1. Rude waiters and shop assistants

This post is not miscategorized. Being rude to customers is one of the things that Italians get right. That is, they know how to be rude but, unlike the French or the English, the former from national chauvinism and the latter from class consciousness, Italian store owners and waiters are rude for all the right reasons.

One of the great neoliberal deceptions pedalled upon the practically disenfranchised American and British public is that if they dislike something, they can “vote with their feet”. Not only is this a philosophy that accords the same dignity to a dirty Pizza Hut as a Parliament, it also breeds a sense of consumer entitlement and its corollary, consumer rage. To advise people that removing their custom is an exercise of a democratic right is not only a lie, but it is also a counsel of abandonment rather than betterment; it  discourages political intervention in industry and commerce, and promotes the commodification of the public sphere. This is sold to us as “choice”.

A corporation will go to considerable effort to persuade customers its services or products are good. If they need to back this up with some actual quality of service or price, they will trash the environment and exploit their workers. Thus is a “better” service guaranteed to the angry man in line who simply can’t believe that the wage slave behind the counter does not value his time and revere his custom.

In Italy, however, there has long been a healthy tradition of putting the customer second. The family-run food stores and pizza places often ample space behind the counter– for the convenience of the workers, often also the owners, rather than the customers. Italian bars, for example, don’t do snug. The man making the coffee is king, so much so that when the English finally started making coffee properly, they had to borrow the Italian term barista to indicate quality.

If the store is popular (because its products are good), the customers are obliged to clamour for attention until someone behind the counter deigns to favour them with a glance. And so, if you are lucky, the fantastically handsome and sulky young man may communicate with a reluctant shrug that he will, after all, lower himself to slicing you some culatello. Quite right that you be made to wait. The worker should have more dignity than the customer.

This commendable state of affairs, fostered by the Christian Democrats, continued until the 1990s when politicians like Prodi, Bersani and Monti unchained the supermarket chains. Now there are supermarkets everywhere, and all the profits are repatriated to France, the Netherlands and Germany. And they tell us it is  for the sake of the (now unemployed/part-time and underpaid) Italian consumer.

The very first article of the Italian Constitution reads: “Italy is a democratic republic based on labour” (or “work”, if you prefer to translate lavoro in this way; it definitely does not translate as “customer service”).

If the shop, bar or restaurant itself is good, or the atmosphere is fun, or the prices extremely attractive, then there is no reason the customer should expect that his or her welfare should uppermost. The energy of the Italian owners has gone into other more worthwhile things, like good artisan work, fine ingredients, careful cooking and crafting and sourcing of materials.

So next time your pizza arrives at the table as if it were a Frisbee, the waiter tosses the forks down with a clatter in front of you and slops your beer, remember that you are here to eat excellent pizza, not have someone pretend to pay homage to you because you are a consumer. Next time your change is tossed contemptuously into the zinc plate beside the till rather than your outstretched hand, remember that money is dirt and should be treated as such.

The Italians had it right.

Posted in 100 things Italians get right | Tagged , | 5 Comments

100 things Italians get wrong

1. Sirens.  Many Italians are, believe it or not, painfully aware of their shortcomings as a people/race/nation/culture  ( a lot of the difficulties arise precisely from the impossibility of defining  what is meant by  an “Italian”, but more of that some other time).  But here’s one they miss, and I’d like to start my list of 100 negatives here:

Sirens.  Sirens. Sirens. Sirens.

Oh, they  get annoyed to see scoundrels from Parliament and the thousands of work-shy  mini-dignitaries being whipped around  the centres of their cities in auto blu (state limousines), flashers and sirens going.  But  it’s the venial  and utterly useless  creature in the suit  behind the tinted windows that gets their goat more than the sirens themselves. Perhaps a nation that  invented  the rasping and farting sound of the Vespa (which means wasp) and then allowed them to fill streets filled with hard cobbles and close-together reverberating buildings has a different relationship with noise to the rest of us (though who “we” are in this case is a moot point, on which more  some other time, maybe).

Here’s a theory. Until Italians get their sirens under control, they will never get their public finances in order.  (No that’s not a link, I’m underlining for effect, like I was using an old typewriter).

I am perfectly serious about this, for  there is nothing so perfectly unserious as the sound of Italian sirens. The problem is  their frequency, by which I am not referring to the pattern of sound waves they emit  – the  pitch of the sirens themselves is standard-annoying , perhaps a bit on the mournful and  self-pitying side. Frequency as in oftenness. Sit in a park in downtown  Rome or Milan and try to count to 10  without hearing a siren. It cannot be done. In Naples – well, just find a park for a start…  And yet other cities elsewhere in the world  manage minutes of siren-free air. What this suggests  is  that Italians like to make a lot of noise indicating deadly emergency when nothing much is really the matter. And then they wonder why the financial markets get nervy about their bonds. Sirens confirm the old saw that things in Italy are always in a crisis, but never serious.

The sirens come from the Finance Guards,  the Municipal Police, the Carabinieri, the  Polizia di Stato, the Fire brigade, the Forestry Service, the Prison Guards, the Blood Transfusion Service, the Organ Transportation Service, the tinpot bureaucrat  transportation service  and, oh, yeah, the ambulances. Lots and lots of ambulances. Natural in a country with the second eldest population in the world, a country convinced that a light breeze on the back of the neck will kill you (that merits a separate discussion – q.v.). All those sirens  are screaming out messages of disproportion, chaos, disorganisation, strife, confusion and competition between fiefdoms of the state.  It’s part of the tourist’s  (and the  filmmaker’s) enduring memory of Italy. The soundscape as memorable as the landmarks.  These are the tourists who return to their tranquil  Dutch, German, English, French, Irish, Finnish, Swedish and Austrian neighbourhoods and then very  quietly vote for increasingly radical parties that promise not to give any more money to the  childishly chaotic southerners.

Posted in 100 things Italians get wrong | Tagged | 4 Comments

Classical

My tastes in classical music are pretty middlebrow, and so when, this morning, my two stalwart radio stations, BBC Radio 3 and MDR Klassik went all experimental and atonal on me, I decided to see if I could find another online  station to listen to while I work.

And so it was that I discovered that classical music doesn’t stop c.1820, as I had narrowly imagined, nor even in 1910. No, apparently it goes all the way up to Abba’s golden hits and Gloria Gaynor. If only I had known, I wouldn’t have limited myself to Mozart when Mamma Mia was available.

A shock to discover what I have been missing out on, but, it seems, I will survive.

Posted in meandering | Leave a comment

The Memory Theatre

Here is an image of the US cover of the fourth book that Bloomsbury sent me the other day.  I hope they stick with it. The building  there is the Palazzo della Civiltà Italiana, also known as the “Square Colosseum”. It is in the EUR area of Rome, developed in 1942 for a Universal Exposition that never took place because  of the war. It is a fine example of Fascist architecture.  A large, white empty gesture. I can tell you that Blume doesn’t like it much, but he’s never to be trusted on matters of taste. His tastes in music, for instance, are execrable.

Palazzo della Civiltà Italiana
The Memory Theatre
Posted in meandering | 5 Comments

Know thyself

Publishers. Always “really excited”, never really interested.

Following instructions imparted to me three years ago,  I eventually set up a website one year ago, where people could come to “get to know the author,” as the very excited publisher person on the other end of the line told me I absolutely had to do.  I posted some stuff, which, in an effort to upgrade my site last night I inadvertently deleted by clicking yes to some update that promised me  a stable version of WordPress. Always in search of stability in my life, I agreed and they deleted my posts and, worse, a nice picture of Rome I had  taken with my own camera. So this is effectively my first post.  Four books written, one post. No photos. I’ll try and rectify these matters soon.

Let’s go back to that phrase “get to know the author”. I see at least eight problems with it.

In the first place, I have read many books without ever wanting to meet their authors. The books are fine (or very often not, as the case may be). Why would I want to meet the author if I have the book? The only reason I can think of is that meeting the author is somehow more rewarding, which implies that meeting people is a superior experience to reading. I think that may well be true, but in that case I should have spent more of my life trying to meet people, socialise and smile. Too late for that now. Besides, a lot of authors are not just dead boring in real life, they are also actually dead.

Second problem. You don’t “get to know” the author from a blog. He is still writing stuff at you (unless he is one of the dead ones). Just read the books – at least more care will have gone into them.

Third problem. Author. Being an author is not a proper job like a fireman or a bricklayer, not in the sense that it gives you a stable identity. I imagine if a fireman is out, say, shopping in a supermarket with his wife and kids on a Saturday, he’ll probably be sometimes thinking “Hey, I am a father”, and sometimes “Hey, I am a fireman,” along with all the other usual human thoughts about growing old, death, money, that woman over there, disappointment, the strange and terrifying light-headedness of the other day, was that mole there before, how can I possibly be hungry again, I wish I could afford that, look at that slack-jawed moron with the tattoo, why can they make trolleys with wheels that go straight… When the fireman passes an author, the author will be thinking similar thoughts but, when it comes to his job description, his vocation,  he’ll be thinking “I wish I knew what I was doing, because I can hardly keep this up forever.”

If he happens to be a massively successful author, he’s probably thinking “I wish I wrote good stuff instead.”

If he’s in no doubt that what he writes is excellent, and marches down the aisle passing the fireman frowning at the boxes of cornflakes, with the thought “I am an Author” clear and visible in his head like the Hollywood sign, then he’s probably not been published. Or she, in her head. Please feel free to sweep back and forwards to change the gender of all the pronouns in this. Usually I am less sexist, but today I don’t feel confident enough to be comprehensive.

Fourth problem. What right do you have to get to know the author? Get to know yourself first before you presume to get to know me  or anyone else.

Fifth problem. There seems to be a presumption of “knowingness” going on. Surely the author should know himself before attempting to share this knowledge?

Sixth problem. If the author knows himself, he may well have concluded that it is far better both for him and for others that what he knows is kept as much as possible in his own head. You don’t show off your gangrened limb  at a party so that people can get to know it. Stuff needs to be covered up. Catholics used to be good at this. Muslims still are.

Seventh problem. Revision and truth. I wrote above that I saw ay least eight” problems with the phrase “get to know the author”. Now I find I have got to number seven, and either forgotten what I was going to say, or I simply threw out the number eight because it has a nice open vocalic sound to it, and perhaps you were a bit drawn to read on to see how I would make such a simple phrase problematic in eight ways.

The obvious solution, then, is for me to go back and change “eight” to “six”. After all, I have just admitted that eight was a pretty random number chosen for reasons of assonance. An assonant lie. But I feel that to change it, and therefore to give the idea that my thoughts were well structured from the beginning, would be the greater lie now. Revision is a lie, which is fine in a book, but maybe not in a blog. So what about the typos? Should I leave them, too? Well, I think they can go. That’s just fingerwork, and it’s not important because I am not a guitarist. So what about awkward repetitions and unfortunate phrasing? Maybe they’ll have to stay for the sake of integrity.  I’ll get Microsoft to correct the misspelling, but what about the awkward repetitions and unfortunate phrasing?

Eighth problem. Well, there isn’t one – see seven above. I had to put this here for those who allow their bored eyes to wander down the page after internet page skimming as we vainly look for significance, balance and structure. You didn’t find it here, but what are you doing looking for it in a blog? Look to your own life.

Posted in meandering | 2 Comments