Welcome to Italicus: a writer’s life in Italy! To kick things off, let’s start with something about the early days of my life in Italy—something that caught me by surprise.
When I’d been living in Italy for just under a year, I found certain aspects of life here “as advertised”—gorgeous scenery and art, sublime food and wines, a fascinating culture that stretches back thousands of years. Some of the country’s attributes are less visible, though; they need time to surface and accumulate. One thing happens, and then another, and eventually you realize there’s a pattern. In various ways, at various times, this thing keeps popping up. This thing is what I call generosity of spirit.
It’s a mindset that leaves me, an American, stunned at times. I won’t say these kinds of things can’t happen in the U.S., but I can say they never happened to me in the 60-something years I lived there. Still, “generosity of spirit” is a pretty lofty claim, so let me back it up with some specifics.
Only weeks after I’d moved to Italy, I needed a new screen for my phone. Off I went to the Clinica iPhone store, where the young clerk suspected the motherboard might be causing problems too. Still, he thought we should start with the screen and go from there. When he handed the phone back to me, he said, “See how it does for a day.” I mentioned payment and he waved me off. “Tomorrow, see you then.” Did he take my name or phone number? No. I walked out with a €140 new screen on my phone, and I could have kept walking, left town, left the country. But he trusted that I’d be back.
Trust—it’s so refreshing. “Pay me next time,” the woman at the cappelleria (hat shop) said when she couldn’t make change for a €10 note. Another time, at an antiques market, a vendor told me to take home the antique Murano glass light fixture I had my eye on, to see how it looked in my place. Again, no name or phone number. When I said I couldn’t come back until afternoon, he shrugged and said, “Tranquilla” (“don’t worry”). I bought the fixture and several others, and after they’d been installed he came by to see them. Dissatisfied with the work, he climbed my rickety ladder and adjusted them himself. Customer service, Italian style.
When I moved from one part of Italy to another, I rented an apartment through an agency, a family business. One agent drove me to the utility companies to set up accounts and translated for me. Later, when I was ready to apply for residency, her business partner insisted on coming with me (a two-hour act of generosity). Another time, when I needed to fax my election ballot to the U.S., she let me use the agency’s machine. Since then we’ve chatted over meals or coffee, and this person who could have waved me off once our business was done became a friend instead.
And sometimes business doesn’t equal money, even without friendship. When I needed to have my signature notarized on a U.S. document, multiple people warned me about the cost of notary services. I arrived early, prepared to fork out untold amounts of cash, and five minutes later my document was signed and stamped and I was told goodbye. “But the bill?” I said to the notaio. The reply: niente, nothing; such a little thing, no charge.
I could go on. I could tell you about the vet whose treatment of my critically ill cat including keeping her in the ambulatorio for several weeks without charging me for her stay. I could tell you about the doctor who told me she couldn’t take private patients (this was before I’d signed up for the national health service), then promptly examined me and wrote a prescription, without charge. I could tell you about the optician who checked my vision and the fit of my contacts twice, ordered lenses for me to try (at no charge), and refused payment until we’d gotten the fit and prescription just right—a month-long process. (The vision tests? No charge.) I could tell you about the city worker who came by in his little truck to pick up trash and recycling and raced over to take my bags the instant he saw me on the steps, as if to spare me the chore of crossing a narrow street.
All of these mini-stories are mere anecdotes, which makes them inherently faulty. Conclusive data they are not. I know that for every example I’ve given, someone might counter with a nightmare tale depicting the opposite of generosity. And sure, I’ve seen—and experienced—rudeness and apathy and other negative human behaviors. But in my experience, after four years in Italy, they are the exceptions, not the rule. What is true for me, here in my hilly town in the center of Italy, is that like Blanche DuBois in her steamy quarter of New Orleans, I can rely on the kindness of strangers.