Gli Fiori

"The customer is always right"-  an indoctrinated attitude held by most Americans and an old adage perhaps completely foreign to most Italians. Recently, I experienced a hybridization of these dogmas.

Giulio just had a birthday which gave me another opportunity to consider how grateful I am that he is alive by commodifying my gratitude with something purchasable. Unfortunately we were forced to spend the day on separate hemispheres so I was limited to what I could send (Italian customs are notoriously greedy).

I opted for flowers and ordered them through an American company that commissions local Italian florists. I decided on a bouquet of wild orchids as they happen to be my favorite flower and are also of sentimental value to Giulio and I. To indulge a little extra in highlighting my affection, the package was also meant to include a "box of goodies" and a bouquet of balloons. 

The afternoon of Giulio's birthday, he called to thank me for the roses. "ROSES? what!?" Giulio is the first to know that roses happen to be, like, my least favorite flower (next to carnations). He himself even mentioned that he didn't realize they were from me until he opened the card because I would never send him roses (except maybe as a punishment). Trying not to sound confused and frustrated, I asked Giulio about the balloons and he naturally replied by saying "what balloons?" In my imagined glimpse of the imminent future, I likened myself to a violently angry parent publicly ruining his child's birthday by being overly fanatic at Chuck E. Cheese's; trying to remain calm,  I inquired into his "box of goodies", at which point he dangled a cheap plastic bag of conspicuously shitty candies in front of the skype video cam. I was horrified, so I wrote a letter. (a precautionary note- as it is my preferred intention to story-tell rather than be a consumer critic, I have changed the signature names of the flower company.)

Dear Sir or Madam,

I recently ordered flowers to be delivered to my boyfriend in Milan today. I have had several positive experiences with your company on previous occasions and so, have remained a loyal customer.

Today I was surprised to see that what my boyfriend received was not at all what I ordered. I paid for a bouquet of exotic orchids and Giulio instead received 8 pink roses. This was the first assault as he and I both know how much I have always disliked this particular flower. Secondly, the "box of goodies" that was to be delivered with the flowers was offensively cheap and reminded me of something that would be used to stuff a pinata. Thirdly, I spent fifteen extra dollars for this package to include a bouquet of balloons and he did not receive even one single deflated or inflated balloon.

I would like to continue my relationship with your company and so am asking you kindly to please remedy this issue in the way you best see fit.

Regards,

Liv

This is what I received in return:


Dear Liv


Thank you for sending us a picture of the flowers and chocolates delivered to Giulio. We have forwarded the picture to the outlet and will keep you updated once we hear back from them.


Warm regards,
Flora

The following day, this arrived:

According to Giulio, the above card (mirror imaged as taken by the camera on his laptop) was a "hardly intelligible, hand written piece of toilet paper with: 'we apologize and we hope that you like the bouquet this time', as to suggest that I was, in fact, acting spoiled." 


So, as you might expect, I wrote another letter:

Dear Flora,

Thank you for your efforts following through with this matter. 

Attached are more pictures of what I suppose to be a reflection of your commissioned florist trying to ameliorate. Yesterday they sent a new bouquet, balloons, and an apology letter- something that should theoretically elicit my gratitude. Unfortunately, the replacement bouquet was still not orchids, rather gerbera daisies saturated with baby's breath (another flower I happen to dislike), three miniature inflated balloons and three non-inflated balloons (a far cry from the usual helium ones to which I am accustomed and are featured on your website), and an apology letter addressed to "Guido" instead of Giulio that sassily read "we hope you enjoy the bouquet this time".

I would very much like to keep relying on your company which is why I am once again requesting your attention to this matter.

Sincerely,

Liv


After several days, I received their final attempt to remedy:


Dear Liv


We are extremely sorry as the flower arrangement delivered to Giulio was substituted, the box of goodies was offensive and the balloons were not delivered. The redelivery was also no upto your expectations. While we cannot make up for the lost moment, we have issued you a partial refund of 50% on this order. Credit will reflect in your account within 3-4 business days. In addition to this, we are also offering you a discount of $10 for your next order with us. This discount is valid till 3rd of September 2011. We are committed to you as a valued patron, and we hope that taking these immediate corrective steps will regain your confidence in us.


Warm regards,
Flora




I ended it there as I could understand that this was as far as I would get with them. Through  this, I have arrived at the conclusion that in the space where Italy meets America, the customer is always 50% right, 50% of the time. 

Al Pont de Ferr

Giulio and I stepped out for dinner in the Navigli area of Milan last night. Heeding the advice of a trusted friend, we entered the unassuming Al Pont de Ferre, delicately situated on the canal's bank. Given what we had been told about the aesthetic and gustatory quality of the food, we were both surprised by the unpretentious decor- it struck me as a typical Italian osteria where one could acquire a traditionally tasty bowl of spaghetti, no more; I assure you the ambience was the only thing standard about this place.

First surprise- a mandatory glass of champagne on the house. I loved this touch, made me feel far more important than I am.

We had been sufficiently prepped for this restaurant being an experimental and gastronomic sensation, so when a BAG of water arrived at our table, we grinned childishly at each other, reveling in the unconventionality. Eager to pour, Giulio picked up the bag and aimed it toward my glass. I stopped him, insisting that I first capture this still life with a photo. As I was doing so, the waiter appeared with the bottle of Prosecco we had ordered, and poured me a small glass to taste.

this is not your water, waiter

I sip and smell, agree that I like it (see, it's the best Prosecco I've ever had), he smiles, then places our bottle into the bag of chilled water. Prosecco stays fresh and we successfully avoid a faux pas. Waiter leaves, Giulio and I look at each other with bulging eyes, then erupt into laughter.

prosecco in the bag

We order fix prixe- he from the seven course menu, I from the five course menu. I won't reveal all the private sensorial delights of our experience, but I will say that the food is impeccably presented, explosively delicious, and that the ambience is impressively modest - so much that by the end of our twelfth course and third hour of dining, we were  relaxed enough to drink from the water bag anyway... as Giulio brilliantly puts it- poor table manners are acceptable so long as you know they're poor. Buon appetito.

candied red onion with goat cheese

beef filet and foie-gras with plum

fish, foie gras & citrus mosaic

homemade pea-shaped pasta filled with peas

pan fried fillet with parsley pesto

rabbit kidneys with scallops and Castelmagno cheese

winter chocolate tree with almond mousse & pistacchio

grappa and licorice liqueur, on the house

seasonal changes by way of dessert (stupid-ass video i made)
music by Vivaldi

Al Pont de Ferr
osteria con cucina
55 - Ripa di Porta Ticinese -55
Milano
tel. +39 02.89406277
dalle 12.30 alle 14.15
dalle 20.00 alle 01.00

Phone Home

I realize that what I am about to say will target me for (accurately) being judged a spoiled and self-righteous hag -BUT- I'm going to make this public service announcement anyway:  obtaining a mobile phone in Italy has been the most onerous thing I've ever had to do in my life. EVER.

There, I said it. And you know what? I feel better. This process has been so inimical that not even my closet alcoholism could ameliorate my strife- I've been forced to the pen for catharsis. In the event you're sadistic or planning your own transcontinental mass movement, read on for bureaucratic escapade #237: Getting a mobile phone in Italy.

I moved to Milan on May 21 with a delicious American iphone, gluttonously thinking I could just pop in a new sim card and be on my way toward interpersonal relationship heaven. wrong.

Giules and I began investigating mobile phone contracts within the first few days of my arrival, both online and via several  pilgrimages down the sweaty streets of Corso Buenos Aires. After some pontification, we determined Tre to categorically be the most affordable, and so, made our move. This meant entering the shop, taking a number, and waiting one and a half hours behind a gaggle of salty plebeians desperately salivating for a new touch screen something or other to boost their dirty egos.

In our moment of glory, we were summoned to the helpdesk- a place of inefficiency explained. The blonde, overly tanned clerk was obviously on some sort of sedative or ecstasy or adult libation or cocktail of all the aforementioned such that she could not articulate a cohesive sentence without laughing in a manner that expelled rapid puffs of air through her sinuses (while she compulsively glanced over her left shoulder to see if her silver-chain-adorned male counterpart was watching her have *so* much fun). To her credit, she was still savvy enough to replace my sim card with that of the Italian order, after which she cocked her head to the left, made a pouty face, and defeatedly announced: "non funziona". In her final effort to please, she suggested we unlock the phone at home and reinstall the new sim ourselves; so we exited- graced with a dichotomy of hope and failure.

The following day we studied hard. We watched youtube video after youtube video detailing the steps  necessary to infiltrate the apple jungle, and after nearly twenty four hours of geeking-out (including the enlisted help from select friends and family), the barricades were finally brought down. I nervously opened the sim gate, replaced the AT&T sim with an Italian card, and (prematurely) bounced in my chair as I realized I was no longer receiving the "invalid sim" message.  In my excitement, I immediately tried to place a call.

CALL FAILED.

tried to send a text.

FAIL.

Tried mucking around with general settings, switching airplane mode on and off, powering the phone on and off, reconnecting to itunes, banging my head on the table, etc.

FAIL.

FAIL.

FAIL.

FAIL.

Begrudgingly took phone back to Tre. Explained situation. Paid dude 10 euros to take it along with my computer to his house to "properly" hack into it (yes this business practice is considered kosher here). Returned the following morning to him saying he had FAILED. Dude recommends I try a sim from a different mobile phone provider. Giulio and I walk down road, try Wind. FAIL. Return once again to Tre, are instructed to contact an Apple distributor/repair store. Meanwhile, flustered, we acquire a temporary pay-as-you-go phone so I can "handle" Florence alone. I exit the city. I return to the city. Post Florence, we learn from Apple distributor/repair store that currently, there is no hacking software available to enable an American iPhone 4 to function in Italy.

grande.

Our options at this point were laid out for us: 1) wait in vain for proper hacking software to be designed/released, or 2) sign a new contract and choose from a new phone (200 euro for iphone or zero euro for a samsung smartphone). We deliberate for a few days and eventually decide to bite the bullet and pay the extra soldi for the iphone (and eventually try to sell the American one).

Excited to be getting somewhere, we head back to Tre and eagerly fill out all obligatory contractual paperwork. Giulio must sign on my behalf as I have not yet obtained my codice fiscale (see impending gripey post).  We reach what is meant to be the terminal end of the process- payment.  Giulio pulls out his credit card and the clerk shakes his head, arms crossed.  This particular card is apparently not acceptable. FAIL. Our emotions plummet, then soar as I recall having ordered a credit card with Giulio's name linked to my account. They run the card.

FAIL.

Salesman gets on phone with Tre customer service. Twenty minutes pass before we are informed that American credit cards are not acceptable for cell phone contracts in Italy. FAIL. We inquire into our options and are suggested to get a new credit card OR  sign up using direct withdrawal from a bank account. 

The next day we drive to the countryside to visit Giulio's parents and stop by the local Tre to enroll for automatic withdrawal. Pleased to have so brilliantly navigated traffic such that we could arrive minutes prior to closing, we take one step inside the shop when Giulio looks at me and says:  "I don't know my bank routing number." FAIL.

The next morning, we drive into town and Giulio stops by his bank to collect the appropriate information. We arrive at Tre again, happy that this procedure is imminently over. We complete all appropriate paperwork again and when the clerk asks how we will pay, we say direct withdrawal. He says "ok" and we sigh, relieved to be one step closer. He then looks at Giulio and says "che lavoro fai?" (what do you do for work?) and Giulio stares back at him blankly, as if he were anticipating the consequential destruction brought by his imminent answer. "Niente, sono studente." 

"Mi dispiace" and a head shaking sideways to signify "NO" is all I can understand. We exit. Apparently one is only entitled to automatic withdrawal  IF he has a verifiable income.  FAIL. 

We walk back to the bank. Giulio orders a credit card. We are told we must wait one week.

Credit card arrives. It's been five weeks since we initiated the process. We take a deep breath and enter Tre.  Paperwork is already on file, completed. We nervously hand over Giulio's sparkly new card to the cashier. 


APPROVATO.

Finally, after more than fifteen failed attempts, I am now the proud owner of a white italian iphone and corresponding number. call me. 

white is the new black

The things I like, the things I gripe

drink up, you're in Italy. 

It's been five weeks that I've been living in Italy now- substantial enough a period to have established some opinions about my new home. It's time to pass some unabashed judgement.

Likes

1. Um, hi. I live in Italy. I get to say "ciao bella", like, fifty times a day without people thinking I'm scummy.

2. The museum-like quality of everything from grocery store facades to the women with their dresses, and their shoes, and silky hair, and flawlessly tanned skin, and accidentally perfect physiques. 

3. Public transportation. Whether bus, subway, tram, or walking, everything is quickly, easily, and cheaply accessible.

4.14 euro for a brazilian bikini wax.

5. Social standard for being diagnosed an alcoholic is much higher. Out with the misfitry.

6. Summer aperitivos. Buy one drink and get free food all night.

7.The bidet, period.

8.That everything, unequivocally closes in August because Italians are so rigid about their vacations.

9. Tall ceilings and COOKIES for breakfast are standard.

10. Huge dinners with friends are not reserved for special occasions, they're a matter of convention.

Gripes

1. Ciao, I'm in Italy. And if you want to join me for the long term, just know that it takes molto bureaucracy and molti headaches to do what I'm doing. AND, things here get done at everyone's convenience except yours. Better go have yourself another drink, because that's what everyone else is doing. 

2. The museum-like quality of everything including the women and their dresses and their flawless everything makes a girl feel like an unworthy, rotten potato.

3. Should you happen to step foot into a vehicle, prepare to be made very afraid.

4. 68 euro for a mani/pedi and 4.25 for a box of quinoa. Thats $96 & $6, respectively.

5. It's decidedly poor form to order a cappuccino (which I ADORE) after lunch. Back in with the misfitry. 

6. Summer aperitivos: one drink, ten euro. That's $14.20

7. Single-ply toilet paper and occasional hole-in-the-ground makes checking your hydration level a nearly impossible task. 

8. That everything, unequivocally closes in August because Italians are so rigid about their vacations.

9. Tiny kitchens, mosquitos, screenless windows, and zero oatmeal on supermarket shelves are standard.

10. I'm at the dinner table, but where the fuck are all my friends?

tall ceilings, screenless windows.  machete.

The amazing and wonderful bidet, my only friend in 5 weeks.

Mostrami la tua Mucca

Lets talk about cows. Lets talk about how I just drank a latte (beware: latte is Italian for milk so you will be judged a moron if you ask for one in a bar and expect to receive a coffee; better just make the switch to cappuccino). Lets talk about how the milk came straight from the teet of a cow in the backyard. I mean, no antibiotics, no pasteurization, no hormones- just free range, grass-fed goodness, freshly aspirated this very morning. Though most westerners I know have developed a societally influenced aversion to this idea, I can testify that this was far and away the most deliciously creamy, sweet, and pure liquid heaven (next to any alcoholic beverage, that is) I have ever tasted. and GUESS WHAT?  I'm still alive.

I was made privy to this cow phenomenon when Giulio nonchalantly mentioned last week that the 500 cows in the backyard had been a part of the family for five or six generations.  I was nonplussed. As a young person raised and educated in a major metropolitan area, I've seldom (read: NEVER) had the opportunity to investigate the origins of my refrigerator milk carton contents. So, I set off for a little journalism.

I learned that these cows are held to strict milking standards- negating the need for hormones that are often used to promote milk production at biologically harmful frequencies so that maniacal farmers can sell sell sell. These cows are given ample space to stomp around and indulge their curiosity, and they actually strike me as happy and silly. Their living quarters are craftily designed in a way that resembles an aqueductal poo river, essentially carrying the caca to a nearby poo dispensary that eventually converts it into reusable energy. Seriously. Said poo-train not only supports sustainability, but maximizes environmental hygiene to eliminate the need for antibiotics.  The best part is that the milk distributed from here isn't even labeled as "organic" - "untampered with" is an implicit property of quality. Once again, superiority bears no catchy slogan claiming to be so, it just speaks for itself.

Should you ever have the opportunity to stare a happy cow in the eyes, I highly recommend it. I was enchanted.