex-pat, is find a mail forwarding service.  What fun.

I shopped around and was not happy with anything, quite frankly, but I had to choose so I settled on one that is "popular" and has been around a while.  There is a modest monthly fee of twenty dollars.  However, the cost racks up quickly as the mail arrives and departs.  You get an American address to use, for instance, with our American bank, which does not take foreign addresses.  So any and all mail from our bank goes to the "virtual" address.  The service is supposed to show you everything that arrives.  You then have the option to have it opened and scanned (for a fee), or sent (for a fee), or thrown away. If you recognize something from the envelope, you can skip the scan and just have it sent.  Let me tell you, international mail is expensive. 

Along the way, I have experienced problems, such as NOT seeing things in my "virtual mailbox" that get sent here..for a price...rather than thrown away. I have faced the choice of having something scanned or sent because both cost about the same.  It depends on whether or not an original is required.  I have waited seemingly forever for something to arrive.  When it is "tax time" waiting is not always an option, so then there are "express" fees.

Luckily, as time passes, the mail continues to dwindle down to a mere trickle, so the additional costs have lessened.  

Since we are still under restrictions here, and because we have far too many  housecats, and because Spring is hinting here and there that it will arrive, I decided to buy a pillow from Pier One.  

When I was in the U.S. I was a "member' and got points and discounts.  Sometimes it was just fun to poke around the store just to get ideas, inspiration.  There is no store like it anywhere near here, or one that I could reach.  Being quarantined and confined for a year now, I was itching for something fresh to look at that the cats could not destroy.  Pier One online was the way to go.

I found a pillow (on sale!) but they don't ship internationally. No worries.  I'll just have it sent to my "virtual mailbox" and it will be forwarded here.  It's a pillow.  How much could it cost?

Said pillow, in the package, weighs TWO pounds.  2.  Just two little pounds.

The email happily announced that the pillow was on its way for a whopping TWO HUNDRED and NINE DOLLARS!!!!   Do you know the feeling when you go up in an express elevator and your stomach seems to drop to your ankles?

The deed was done, the pillow was already winging its way here via Fed Ex.  I "chatted" online with a representative from the mail service.  "209!!????"  The answer was "Packages over four pounds are sent via Fed Ex International, here are the rates."  "The package weighs 2 pounds."  "Yes, but the DIMENSIONS of the box matter."  "WHAT?"  "The dimensions cause the package to take up more space on the airplane."  So now we have to be Fed Ex packaging and pricing experts?????  I'm so freaking livid.  

I asked my daughter if, in the future, I could send something to her and she could just mail it to me.  She told me the little package she sent at Christmas via the Post Office cost $165.00.  

There's no good side to this.  The most expensive pillow in the damned world is the last thing I will ever purchase from the U.S.  Lesson learned the hard way.

P.S.: Don't tell my husband and try not to laugh.

Addendum:  For those who love cats, I have another blog about our menagerie here that we have acquired since moving.  www.gattitudeblog.blogspot.com

One of those flights on gossamer wings...

 Ah, Italia!  I do love it here, there is so much to recommend it.  Gorgeous vistas, excellent food and wine, a mild climate, that sense of community, the lack of violence, particularly gun violence.  

Of course, there are downsides.  One of them is the infamous Italian bureaucracy. It doesn't matter how much you research, how much you prepare, or how much you read, there is always the unexpected.

I know that a certain piece of information is most definitely not anywhere included in the information on the Consulate website.  I am sure I did not come across it in any of the articles or blogs that I read.  With absolute certainty no one at the Questura advised us.  And, even when we dutifully showed up at the Municipale with our very first Permesso, and we were issued "cittadine" cards (residents of this town) not a soul told us we would have to show up each and every time we got a new Permesso.  After all, the cittadine cards are good for 10 years!  Chissa? Who knew?!

Besides, there was a little virus going around, and our second Permesso was delayed by nine months.  

A very official looking letter arrived yesterday.  It was in duplicate, hand signed and stamped with an official stamp.  It cited several ordinances, (you have violated regulation whatchemacallit , section such-and-such along with regulation blahdeeblah) which was a bit alarming.  

Turns out, as foreigners here (outside of the EU) we have to present the new permesso within sixty days of applying for it, or, if the actual card is not ready, the receipt from the post office proving the request was sent in. 

The new prime minister of Italy has appointed several people to the task of bringing Italy into the 21st Century with computer technology.  It's there already! But, the left hand doesn't talk to the right hand.  As in, why can't the Municipale just look up our new permessi via computer by accessing the Ministry of the Interior?  Or, conversely, why can't the Posta or the Questura notify the Municipale when someone applies?  It saves time, paper and potential problems. *like a pandemic

My husband reacted with his usual over the top anxiety, putting me on edge.  I emailed the official who sent the letter to say that we would take care of it immediately.

We trucked off this morning...a lovely, almost warm, sunny day with a clear, blue sky.  The Municipale is just up in the main piazza, housed in an ancient former monastery.  The cards were presented, copied and that was that.  Problem solved.  Another hoop to jump through that you just have to know about because NOBODY tells you. 

We were told to understand that this is a local level "thing"...it isn't like the Italian government is coming after us.  Tranquille.  Ok....so what would happen if we never showed the new Permesso?  Well, maybe nothing.  On the other hand, maybe you could be thrown out of the country.  Hard to say.  It's just....one of those things.