Fear & Loathing on the Residency Trail

I knew in advance that my most recent sojourn at the house wasn’t going to be much fun and I wasn’t

particularly looking forward to it. I didn’t know just how particularly I shouldn’t have been looking forward to it. 

I’d arranged to stay only a week -- six days, really, when you subtract travel time. The object of the trip was my appointment at the county seat to be finger-printed as part of my elective residency process. I figured I’d also get things done around the house, shop for furniture, and take some deliveries. I’d touch base with a few friends and head back home because I’m taking a big vacation to France in July and, though I’m retired now, can’t actually spend my entire life on vacation. (If anyone would like to argue that I can, I'm happy to hear you out. I'm nothing if not reasonable.)

I'd changed my airline tickets at the 11th hour because I didn't relish the idea of flying in and out of the nearly blinded Newark Airport, so had to change planes in Zurich.

After a long night and day of flying and landing and running for my connection and for my bus and to get to the rental car office before they headed out for lunch, I arrived at the house. That’s where things got interesting.  

I climbed the stairs to look at the newly painted bedroom and gasped as I entered a space that was positively lurid. What had been walls of a pale terra cotta -- kind of the color of a lightly cooked salmon filet -- were now the color of raw Arctic char and, for me, equally nauseating.  

I tried to turn on the TV to have some background entertainment while I unpacked but it didn't work. Hmmm. That was odd. I figured I'd deal with that later.

I started to notice that things were missing or moved, as if there were some sort of sprite just trying to mess with me. Rugs were folded and placed on foots of beds. Scented candles were lounging in the tub. Truly inexplicably, I found framed photos chumming it up with files of recipes in the guest bedroom.

Still puzzling, I headed back downstairs and began organizing all the kitchen stuff I'd carted from New York. But something was off. An inchoate idea was lurking just off center stage in my mind. What was it? What was off? Wait. Wait a second. WHERE THE HECK WAS MY GREEN FLOOR LAMP? I'd left it in the nook between the counter and window in the kitchen on purpose so it wouldn't be caught up in the work being done on the sitting room downstairs. "Sh-t on a shingle!," as my mother used to say. Where was my green floor lamp?

Let me back up a bit. As I’ve said in the past, I love my property manager, Sergio. He’s a lovely guy and he and his team go out of their way to make my life easier. He’s honest and his work is mostly impeccable. But on my last trip, I'd arrived to find that he and I had had a huge misunderstanding and, in a nutshell, the entirety of my kitchen had been thrown away during the renovation. I mean everything: all my cookware, serveware, glassware, and flatware were “noware” to be found. I had to run out and get a few pots and a couple of forks just to have dinner. There were plausible reasons for such a misunderstanding to have occurred, so I took the whole thing with a good deal of equanimity -- if I do say so myself. And on the upside, my newly renovated kitchen did look marvelous. I’m showing another photo of it here because I love it so. (Pardon the mess.)

But now the green lamp that I’d intended to install as my first accessory in my newly renovated salotto (below) was among the missing. And I was gripped by fear.

I galloped through the upstairs and downstairs again. I looked under beds and triple-checked closets. I even poked my head outside to survey the back yard. Nothing. I fired a text off to Sergio. I hoped, rather against the odds, that the lamp was somewhere on the roof.

Sergio arrived as soon as he could, while texts and calls to his team members bounced around Abruzzo.

No. The green lamp had been discarded. And now I saw red. What on earth was going on and why on earth were he and his team systematically discarding my belongings?

Sergio looked a little stricken and explained that, amid painting and renovations, items from various rooms had been moved into various places. The lamp somehow had wound up in a corner where some detritus had been gathered up. Sergio had told his team to remove everything in that corner, and so the lamp went out the door. He was so sorry. He’d replace it.

I was uncharacteristically fierce. I told him there was no reason for the lamp to have been moved in the first place. That the lamp couldn’t be replaced; I’d bought it 15 years ago. That he had to find a better way to communicate with his team because this one clearly wasn’t working. That at this rate they’d throw out everything I owned before they were finished with me. That, by the way, the repainted bedroom was nightmarish. That I was in a black mood and the best thing for us to do was to go through the house as quickly as possible to review what still needed doing.

By the end of the evening, the temperature of my temper had returned to something like normal. I couldn’t stay mad at Sergio, because he really is a reliable, well-meaning, and winning guy. Multi-talented, can-do, and always cheerful. We parted friends again. Good thing, too, as we'll soon see...

The final insult of that first night -- completely unrelated to the work we were doing -- was that the land line, wifi, and TVs all proved to be out. I was crushed. I'd so looked forward to winding down with some Italian TV -- maybe Una Mamma Per Amica (aka The Gilmore Girls) -- before turning in. I didn't feel like reading. I poured some cereal into a mixing bowl and ate it with a spatula (having not net replaced the discarded flatware), then went to bed.

The next day, I woke to the sound of a workman banging at the door and, after staggering down to let him in, remained disoriented for the rest of the morning. That afternoon, I headed out to look for furniture. I'd nearly arrived at Maisons du Monde when my rental, an Alfa Romeo hybrid (not that I'd asked for a hybrid; I’ve never driven one), suddenly began firing alarms at me, flashing hysterical dashboard warnings about anomalies in the motor and electrical system, and telling me to shut the car off immediately. Fearing the lunatic thing was about to explode, I tried to pull over to get out of traffic but the car shut itself off before I managed it. I was stranded in a busy section of Pescara Nord and blocking traffic in one direction with fellow drivers freaking out around me. Did they really think I was doing this for sport? Frantically, I pinballed between calling the Avis emergency line and calling the Avis rental spot from which I’d taken the car. The Avis emergency line kept me on hold for about an hour before finally deciding to just disconnect me. The rental site didn’t bother to answer the phone at all.  After about two and a half hours of this, guess who I had to call.

Sergio arrived on his white motorized stallion about 30 minutes later. I’ll leave this chapter of my sob story there. Suffice it to say I got home but was now without wheels. Automatic transmission cars can be scarce in Italy and I can’t drive a stick competently, something I confess from a face red with shame.

Sergio arranged for someone to drive me to my appointment with the government the following morning. That appointment, the purpose of my trip, threatened to end in naught because the clerk insisted that I needed to show proof of health insurance in Italy and I didn't have it. I had my Florence-based lawyer on the phone saying that’s absolutely not true, but the clerk wouldn’t speak to him. My friend Angela, who’s lived in Abruzzo for 15 years now, came to pick me up and was very helpful. In the end, the clerk’s colleague stepped in and straightened things out and my appointment accomplished its purpose. My paws are now on record for Interpol to track me down should I ever have the opportunity to strangle an Avis rep.

Meanwhile, a nice little bug that turned out to be Norovirus was brewing in my viscera. I'll just say I was in for a few days of what mimicked a colonoscopy prep and leave it at that.

The one real bright spot of the trip was catching up with a couple of friends. Angela and I spent a decent amount of time together as she graciously squired me around, and Lida was back in town for a visit, having moved to Siena nearly two years ago.

I’d never been so happy to close up the house and board the coach back to Rome.

Oh, and I 've since decided that green accents in the new salotto might not be the way to go; now I'm thinking burnt orange. So I’m less mournful about the lamp, though I do hope someone rescued it from the dustbin and gave it a home.

As for the residency process, I now must wait a few months for my permesso di soggiorno to arrive, after which I’ll present myself at the local police station to register as a resident of Fossacesia. At that point, I’ll need to await a surprise visit from the police to make sure I’m in residence where I claim. That could take a month or so, so it looks like my next trip will include my cat as travel companion.

Rome was suffocatingly hot and I felt like I was breathing through a wet sheet. Moreover, I still wasn’t feeling so great. I did little more than stroll around in desultory fashion before heading back to the hotel and its cool bathroom.

However, that reminds me that I never did post about Rosie’s and my last visit to Rome, so I'll do that posthaste.