Election Day or "I haven't seen carbon paper in 20 years."

Today, for the first time in my life, I voted in an Italian election.  Yesterday and today, 13 of Italy's 20 regions are holding elections, as well as some cities and provinces.  But for me, all I have to worry about is who would get my vote for president of the region and what party would be councillors.  For the last several weeks, I've read everything I could get my hands on that describes the views and prior actions of the innumerable political parties that exist here.  I've checked out every political poster, some of which are amusing, some not.  I've read every newspaper except for La Padania, the newspaper of the Lega Nord, because it makes me cringe.  (The Lega Nord, is a devolutionary political party that at one time, and probably secretly now, wanted everything north of the Po River to secede from Italy.  Some of them also want to outlaw pineapple.) Admittedly, I don't read the Communist newspaper either.  Since I am still fresh off the boat, as it were, it's going to take me a little while to get used to seeing the Communist party on an election ballot, although I don't think they have a problem with pineapples.  I've spoken to every Italian I could find to get their views on what Italy needs for it's future.  I've done everything a good citizen can do to prepare herself to cast her first ballot.  Except, I don't have the tessera elettorale, the card that allows you to vote. 

I was hopeful my tessera elettorale would arrive by Friday, so, when it didn't, I dutifully headed down to the comune and the election office early this morning.  There I waited while one of the clerks filled out all of the appropriate forms, by hand, with carbon paper, to allow me to vote.   I still don't understand why everything here is done by hand.  It's not that the government offices don't have computers, they do, but nevertheless, they continue to handwrite all official documents.  Fortunately, the minute I pulled out my English-Italian dictionary, the clerk did it for me, otherwise I'd still be there figuring out the bureaucrato-speak.

Once I had my document in hand, I went in search of my polling place.   Just a short walk from our apartment, I was surprised, when I got there everyone greeted me with oh, la donna nata a Los Angeles.  Yes, that's me, the woman born in Los Angeles.  Okay then.  I guess they don't get many people at my polling place who were born in Los Angeles.  From the carabinieri to the election officials to the election clerks.  Attendiamo per Lei.  We're waiting for you.  Damn.  I was so pleased at my reception that when the clerks asked me if my father was still alive, I said no, he died in millenovecentottantadieci.  Which is like saying he died in nineteen hundred eighty-ten.  I didn't even realize it until I walked out the door, but by then was too embarrassed to go back and correct what I'd said.

I must say, Italy has the best looking ballots I've ever seen, and you don't have to read anything either.  Just round discs with the multi-colored emblems of the parties or the names of candidates on a pretty green background.  The parties are conveniently divided with the right wing parties on the left side of the ballot and the left wing parties on the right side of the ballot.  That may be a trick to catch unsuspecting voters, or just happenstance, but it amused me nevertheless.  What also amused me was that several weeks ago when I first started getting political postcards in the mail, I thought a big X through the name of the party meant you weren't supposed to vote for that party.  Of course, California voters will know that your vote won't count if you use a big X so that's another adaptation for me.

So now I'm sitting here watching election returns, which are just like election returns in the US, except everybody talks faster.

Great shoes...note the mattonelle.  This is Piazza de Ferrari.

Great dress, note the mattonelle.  This is Piazza Matteotti.

Mattonelle

Dear Daughter,

Bring tennis shoes.  No, do not bring those cute Maryjanes.  Yes, I know this is coming from the woman who brought 50 pairs of shoes with her when she moved.  The same woman for whom the clerks in the shoe department at Nordstrom mounted a memorial plaque when she left and the shipping department at Zappo's  threw a "going away" party in her honor.  I'm telling you this for your own good.

Yes, yes, I know the travel guides tell you not to wear tennis shoes because they single you out as an American tourist, ripe for robbery, purse-snatching and other mayhem, to which I say "nonsense".  First of all, there is no way to disguise being American.  Not unless you plan to be mute the entire time you're here.  Second, there is no reason to hide being American since the Genovese as a whole, like Americans.  Third, if tennis shoes are the secret symbol of Americanism, then every Genovese under the age of 50 is actually American since everyone wears them.   There are Footlockers all over the city! And fourth, this is a very safe city.  I don't think I've ever felt so comfortable.  Are there pickpockets? Of course there are. Show me a city anywhere in the world where there aren't.  But, you don't need to be any more careful here than you would be in San Francisco.

Which brings me to the reason you should bring only tennis shoes...

They're called mattonelle, which in English translates to "big ass cobblestones that are lying in wait for people not paying attention."  They are everywhere, but especially the sidewalks.  They are uneven and sometimes wobbly.  The spaces between them are designed to catch heels and toes.  Never have I seen so many people with broken or sprained arms and legs as I see here.  In fact, literally moments after this picture was taken, a woman tripped on one and fell right in front of me.

Check out this one...

There's nothing under there, except maybe parts of ancient Ligurians who disappeared into these man-eating holes.

The best part is, when you look back to see where you tripped, you can't ever find it.  It's like there's a phantom mattonelle which pops up and attacks you when you're least expecting it.

 Looks safe enough to me!

I understand completely about about the clothes and shoes thing.  This is Italy afterall where it's all about bella figura, which loosely translates to "looking good" and which inspires women to wear fabulous Italian shoes in the most hostile of environments.  The worst fate possible is brutta figura, "looking bad" or possibly even figura di cacca which requires no translation, just a little imagination.  But, imagine yourself flying through the air in those admittedly cute shoes, then the resonating thud of body on stone and decide which of the labels above might apply.  No question in my mind! And, and, these things are hard.  I mean really hard.  Only now, 2 weeks after my most recent tumble,  is my left leg beginning to once again resemble something that one would expect to be attached to a human body.  (I considered taking of picture of my leg and including it here,  but I thought it might scare people.)

So dear daughter, forget the cute shoes.  Admittedly Italy is ranked #2 in healthcare by the World Health Organization, but I'm quite confident you don't want to experience our healthcare system firsthand.

With love,
Your sage and all-knowing Mother


p.s.  Bring yarn

"Everything is Uphill" or, Life in a Vertical City

Of course not everything is uphill, but it certainly feels that way, especially living as we do above the Circonvallazione a monte, or the upper ring road. This is a series of roads, that traverse the center of the city midway up the mountain from Piazza Manin in Casteletto quartiere, thru Lagaccio quartiere, Oregina quartiere and dropping back down to sea level at the train station Stazione Principe in the Pre quartier.  From this vantage point, you can find some of the most amazing views of the city and some of the prettiest neighborhoods.

 A view of the port from the terrace of the Castello d'Albertis

Originally these hills were part of a defensive system including a string of walls and fortresses protecting the city from invaders from the North.  But, since the crescent that forms the city is so shallow, there was no place to build but up, and up, and up. 

Looking uphill from Piazza de Ferrari...

...and downhill from Casteletto into the Val di Bisagno, one of two rivers that bisect the city.  Actually, it's called Torrente Bisagno which translates as "stream" and is much more appropriate for the 5 inches of water generally found there.

Although there are plenty of roads, much of the city is built around the creuse,  Genovese dialect for a network of walkways made of cobblestones or bricks.  Most are quite steep, generally with stairs and handrails on the sides and an even path down the middle.  They take you into almost rural neighborhoods, often with high walls or beautiful gardens, but completely inaccessible to cars and often to motorcycles.  When you wander the creuse, which is not for the faint of heart, you wouldn't know that you are in the middle of Italy's 5th largest city.

This picture doesn't show how steep this street is, but I would estimate around 25 degrees.  Whatever it is, it's hard going with a few bags of groceries, and this is only the last quarter of it.

The barriers at the foot of the stairs are to deter vehicles from driving up the stairway.  This is Italy after-all.

There are hundreds, possibly thousands of sets of stairs including this one which connects Piazza Corvetto with Corso Solferino on the Circonvallazione a monte...

...and this one which is the first of a series of staircases we have to climb to reach our apartment.  It is painted red and blue in honor of the Genova soccer team.

Fortunately, we don't have to climb those stairs on a daily basis because Genova also has a unique set of elevators and funiculars.  

Called ascensore in Italian, this one was built around 100 years ago and connects Piazza Manin with the uppermost hills of eastern Casteletto quartiere.

Hopefully, only the tunnel was built 100 years ago, although that could explain why this particular elevator is often closed for repair.

My favorite elevator connects the Pre quartiere with the western edge of Casteletto quartiere along the Circonvallazione a monte near the Castello d'Albertis

This elevator has the unique capability of traveling as a flat railway for 310 feet from the entrance at Via Balbi, deep into the hillside, and then converting to an elevator for the upward 225 foot journey to Corso Dogali.

It's somewhat disconcerting when you come to the end of the railway, and the equipment starts to change into an elevator.  

Every time I see an elevator I haven't seen before, I take a quick ride to see where it goes often with surprising results.  It's one of my favorite explorations.

Rest In Peace

The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.  Edmund Burke

Sgt. Mark Dunakin, Sgt. Erv Romans, Sgt. Daniel Sakai, Officer John Hege

End of Watch

March 21, 2009

Ignominy

Everyone experiences life in a new country differently, even when they are together in the experience.  My time here has been filed with kind people who are interested in me and my reasons for being here.

Ollie's experience however, is somewhat different.  I don't know why, but he gets picked on.   Not by everyone...just the old ladies.  Now, for those of you who don't know him, he's not the kind of guy who gets picked on.  Quite the contrary.  Having spent his adult life as a police officer and then as a trainer of police officers, the man has presence.  Tall, blond, and muscular he has garnered a fair amount of attention here, but some of it not so positive.  Imagine the ignominy of being pushed out of the elevator by a 5 foot tall octogenarian.  And I mean pushed!  Two handed, "get the hell out of here" push.  I'm confident she must have said something, but he was so shocked he couldn't tell me if she did.

This isn't the first time something like this has happened either.  He routinely gets elbowed aside by the old women in the supermarket.  They don't do this to me, but they feel no compunction about stepping on his feet and jabbing him in the ribs with their elbows to get ahead of him in line.  I worry every time he goes to the store that he's going to get mugged by one of them.

It's kind of an interesting phenomenon because, as a whole, the Genovese respect lines,  something not always found in other parts of the country.  The exception are the old women. Perhaps it comes from having grown up during or shortly after the war, and having to fight to survive, I don't know.  What I do know is you better watch out for them.  Especially when they're wearing mink.  Never before in my life have I seen anyone on a motorcycle in mink. But, once again, they operate under a different set of rules, or rather, the same set of rules they apply in supermarkets.

 Piazza Corvetto at any time of day or night

In fairness, you have to watch out for anyone on a motor scooter or motorcycle...or a car.  Everything I said about respecting lines has no application in traffic.  In part because there are no lines in traffic, it's a complete free for all.  Motor vehicles of varying descriptions zipping in and out and around any object not faster than them.  As dedicated pedestrians this generally applies to us.  Crossing the street requires nerves of steel, even with the Avanti light.  Add to that the fact that the sidewalks are made of cobbles, walking around here is at times treacherous.  In the last 6 months I have landed flat on my face twice, once when I missed that a cobble was higher than usual and once, last Saturday when I completely missed the existence of a stair.  I don't know which was worse, the whacking of my shins, which hurt like a @#$%$#@ or the embarrassment.  Nevertheless, this is a city for walkers.  It is the only way to see the true beauty of this city and it's surprises.  Just be sure and wear tennis shoes.

Anagrafe 2

"Whoever you are,  I have always depended on the kindness of strangers." Blanche DuBois

When bloggers and others write about the Italian bureaucracy, invariably their stories are filled with negative images of power crazed or just plain lazy bureaucrats and a system run amuck.  And not just expats.  Italians moan and groan even louder than we do when they are forced to take a morning off of work to go to some comune office, especially the Genovese.  My Genovese friends tell me that complaining is a natural part of the Genovese character, and who am I to disagree.

But not all stories are negative ones.  Just the ones people write about.  So, I'm going to write about a great experience with Italian bureaucrats.

The final important step for us in our life here is the acquisition of residence or residenza.  Although it is not necessary to have residenza to live here, it is necessary if you want to participate in the National Health System, which of course we do.

In theory, I was supposed to apply for residenza when we first arrived.  But, the Italian Consulate in San Francisco had not forwarded all of my documents to the comune, so I had to wait for that to happen before I could submit my paperwork.  After much gnashing of teeth, I submitted the forms in mid-November.  Meanwhile, Ollie couldn't submit his paperwork until he received his permesso di soggiorno which of course he didn't receive until mid February.  More teeth gnashing.  I'm beginning to become really concerned because our traveler's insurance is expiring and I really need to get us into the National Health system.  I even began the research into a private expat insurance policy only to find that a one year policy for Ollie alone which covers pre-existing conditions would cost a mere $17,000!  Stopped me in my tracks.

Finally, two weeks ago, I received a letter from the Anagrafe summoning me to an appointment for an interview, the final step before receiving residenza. No problem.  Monday of last week, I take the bus to the Anagrafe.  The appointment is quick, 5 minutes max, and I'm ready to take my obligatory 3 photos and my Italian passport to the sportello, which is of course closed, to receive my carta d'identita (identity card.)  So Tuesday morning I get up early and go back to the Anagrafe.  I get there around 9am, wait for a few minutes and my number is called.  I sit down with a very nice lady and as I go through the computer screen to make sure all of my information is correct, I see that Ollie's name is completely wrong.  Instead of his legal name "Oliver", they have his nickname "Ollie".  Worse yet, they have his middle name as his last name and his last name as his first name.  I immediately realized that this was all bad.  What I didn't know at 9:30 in the morning, was how all bad it actually was.  That would come as the day progressed.

Now I am sure that my American readers are thinking to themselves, "well, just change it."  But, unfortunately, that's not how it works here.  Everything is based on documents.  All the documents have to be exactly alike.  So, I spend the next 1 1/2 hour working with not one, but 3 bureaucrats, only one of whom has any knowledge of English, trying to figure out where the problem is.  Fortunately, I have my English-Italian dictionary with me, because we keep having to pass it around so everyone understands.  My Italian is not holding up very well under the pressure of bureacratic lingo.  Finally, at noon, when the office shuts down for lunch, I'm told to return at 3:00 with Ollie, his passport, our marriage certificate and it's translation.  I know, at least I hope I know, that the comune already has the documents, but I rush home nevertheless to find my copies.

At 3:00 we return to the Anagrafe, this time with a hall pass since the building is closed to the public on Tuesday afternoons, to meet our bureaucrats.  We all look at the documents, everyone shakes their heads and we begin a tour of the Comune di Genova.  Accompanied by a very nice man, we start backtracking the problem.  First we go to the Stato Civile to make sure I'm in the computer.  Because Genova is my ancestral comune, all of my personal documents, birth, marriage, divorce, children's births, are filed with the Stato Civile.  I'm there, so is Ollie, just not in the correct order.  Now we know that the problem is with the marriage certificate so off we go to the Ufficio Registro dei Matrimoni.  More bureaucrats.  There we find the original documents sent by the Consulate in San Franciso, and therein we find one of the problems.  When we were married, Ollie used his nickname on the license.  I had been required prior to receiving my Italian passport to have the State of California amend the marriage certificate to be consistent with Ollie's legal name.  However, when his name was entered into the comune's database, the amendment had been overlooked.  One problem solved.  The harder problem turned out to be explaining the middle name, because, as a rule Italians don't use middle names.  Plus, Ollie's middle name is a family name, so it wasn't recognizable as Robert or James or another common English name might have been.  Ultimately, I make myself understood, but since it is now about 4:30, it's too late to make the changes.  Once again, we are told to return, but this time with Ollie's photos as well.  They are going to forego the 6 months of residence from date of application for him and give us both residenza and our carte d'identita.

Wednesday afternoon we returned to the Anagrafe and received our bright, shiny, new documents.  And we also received an open invitation to return if we ever have any questions or any problems while we live in Genova.  In all, we worked with 7 different bureaucrats.  Without exception they were polite, generous with their time, and tolerant of my Italian.  We had a few laughs, generally at my expense, but we worked towards a common goal and it was great.  Perhaps next time, with some other bureaucrat, it won't be so nice, in fact, one of them even told me as much.  But I will never again join the chorus of complainers.  Well, maybe not never, just not soon.

The Palazzo Ducale, seat of the Government of the Republic of Genova, now a major art venue.

The medieval Grimaldina Tower - Part of the Palazzo Ducale.  Built sometime between 1298 and 1307,  it was originally used to house political prisoners.  In the competitive 17th century, a significant number of prisoners were competing artists who had a habit of assaulting each other.  Later the brilliant violinist Niccolo Paganini, father of modern violin technique, and native to the caruggi of Genova, was imprisoned here for kidnapping a minor.