Episode Transcript
Hello and buon giorno. Welcome to my podcast and precisely why I find life is like a detective novel. My name is Bailey Alexander, and I am convinced, having lived in Piemonte for seven years, these 12 northern Italians appear to have figured it out. Hence the title of my latest book called Personal Legends of Piemonte. After watching them work discussing their lives, these interviews offer the reader how they have fulfilled their personal and professional destinies. I interviewed wine and cheese makers, herbalists, a chef, a bar owner, a teacher, a car mechanic named Luigi. And today, I discussed the bureaucrat. I refer to Rosalinda, she who solved all my paperwork problems as the Dragon Slayer. Oh, the famous bureaucracy found throughout Italy. The layers of tape, along with a dash of cultural flair that makes it both fascinating and frustrating. If God is in the details, then the devil arrives in the details when we discuss this labyrinth. So let's dive into chapter six, shall we? I will read from my book, but you might like to buy in order to read the interviews for yourself and discover how this tribe of Northern Italians have found their bliss.
It took me years, and I had to travel a great distance geographically. However, these people did not have to move a mile. They found it in their own backyard, often by simply appreciating the treasure beneath their feet so that they can continue to produce the majority of Italy's finest products. And yet, in order to sell these delightfully mild and pleasing products, there is still bureaucracy. So, hey, let's dive into chapter six, which is called the Dragon Slayer. Here's the good news. Italy can act like a bomb. She can soothe the soul. She knows how to hang out and take her sweet time. Her culinary style embraces slow food, an international food movement born in Bra, a town nearby that boasts the world's first university of gastronomic sciences. You might be surprised how many people still cook from first principles. I'm not insinuating they worship their food. It's not like it's a noble event, just a relatively serious affair. And rules do apply. The pasta and risotto must be al dente, and local produce receives preferential treatment over global imports, like it should be. Like the French, they talk about food constantly, but it needn't be covered in sauce. It's no accident their cappuccini taste like milkshakes. Their wine and coffee, along with their food, must be mild and provide the most delightful effect.
[00:02:41] From watching their daily routines from the window or from the street, I have concluded they love to fuss and truly appreciate detail. They dare to relish daily chores Doormats must be straight, clothes hung in a straight line or folded just right. Ship shape. As they say, real estate is precious. On good authority, I've been told the concept of apartment living began in Rome. If you cruise through Italy, you'll cruise through a country of mountains. In between the mountains, you'll find towns full of Italians living right on top of one another. They quite like company noise, a welcome neighbor.
If you crave good company, you might find Italians just right. They mind my business without minding it. They offer the Goldilocks moment. I've yet to hear anyone complain of a bad Italian holiday. Gore Vidal, an American writer who happened to reside in Italy for most of his adult life, called Italy a strangely happy entity. For six years he was prescient, so no reason to doubt him now. There are plenty of neurotic types to annoy, but they tend to blend in with the rest, so you don't notice if there's high drama in the air. They do everything in their power to lower the temperature. For such an operatic culture, their goal appears to keep the emotional environs calm. If they fail and people lose their temper, why not blame it on the moon - they do.
A collection of souls who have lost their desire to tell other cultures what to do long ago. From an American perspective, this final item alone can act like a balm and soothe the soul. Some places are beautiful, and I find Italy is sublime.
Here's the bad news, and this may lend to why few Americans live in Italy. We expect instant gratification and convenience. Don't get me wrong, Italy can be sublime. Until the enemy arrives in the form of bureaucracy, it will demand your attention and will not be ignored. Italy's bureaucracy is like a dragon, a European style dragon, the kind that guards the treasure. Greedy with your time, it will take as much as you allow.
If you're a foreigner, a new arrival with certain expectations, it will make you cry. I've seen it happen just by looking in the mirror. There's something uniquely cruel about Italy's paperwork. Having lived in this strangely happy entity for long enough, I suspect it's a rite of passage for the locals. If they must surrender, well then so must everyone else. Italians are incredibly detail oriented. If the devil is in the details, they have a circular logic. For example, they have a stamp called Marco de Bolo, a particularly ubiquitous item. A colorful little label with a mandatory barcode, making it legal. Whatever document you're working on, before you can submit and consider it complete, you'll have to get in the car, hop on your Motorcycle or walk to the nearest tobacco shop and buy a Marco di Bollo. Hope is recommended and patience is key. Their bureaucratic system is modernizing and adapting to technology. But you still need to know how to navigate such a bureaucratic system. The Marco di Bolo is distracting, but it's the easiest piece of the puzzle. The complexity of locating information spread out without coherent connectivity, without any logic. This fact practically guarantees frustration.
I'll share a story. When I moved to Rome, I went to the local questura to start the process for permesso de segiorno, a permit to stay. I was married to an Italian and checked off all the boxes. I had every right to obtain one. I had every right to an Italian passport. I assumed the process would begin and end happily. I was wrong. For instance, let's take our neighbors who lived next door to us in Trastevere. We became friends. The husband was an English writer and he was married to a Canadian who happened to be eight months pregnant. The wife went to the same questura. Alas, I was not about to give birth any moment. Standing at the window, she listened patiently as two women argued for 45 minutes and finally decided Canada was part of the European Union. One month later, the Canadian had her Padmesso di Sejorno. I did not. The bureaucracy is not only cruel, it can be arbitrary. On most occasions, ample research provided positive results. For instance, in half a dozen European countries, I successfully received permission to domicile in their cities. Not so here. Italy is not only a show off, she's a one off. Here, the Marco di Bolo is but one step of the journey. The next is finding the right ally. The latter is far more important than the former. In fact, an ally is critical. One needs an official to simplify the process, to help point one in the right direction, and most importantly, to pull it all together.
[00:07:45] Rosalinda was not the first person I'd asked for help. She was the one who found a solution. She could slay the dragon every single time. For me and for Francis. If the greatest value is found in the smallest things, I'd located the Holy Grail. No goal was unobtainable, even though it was practically impossible in other parts of Italy. Here I had my very own dragon slayer.
Rosalinda worked below the school, with six children and directly above the doctor's office. It was luck laced with a little magic. Walter, or Vaulter, when pronounced properly here, occupies another desk, and there is no reason to discount his competence. However, my interaction was always with the dragon slayer. I never saw Rosalinda sitting down or caught her face. Without a smile, one might be suspicious with someone else. On closer inspection, her smile could appear weary. Of all she bestowed my way, there was never a superior one. Insisting I pay homage to the administrator. I did not suffer a lying smile, and if she had a tight schedule, it was easy to accept. A polite one never tossed me a fake smile, although one or two could be construed as slightly embarrassed, say, when confirming the number of Marco de Bolos required. However, I'm happy to report most were sincere, one or two even teasing future rewards.
Rosalinda's demeanor appeared unassuming to the public, although my imagination knew better. After leaving her office, I envisioned one of those smiles replaced with a look of steely determination. A sword hidden underneath her desk, one suddenly held securely in her competent hands, effortlessly slicing and slashing her way through hundreds of A4 sheets of paper, creating a white tornado in midair. My dragon slayer could kill the chaos and let calm and order return. Of this, I was convinced there was only one acceptable result, and it was a victory. If not, however, could I live in such a strangely happy entity?
Now I understand well. Passing tests and overcoming trials is part of life. I'm not that naive, however. Herculean efforts are the price one must periodically pay in order to live in a place that can act as a balm, one that can soothe the soul. I've lived a nomadic life, yes, and after dancing with plenty of personalities, there was no doubt in my heart. Italy was always the one.
This tale is about hope. I am all papered up. I am no longer a tourist. I found a guide who was as good as a mentor. Rosalinda's backstory is sweet and her attitude straightforward. All she ever really wanted was to have a family, and she got it. When she isn't conquering bureaucracy. Renowned in the province of Asti, where we lived, I'm pretty sure she's happily devoting the rest of her energy to her children and to their home.
I asked for an interview, and she kindly obliged. When she brought along her husband, I realized she might be shy. Or maybe her husband knew it was necessary to talk about history and the reenactments. Italy is loaded with it, and the weight can prove too heavy. Many choose to leave their beloved country and say arrivederchi to such a strangely happy entity. They do return often, and together with those who remain, attend the local food and historic festivals. As the weather warms up, the festivals are found all over Piemonte practically each week. Such enthusiastic gatherings are a key element towards keeping these towns alive with their past even as they forge into the future. It enforces the campanalismo and fortifies the residents. It gives the family a break to eat, drink and be merry before they go back to work. They retain this desire to keep their past alive, even if bureaucracy still lingers. It may be greedy with their time, but it also forms checks and balances. Certain processes are followed, still providing job security for many like Rosalinda. If we'd never met, I wouldn't have learned the benefits of being patient. That was a lesson I needed to learn. Small towns have also taught me how special it is to be a small town. Trade is great and it's comforting to know that Pimonte can feed itself. Globalization is here and I recommend staying local. It will love you back. So hey, thanks for listening and I am happy to announce that I've got a book signing in Rome in the eternal city on April 10th at the almost Corner Bookshop. And hey, if you're brushing up on your Italian and getting ready for a trip to Italy, Personal Legends is written in both English and Italian together. The first half is in English, the second in Italian.
So not only can you read about people fulfilling their destiny, you can learn a little Italian. And hey, please check out my website@ baileyalexander.com for further information. Book signings, giveaways, little films, and oh so much more. Again, thank you so much for listening. Ciao for now. arrivederci
