Postcard from Italy: When the Extraordinary Becomes Ordinary

Suddenly it hit me like smack in the face. During the more than forty years of visiting Italy on holidays or business trips, my fascination with the country had focused on physical things: the monuments and museums, the public squares, the food, the street markets, the beaches with the requisite rows of umbrellas, the verdant landscape. All are tangible, represented abundantly with stunning photographs in articles, countless books, travel magazines, and posts on Instagram. 

However, as the years of living here have passed, the role of these places in my mind has been replaced with subjects such as navigating the ever-changing and almost always confusing number of bureaucracies – both public and private – that can chew you up and spit you out if you do not acquire both patience and perseverance.   

The plethora of mundane tasks necessary for daily living — sorting the garbage, seeing a doctor, repairing a faucet, cleaning out the cats’ litter box. Living is Italy is much different than the romantic books and movies would have you believe. It’s not all strolling through vineyards and lounging in sidewalk cafes. The shock of the ordinary and repetitive soon hits. 

Another aspect of Italian culture also comes into play – one that tourists almost never experience. That is the importance of forming and nurturing relationships with a wide range of people. And not just English-speaking expats.  My wife and I refer to it as learning how to deploy social currency rather than monetary currency. Much of what gets accomplished in daily living depends on on-going connections between people.  

With social currency, amazing things can get done, as we can attest to many times over. Without these relationships, daily life can be frustrating and filled with angst. Indeed, some newcomers do not figure this out and return to their home country after a short time. I have lost count of the number of people who arrived with enthusiasm (perhaps way too much of it) and left feeling depressed and defeated. 

We have discovered that the superficial emphasis on beauteous physical features is soon supplanted by a social contract that involves people helping each other – in both small ways and large. Both my wife and I have experienced incredible and unexpected generosity and kindnesses from Italian neighbors and colleagues. Likewise, we have tried to return those gestures with assistance. 

This contract gets reinforced each day by the simplest acts. For example, I walked to the macelleria (local butcher) this morning on an errand so simple, it should have taken ten minutes. Instead, it took more than an hour. The two-way trip included multiple conversations, extended greetings, swapping jokes, and a side trip to a cafe for a glass of pear juice and to sit in the sun and do nothing (the Italian concept of “dolce far niente.”).  

Over the almost decade long period of living in this culture, we have noticed a distinct change in our patterns of behavior. For the initial several years, we would leap out on weekends and explore towns and cities – sometimes their shopping districts, sometimes their street markets, other times their festivals. It was almost like being an extended tourist – savoring a wide range of tastes and experiences before heading home. Then suddenly it sank in that we WERE home. There was no need to rush about and check off lists. 

Now we frequent places where we know the merchants – often by name. We greet them like friends and they greet us. One of the best anniversaries we have had was at a little beachfront bar we chose randomly because our usual place next door was closed.  When we ordered Prosecco and remarked that we were celebrating the date, the proprietor called her husband from the small kitchen to tell him. He then proceeded to make us a veritable banquet that involved platter after platter of exquisite fish.  

Other customers seated nearby overheard the conversations, came over, and joined in with toasts. Now, we go back to that same place every year. Its unadorned ambience is more than made up by the continuing convivial connection.    

For years I was fascinated by street markets. In Italy these are not referred to as “farmers markets” as they typically include merchants selling clothing, shoes, books, socks, underwear, plants, handbags, and small housewares. Items are often significantly less costly than permanent shops. Indeed, we do much of our biweekly shopping at one of two markets. Our own village has a small version once a month.  

The big panel trucks used for vending are an amazing mash-up of vehicular mechanics and display design. A long box on the roof opens up with the touch of a button, sending out an enormous protective canopy. On the ground, folding tables quickly get covered with merchandise close to eye level. Some clothing merchants set up a booth for trying items on. We have developed relationships with certain vendors such that they will bring items they are confident we will like, in the right sizes. A discount is proffered; we never have to ask.       

This phenomenon of the physical environment playing a secondary role to the social environment is repeated in unexpected ways. 

On the very first day we were in our village, we went shopping at a local market for food. Known as an “alimentaria,” this type of market is typically small, family-owned, and yet has an astonishing array of foods, including fresh meats and cheeses. While were chatting about items in English, Alesandra, one of the employees came over and introduced herself. She was Russian, had married an Italian and was thoroughly multi-lingual. She asked why we were in the shop and we replied that had just moved into the village. 

 We also remarked that we were baffled by what we needed to do next to become legal residents.  Immediately she went outside, pulled out her phone and called the mayor. She asked him to help us. We met him the next morning in his office where he spent two hours giving us a tutorial on the procedures. Since then, this early connection has been repeatedly beneficial.    

With the passage of time, we have noticed this change in psychological orientation in ourselves. For the first year, we would stop every few kilometers to exclaim about a view of a lush valley, a snow-capped mountain peak, a painterly sunset, or a well-tended villa. Driving along the serpentine country roads carved into the hillsides frequently resulted in brakes screeching to a stop and phone cameras pulled out. Now it’s merely the usual daily background. 

Nevertheless, even with this mental transition, its going to be a very long time before I tire of the view from our terrace. The scene changes by year, by season, by crops, by sunlight and cloud formations, and by time of day. From time to time, different hilltop towns are struck by the setting sun, almost as if being spotlighted.  

The physical attributes of the place are sharpened by the kind, helpful, and generous attitudes of our neighbors as well as by us.