Amazon.it has helped overcome dread of speaking Italian on the phone

I have to chuckle when I see the book we have next to the toilet in the bathroom: Italian in Three Months. Somebody should have written a book more geared to my learning curve. They could have called it Learn Barely Passable Italian in Just 25 Years. It seems strange that I’m pretty good at English—good enough to have been a newspaper journalist, book author, English and journalism teacher, freelance writer for magazines—but such a slow learner in Italian.

It's not something that I let discourage me, but rather I take the attitude of the turtle. I will get there eventually, if I keep moving forward, and what I can do now is adequate for my needs. I’ve long since overcome my fears of making mistakes, which is an essential hurdle in learning a new language. Often I recognize the mistake as soon as it tumbles out of my mouth, but I soldier on, knowing that my meaning was probably clear enough despite persistent grammatical butcheries.

I normally look forward to opportunities to practice and improve my Italian, but there is one context that I’ve dreaded and avoided over the years: speaking on the telephone. Communication without visual cues is different. People can’t see the look of confusion on my face when they finish their torrent of instructions and questions, so after a few moments of silence while I slowly try to process their words, I often have to say: “Non ho capito tutto. Puoi repetire, per favore?”

However, thanks to some high-level bungling by Amazon.it, I recently have received a lot of valuable practice. Looking on the bright side, I thank Amazon.it for forcing me to practice my Italian while speaking on the telephone, as I had to make eight different phone calls to solve a very simple problem. The feeling of triumph at the end of my struggle almost made up for the two weeks of frustration and fist-pounding that my desk had to endure.

I had set up my Amazon.it account a couple of years ago, and everything worked flawlessly. Orders came quickly and efficiently. We could watch movies on Prime, choosing either English or Italian as the language, even adding subtitles to some shows. But between last year and this spring, the company added an extra layer of security: a two-step login process that required me to enter a code that had been sent by text to my American cell phone number.

I have an Italian cell phone that I use here, and I can’t access my American phone, so I couldn’t complete the login. Without being able to access my account, I couldn’t change the phone number, and there was no option to have the code sent to my email address. I did, after some clicking around, find an option to deactivate the two-step verification process, which required me to send a copy of an identification document. I then received an automated email which said my request was being reviewed by the responsible department, and I would hear from them in 24-48 hours.

Two days later, still unable to login, I repeated the process. Two more days later, I bit the bullet and called the help line. The rest is a bit of a blur. I do know that I explained the situation to eight different people. One of them put me on hold and then hung up on me in the middle of my explanation, but the other seven were extremely kind, patient and sympathetic. They spoke slowly and repeated themselves when asked. However, over the course of the conversations, it became clear that they did not have the power to deactivate the two-step login process, no matter how many security questions I answered correctly. In the end, the best they could do was send me a link to the department responsible for this procedure, which did not include the possibility of actually sending a message. I just had to enter my login name and then send my identity document, with no chance to say I had already done this twice with no result. Nevertheless, I did send my identity document for a third time. First, I used my passport. Then, I sent a photo of me holding my passport up by my face. Then my American drivers license, and then a photo of me holding it up. And finally, my Italian carta d’identita’. Surely five consecutives submissions would draw someone’s attention!

Many automated emails resulted, but two days later, still no results, and I saw no route to get a progress report other than calling again. Then, in a stroke of uncharacteristic brilliance, I wrote out everything that had happened in English, translated it into Italian, and saved it in jpg format. This allowed me to send a personal message:

For the fourth time, I ask you to deactivate the two-step verification because I can’t access my Amazon account. Please. I beg you. I’m not able to receive messages on my American cell phone number, and therefore I can’t access my account with the two-step process. Otherwise, you can let me do the verification on my Italian cell phone number, 3533986899. Or at least do me the courtesy of explaining why you refuse to help me.

After sending this, I decided to try one more message of an unusual nature, thinking that it would surely draw attention to my plight and might even appeal to someone with a whimsical sense of humor. I had a photo of myself that Lucy had taken just as I had awoken after nodding off while waiting during a seven-hour layover in Frankfurt. I looked disgruntled, though I swear I was just tired and in truth was perfectly gruntled (I know that’s not really a word, but I’ve always wanted to find a good place to say it). Above the photo I wrote: “How I feel at this moment about my amazon.it account.”

The usual automated email came. Two days passed. More silence. I’d had enough. I made one final phone call, closing my account. After that, I opened another using Lucy’s email address. To celebrate, we watched a movie on Prime. Thanks, Amazon.it, for helping me overcome my fear of speaking Italian on the phone!

Lucy has a meaningful experience at the Montecarlo Catholic church

We flew down the stairs to get our bikes ready to do what we usually do on Sunday in Montecarlo . . . go to the chiesa evangelica (protestant church) in the nearby city of Altopascio. We turned in our rental car last week, so now we’re dependent on our e-bikes. Even though we rode a long way to Pescia two days before with no problem, we discovered Paul’s front tire was flat—and then also the back one, too! Plus we discovered the electric battery had not charged, and he would only be at half power. Strange. I suggested that Paul take my bike and I would stay.

Awfully quiet upstairs alone. I heard the bells of the Catholic church of Sant'Andrea down the street ring a call to worship. I remembered that I usually go to some church no matter where I am, and then I realized I rarely have the opportunity to go to this church. So even though I don’t understand every custom and nuance, fellow Christians are all over the world, and we will spend eternity together. I decided to go.

I arrived to a packed house as I came in at the back. It’s a beautiful place, with brown and golden marble, matching walls, lit paintings, nicely arranged flowers and candles, wooden pews—it’s a calm place. A group of families with babies were coming down the center aisle from the vestry in the front towards the back. I took a seat in the front third row. Everyone quietly stood and looked back, and the priest came down and led them up to the altar area, dividing the group to rows of chairs on either side.

It was the Sunday of the Good Shepherd and a time set for baptisms. Most of the babies were dressed in white. Grandparents were included in the family groups.

Then began the worship songs followed by the priest reading a part and the congregation responding with their part conveniently written in a bulletin (which helps me, too). Then came the sermon about the good shepherd tending His sheep, which these children will become.

Happy churubs watching from on high

The baptism, I think he said, will take care of the problem of the children’s original sin state, through Christ’s sacrifice for them. The babies were prayed over and anointed twice with something from bottles, and then each was taken to a basin, surrounded by family, and the back of their heads were rinsed three times with water. A girl about 7 years old was also baptized. Towels were provided. Families beamed. The priest was gentle. After that, the girl and a baby who weren’t dressed in white were dressed by the priest with a white apron over the baby and a white frock over the girl. I read afterwards that “the white garment shows that the newly baptized have put on Christ and have risen with him. To be clothed in the baptismal white garment is to be clothed in Christ’s protective love.” The sign of the cross was made on all the foreheads with perfumed oil. Then the fathers came forward and all were given long candles which they lit from an Easter candle, signifying the light of Christ is in all their lives due to Easter and reminding them that they are to be lights for the world. The fathers (and seated grandfathers) beamed with lovely smiles.

More prayers about Mary and lots of saints, and the “peace” was passed among the congregates. Everyone was blessed by the priest and dismissed.

Tranquil church with baptismal font.

I saw long tables reserved in the restaurants, I’m sure for these families. Adding to the festive atmosphere, it was also the Spring Fair in Montecarlo that day, the thunderstorms of the day before forgotten. Vendors lined the street, and there were entertainers for both children and adults.

I hadn’t brought my phone to church, which is good—for I kept “seeing” scenes to be photographed during the service. But it was better to observe, getting the camera after and catching the beauty before everyone left.

I had taken communion with them, for I have been a Christian for 54 years and am in good standing with my God. Even before that I’d been baptized and confirmed in the Episcopal church, but then after I’d accepted as my grown self what Christ did and does through His Spirit, I was baptized again. That’s my journey, and perhaps in Heaven I’ll meet these babies baptized today and learn what their journeys with God had been. Then there will be more times to rejoice and be thankful. And maybe I will ask God how He made two tires go flat so I could go today.

 

Strangely named places in Italy

For some reason, I love looking at maps of places I’ve visited or might visit, and in following this predilection, I’ve noticed towns near our Montecarlo home with some unusual names, including Malocchio and Femminamorta (translations would be Evil Eye and Dead Female). Finding these has prompted me to search for other towns in Italy that could rival these two for their peculiarity.

I quickly found a few that were mentioned in an Italian newspaper, including Strangolagalli (strangle the roosters), Belsedere (nice butt) and Purgatorio (purgatory). The article also named some unusual but complimentary places, such as Donnadolce (sweet woman), Buon Riposo (good rest) and Occhiobello (beautiful eye). However, many of the other names were, in my opinion, quite ordinary, barely deserving of mention. There was capracotta (cooked goat), golasecca (dry throat), povoromo (poor man) and others of that nature, but I wanted names even more unusual.

Since every little neighborhood in Italy has a name, I’m sure there are other equally strange ones, but they are not easy to find. One must enlarge the map to such a degree that only a very small area of land appears, and it would take weeks, maybe months, to scroll across the entire country. I’ve only given this project an hour of time, but I still found a few fascinating names.

Ponte delle Tette

Italians over the centuries have been close to nature and fairly earthy in their sensibilities. Thus names referring to body parts are not uncommon, starting with La Vagina (no translation needed). There is also the Ponte delle Tette in Venezia, and this is the only place where I have found an explanation of an unusual name. Sources say that this ponte (bridge) was historically a place for topless prostitutes to solicit clients. However, Venezia has another bridge with a saintlier name, the Ponte Ca’ di Dio (house of God).

Fellow members of a Facebook group helped me add to my list, finding Purgatorio in Sicily, Troia (slut) in Apulia, Scannacapri (slaughter goats) in Campagnia, Sesso (sex) in Reggio Emilia, Omo Morto (dead man) near Firenze and Bastardo in Umbria. My favorite of those sent to me was Ramazzano le Pulci (they sweep up fleas). There's also the well known but strangely named airport Malpensa in Milano. It doesn't hold up as completely grammatically correct, but Google translates Male pensa as thinks badly and DeepL as evil thinks.

It seems there are quite a few places that could refer to a person’s posterior, perhaps because of some geographic features. There are Chiappia, Chiappe, Chiappona and Chiapponi (butt, butts, big butt and big butts). And only about 10 minutes from Chiapponi is Varco di Chiappe (crack of the butts). I’m not making these up! You can verify it on Google maps.

Sadly, Google maps street view only
shows the beginning of the Via del
Cielo, leaving the rest for us to discover
on our own, I guess.

God, the devil and the afterlife have also inspired some interesting names. Venezia has a Corte di Cristo, and in the province of Perugia is a town named Casa del Diavolo (devil’s home), though it’s interesting to note that this town has a church ironically named Chiesa di Casa del Diavolo. Only 16 minutes away is a street named Via del Cielo (heaven), though one can see from aerial photos that it’s very small and narrow, perhaps in recognition of Matthew 7:14. I can’t tell if it has a gate or not. Meanwhile, the city of Firenze has three connected streets in the same neighborhood dealing with the afterlife: Via dell’Inferno, Via del Purgatorio and Via del Limbo. Nearby San Miniato, smaller than Firenze, has only a Vicolo (alley) dell’Inferno, whereas Napoli has the Valle (valley) dell’Inferno. Judging solely by the numbers, it’s much easier to find a road to hell than it is the road to heaven! There are no ands, ifs or butts about it.

Intersecting streets in Firenze. Take your choice: Purgatorio, Inferno or Limbo.

 

 

 

 

Did I naively pour a thousand-plus euros “down the drain”?

I’ve avoided writing about this topic for a few years because I don’t want people to think I’m crazy. But what else could you say about someone who pays for a construction service and patiently waits nearly seven years, without complaining, for its completion?

You see, in 2017, we discovered that the kitchen sink in our Montecarlo home was not connected to the sewer system. The sink outflow—the scarico—just drained onto the roof of our downstairs neighbor, ran across the surface and then flowed into the rain gutter. A downspout attached to the gutter dumped soapy water and food bits from our dishwasher into another neighbor’s field.

Our beautiful stairway to the attic.

Fortunately, the neighbor who owns the field is an absentee owner, the field is completely private, and the small amount of water Lucy and I put down the drain is absorbed quickly. The food bits are usually hidden by a healthy growth of grass that is watered regularly by rainfall even when we aren’t present. As far as we know, the field has only been used a few times during the nine years we’ve lived in Montecarlo—and we were away during these times and thus not using the sink. Still, I don’t need to be perfectly fluent in Italian to know that the city codes surely prohibit dumping gray water onto a neighbor’s property.

The pink plastic tube was added in 2019, but the water from
our sink still ends up in the rain gutter.

Knowing this, I got a preventivo—a price quote—to attach the drain to the sistema fognario—sewer system—as soon as I became aware of the situation. The price quote included several other projects, including adding a stairway to the attic, bringing our electrical wiring up to date, and adding walls and flooring in the attic. The itemized price quote listed the drain project as slightly in excess of 1,000 euro. All of the other work was completed in 2018 and 2019, but all that happened with the kitchen drain is that a plastic tube was added so the water didn’t run across the roof. It still runs into the gutter and ends up in the neighbor’s field.

So why hasn’t the drain work been finished? Maybe because the plumber friend that the contractor worked with has retired. That’s one of the reasons I’ve been given, but surely there is more to it than that.

The field below our house is completely
private and almost never used.

But just as relevant is the question: Why have I put up with this situation for so long without making a fuss? It’s because the contractor is also my neighbor, who lives just below us. All of the other work he has done for us has been of high quality, and he has also supervised our joint projects of painting the exterior of our house and replacing the roof. These projects involved obtaining permission from the city, something that would have been difficult for me to do. In summary, he’s been an invaluable resource, and I don’t want to alienate him and damage our relationship. I’ve brought the topic up a half dozen times over the years, and each time I am assured that he will complete the work as soon as he can, and that he knows it has been paid for already.

I can’t simply ask for my money back and use it to hire a different plumber, because connecting the drain is undoubtedly going to impact the neighbor’s home in some way. Our floor and his ceiling are obviously connected, so unless he can somehow connect the drain directly to the sewer line, he’s going to have to cut into a floor, a ceiling or a wall, at the very least. Having the neighbor’s cooperation is going to be essential, whether he hires the plumber, or I do.

An additional factor—perhaps the most important—is our friendship with the neighbors. One of the prime reasons Lucy and I come to Italy is to establish connections, to become part of the community, to make friends—and we are on the path to becoming friends with these neighbors.

Most people are familiar with the saying: “To have a friend, you must be a friend.” So I considered my choices—treat the neighbor as if I’m his customer, or as his friend? I chose the latter, even deciding that I’d rather end up trusting him and eventually getting ripped off than souring our relationship just to get the work done more quickly.

Having faith in someone can be powerful, as is illustrated by an anecdote in the memoir “The Cross and the Switchblade,” by David Wilkerson. Called to minister to gang members in Brooklyn, Wilkerson rents an auditorium and invites the young people in his neighborhood to attend a series of meetings. A raucous crowd shows up, including members of rival gangs. Not sure how to get their attention, he decides to take up a collection, and he selects Nicky Cruz, a leader of a prominent gang, to supervise passing the collection boxes. When Cruz and the other five young toughs reach the back of the auditorium, Wilkerson asks them to pass behind a curtain before coming to the stage to bring him the filled boxes. At this point, the crowd realizes that the gang members can easily just slip out the door and never return, cash in hand.

But they don’t. Impressed that someone has shown faith in them, they bring the money to Wilkerson—to the amazement of the crowd. Later, Cruz explains his reasoning:

“There was the door. It was wide open. Back in the arena some of them were laughing. They knew what we were pulling. My boys were watching me, waiting for the word to cut out. But I stood there. I didn’t know what it was; I had a funny feeling. Suddenly I knew what it was: That preacher trusted me. That never happened in my life before.”

I’m not trying to compare my neighbor to a gang member, but the message is clear. Wilkerson took a chance. He could have lost both money and face in front of a large crowd. Instead, Nicky Cruz responded to the trust Wilkerson showed. That same evening, Cruz answered the altar call and gave his life to God, later becoming a preacher himself.

I could also lose the money I paid for the drain, but by showing a bit of patience and restraint, the growing friendship between the neighbors and us will become stronger. The last time we discussed the work, about a month ago, the neighbor said he would be doing some remodeling of his house this summer, and as part of the work, he will attach our drain to the sewer system. And I trust that he will.

Living and learning in Tuscany: Keeping it simple can be sweet!

Looking at birds & turtles in
the Padule di Fucecchio.

Most Americans who visit Italy move at a frenetic pace. They make a list of the must-see places and hustle from city to city, absorbing as much beauty and uniqueness as possible in a short time. We know, because we have done this—but never again. We live in Italy now for about four months a year, and sometimes people ask us what we do there. Well, we just live there, for the most part.

We no longer travel much, unless the purpose is to explore with friends. Otherwise, we just try to live a quiet and slow Italian life as active retirees. So what, precisely, does that entail for us?

On the bridge over the Pescia.

We usually start our mornings by practicing in Italian on Duolingo, reading the news online and playing Words with Friends. For the sake of our health, we each have a morning exercise routine, and during the afternoon we take either a walk or ride on our e-bikes—maybe even a combination ride and walk. We prefer walking in nature rather than in cities, so we have our favorite places: The Padule di Fuchecchio, the Lago di Sibolla, the banks of the Pescia River, and the woods in the surrounding hills.

All that remains of one of the 100 farms.

We recently went to a rather strange archeological area called 100 Roman Farms of the Plain of Lucca. It is a flat area where there is almost nothing to see, because it’s covered with grass, but it runs along the Auser River, which was filled with huge carp splashing and thrashing in the water while mating. The area was used extensively for farming some 2,000 years ago, but all that remains are the outlines of farm-related buildings. Any farming tools found during excavations presumably have been removed and archived. On Friday, we’ll go with some friends to one of the 10 castle cities above Pescia just to walk around and explore a city built mainly in medieval times and largely unchanged since.

At the Padule di Fucecchio, a huge wetland preserve, it’s mating season for egrets and several types of heron, and for some reason, they all build their nests in the same general place. Thus, we saw about 500 birds, squawking and screaming and jostling for the prime nests in a row of trees next to the water. It really must be seen to be fully appreciated!

Picnic lunch at a hillside fortress.

We don’t eat out very often, as that would be expensive, but we do shop for food regularly, which is part of an Italian lifestyle of buying produce and meat that is fresh rather than frozen. Of course, there are the usual chores involved with keeping up a household—washing clothes and dishes, cooking, cleaning and so on. But we purposely bought a home that was, for the most part, already finished, because we didn’t want to spend an inordinate amount of time on remodeling. We have painted a few walls and railings, and in the next few weeks I’ll probably sand and paint the outside surface of our door to the terrazzo.

We could be doing a lot more than we are doing. I could still be writing and selling magazine articles, or even working on a second book. Lucy has made several quilts in previous years, but she doesn’t feel motivated to make them anymore. We could be working harder to improve our Italian, for example by watching more movies or television shows in Italian instead of English. For most of my adult life, I’ve been driven to achieve—in my teaching career, in my asphalt maintenance business, in sports, and even in my church and family life—but now I’m learning to cut back and enjoy the foundations I’ve built upon.

Italians have a phrase, il dolce far niente, which means the sweetness of doing nothing. Maybe I am still driven to achieve. One of the reasons we come to Italy is to learn how to adapt to and assimilate into another culture. So now I’m just doing my best to apply this new principle in my life!