B is for bee, S is for stranger, C is for crescentina

23 JUNE CRESPELLAN0-I'm beginning to think that someone or something doesn't want me in this country. First of all, the weather is hot. Well over 30 degrees celsius. Humidity isn't as bad as at home but then again, I have no cold beverages or air conditioning. I've gotta fever, and the cure is..........

Well, I'm finally 'in regola' or within the boundaries of the rules of this society that seems to have even more rules than my own. Stefania had to ask for a 'permesso' or permission to take a half day off of work so that she could accompany me downtwon to pick up my 'permesso di soggiorno' or long-stay permit. The permit that is equal to our proverbial 'green card' which is really pink and not green. This gives me persmission to stay in Italy for two years with all of the basic rights of an Italian citizen apart from voting.

I need to finish establishing residency by getting the 'codice fiscale' (think social security number) and then the 'tessera medicale' or national medical card which allows me to see the doctor free of charge. And no, my Rush Limbaugh loving friends, this is not some monolithic communist health system. Even the communists aren't communists anymore. It is basically a single-payer system like in Canada. You can choose your doctor or hospital. Yes, if you need to have a mole removed, for example, you might have to wait a couple weeks. But then, most people don't realize that doctors in the U.S. are on a 30-60 day scheduling system unless you get lucky or are sick. In Italy, they still come to your house, too. They also come to your paycheck. The cost of work here is phenomenal. If you take home 2.000 euros a month, your employer is paying out 5.000. You pay your premium to Uncle Luigi who in turn pays the doctors. I guess it's really free only if you're unemployed. Just think of Medicaid or Medicare only better.

I could've used a trip to the doctor after going to "pick up the card." First of all, the day we picked it up, June 21, was like, the hottest day of the year so far. We had to go after noon and so had the AC turned allllllll the way down to 18 degrees celsius in the Micra. As low as it would go. Heading across the valley the haze had settled like a thermal blanket over the surrounding hills. The corn and wheat were standing at attention as the giant irrigation sprinklers shot long columns of water into the fields. We passed a field of sunflowers; thousands of them. We took the 25 km drive down the Strada Provinciale 568 towards the Ipercoop at Borgo Panigale, an area of Bologna. Being the expert navigator that I now am, I directed Stef to park in the covered lot. From there, we got two bus tickets out of the machine at the busstop in front of the store and waited for the good ole number 13 bus. Remember, you can't drive into the center without a residence permit.

The bus came and became more crowded as we snaked our way past the Porta San Felice and on to the Via Ugo Bassi, rumbling across the large paving stones. This was an older bus and had no air conditioning. The new ones have computer screens, AC and the busstops have electronic signs that tell you when they will arrive.

We got off in front of the McDonald's. Sorry dad, still no breakfast at Mickey D's. There is, however, a new Mac store right next door. Anyway, the heat was radiating off the closely spaced buildings. People crowded together in the shade of the porticoes. We took a hard right at the Bancomat down the street from Mickey D's and headed for Piazza Roosevelt and the main police station near the Piazza Maggiore.

When we arrived, a long line was already forming. The office is on a narrow street behind the main police station. There is a crowd barrier that runs about 20 feet in each direction from the entrance to the immigration office. People of every nationality were lining up for the three o'clock opening of the door. One lone policeman stood guard. There was a family of Romanians or Albanians, Arabic was being spoken, a lady with a crossword puzzle book in Portuguese, Africans, you name it.

Then the real fun began. Luckily we were in the shade. As the time drew closer to three, people started to surge forward. The lone cop wised up and called for a more assertive assistant. He puffed on a Marlboro as he eyed the crowd. 'Sucks to be them,' he probably thought.

At three the employees dragged in and the door opened. Then the real, real fun began. By now there were over 500 people. We were stretched to each corner on either side of the door about 5 deep with people trying to sneak in from the center. This brought the swift hand of justice from the new cop. He told everyone to back off and keep the street clear. He would select three or four people from each side to go in. Everyone else in line. This didn't stop people from trying to push through the center of line.

This guy from India, about half my size kept trying to elbow past me. My hockey traing took over and I kept the 'net' clear by keeping my hip in front of his and my elbow above his arm so that each time he tried to sneak by his throat would run into my arm. I told him to calm down but I don't know if he spoke Italian.

After two hours in line, the policeman picked us and we went inside. There were five bank teller-style windows. I went right up to window two as the Albanians were grouped around the first window with some sob story. I handed the lady my passport and claim slip. She disapeared for a moment and came back with my 'permesso.'

That was it. I was disappointed. I thought it would be som high tech card with a magnetic strip. However, it was just a computer printout with my picture stapled to it and about 50 stamps on it. Italians love stamps. I was now official and tried to hide my relief as we walked past the other poor suckers in line. Now it was off to Feltrinelli bookstore and a long, winding trip through a maze of streets back to the 13 bus.

The preceding weekend was spent out with friends at a neat bar with an outdoor patio and little grass hut gazeebos. I had a Corona, no lime and listened to a DJ play bad music. Sunday was spent at my friend Roberta's house where her parents made crescentina by hand. Crescentina is dough that is cranked through a pasta machine, cut and then deep fried in liquified lard. It makes puffy little pastries about 3-inches long. We had two enormous bowls filled with them. Then you can put mortadella, prosciutto, squacarone cheese, mozzarella, jam or anything on them. We tried them all! Then we sliced up a watermellon and sat there outside like Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn spitting out the seeds.

The next day was spent by me putting in another 3-and-a-half-hour ride to try to rid myself of the crescentina bloat. Right as I passed the little bridge at Finale Emilia, the one where I almost got hit by a car, I saw a flash out of the corner of my eye. I was on a very narrow road with someone behind me and in front of me. This 'flash' hit me right on the left side of my nose. I thought it was just another errant bug. A bug it was. A European honey bee! The last thing he saw was my big schnozz. I must have been close to the hive because he came at me ass first. There was a split second delay before the searing pain set in. But I couldn't move my hands or bike. I had to hold my line so as not to be hit by a car. Profanities streamed from my mouth in four languages as sweat rolled across the wound. And you all know how thin the skin on your cheek next to your nose is. It felt as if someone had stuck a hot poker under my cheek. Man, did it smart. It took all of my experience on the bike not to flinch and swerve into traffic or the irrigation ditch on my right. I dug my nails into the handlebars and waited until I was in the clear. It felt like a hornet sting. I reached up and flicked at the sore with my left pinkie. Lucky me. I won a prize. A nice honey bee stinger and what was left of its entrails on the other end. Bees leave the stingers and die. Wasps (vespas) don't. Last thing he ever did and boy did I pay for it. Fortunately, I've had more than one run in with bees and wasps, (my personal record is being stung three times in a row by a hornet) so I wasn't worried about an allergic reaction. I just kept squirting my face with water and the pain calmed after a few minutes. By the time I got home the pain was gone and there was hardly a mark. Another reason I'm starting to think someone doesn't like me around here.

The next reason is my ongoing cross cultural battle with the seemingly never ending suspiciousness of Italians. We've touched on the 'vechiette' or little old ladies peering at you from behind curtains. We've witnessed the flier I put up for my missing cat with my name and number and Stefania's name and number. I got zero hits. Stef said it was because they saw my name. Italians don't like to deal with strangers, she said. Now, I really believe her. First, I got attacked by a bee because I passed to close to his house and today I had two incidences of Italians' inability to deal with outsiders. Again, this phenomenon of 'campanilismo' or provincialism, loyalty to one's town belltower. Actually, it was one run in today.

I was crossing the train tracks near our house to go pick up our car at Stef's work about 1 kilometer away. They've been working all summer on the tracks and have set up a 'deviazione' or detour which makes this short trip into a long and winding one if you take the car. People can cross the tracks, cars can't. Anyway, this fellow gets out of his car and asks me how to get to the Coop grocery store. My store. The one that is 500m from my front door. The one I go to almost every day.
He said that the signs said to come over to the far side of the tracks, where we were talking. I said, no, it's a mistake. He'd have to go all the way back around past the cemetery and go around the corner. He said he didn't think so. I said yes, you do. By then he noticed that I didn't look Italian and had an accent. He asked me, "Tu sei straniere?" (Are you a foreigner?) I responded that yes I was American as a matter of fact. "Oh," he responded, "maybe I should go ask that gentleman over there," as he went scurrying off. I through up my hands and thought, "you still got to go the long way."

Immigration, especially 'clandestini' or what we'd call illegal immigrants are in the headlines every day here. My example demonstrates that Italians just do not have the cultural history of dealing with outsiders. They don't know what to do. In America, we haven't always treated immigrants well and illegals are still a hot topic. However, we at least accept and are used to to the concept of people who look different, talk different etc. I suppose that the man's reaction would've been the same if he noted that the person he asked directions from had an accent from Naples. He just wouldn't accept information from an outsider, probably. I should count myself lucky. If I had been of African, Arab or Asian ethnicity, he wouldn't have asked at all. Not out of overt racism but because these peoples' ethnicities would have indicated to him that they weren't Italian even if they had been born in Crevalcore.

At any rate, it doesn't make you feel good when people don't trust you or what you say because of how you look or talk. Later in the day, a truck driver stopped me on my bike. I was on my way from Sant'Agata back to Crevalcore. He wanted to know where San Felice su Panaro was. This is a tiny village on the Panaro over 45 minutes by bike to the north of Crevalcore. I knew the answer but just said, "Non lo so" (I don't know). He said, "Niente?" (not at all). I said 'yup' and turned away from his quizzical stare to continue on. He knew that the village was in the area and probably couldn't believe a cyclist wouldn't know the answer since we tend to know all the back roads and villages. Thus his look. For me, it wasn't worth the trouble. I knew that by the time I got done telling him where it was (okay, continue on through Crevalcore past the cemetery and on to Caselle about 15 km north. Then go through Caselle around the corner and continue on the small farmers' road that runs under the dike along the Panaro River. Keep going for 10 km and you'll see the sign. It's to the left.) he would detect that I wasn't from these parts and would ignore what I told him anyway. I guess our motto in America is 'never accept candy from strangers' and in Italy it is 'never accept instructions from an outsider.'

I think outsider is the key word. 'Straniere' means stranger or foreigner. But the concept that seems to be hard for Italians to accept is the notion of trusting someone from outside the family or the area. This is reflected in the mafia movies where to be in the mob you've got to be Italian. This is true. One branch of the mob is called "La cosa nostra," or "our thing." It's our thing not yours, not for outsiders. During the high periods of Italian emigration during the early parts of the last century, whole villages would up and move to America or other countries.

Now, don't think Italians aren't hospitable. We can't paint with too broad a brush here. If Americans tend to be superficially nice, Italians tend to be superficially suspicious of those they don't know. The phenomenon that I'm speaking of here is more subtle. It's the 'talking dog' syndrome when one is trying to fit in and integrate more fully into a society. 'Oh, wow. You speak Italian really well.' In my position, this is akin to saying, 'Oh wow. a dog that can talk.' Yeah, but you're still a dog. That is to say, when you're just visiting on vacation everything is fine and dandy. It's when you really try to live somewhere that these little annoyances come up. Once you get to know your neighbors and colleagues they are the warmest people in the world and will always go the extra mile for you. It's just these initial, impersonal encounters that can sting a bit at times