Column: the Italian balloting

Living in Italy sounds like a dream to many of us: wine, good food, nice weather. All true and as in any situation there are two sides to the coin. Life in Italy is quite challenging when it comes to laws and regulations, decision-making and getting things done. Strength and courage are therefore two words that you often have to put into practice to be able to handle it a bit. And in addition to laws, weird rules and decisions that only the big boss dares to take, there is also the phenomenon of 'social control'. I experienced that social control when I first came here and went to the bar nearby for a delicious Italian breakfast my first morning.

Florence, you are there…

Morning. I jump out of bed and still half asleep I open the green awnings of my window. The sun stings my eyes sharply. I stretch myself once more and look down my new street. "Florence, you're here," I mutter softly. Something different from Tilburg where I grew up.

Time for coffee

I get dressed to look for breakfast. Italy has a variety of coffee bars where you can have breakfast, so I'm going to do that. As the heavy door of the complex I live in closes behind me, I look around. Traffic. Rush. honk. Ferocious gestures. Two grannies with shopping bags and a gentleman who walks the dog and makes his dog pee very unprofitably in the middle of the sidewalk. So much for the street.

On the advice of my Sicilian roommate, I walk to the bar on the corner. 'You will settle there, expensive,' she winks. Fifteen steps later I'm standing in front of huge showcases full of desserts en panini and the smell of fresh coffee touches my nostrils. Time to go in.

Caffe e cornetti

I open the door and am greeted cheerfully by the wait staff. 'Buongiorno, Signoregreets the lady behind the cash register. I greet her warmly and order a coffee immediately brioche con marmellata di albicocca. My favourite. Nothing beats a sweet roll with apricot jam and a strong espresso in the morning. I casually browse the Corriere della Sera on the table in the corner.

After a few minutes I hear a cough behind me. 'My scusi Signore,' the man behind me hesitates. 'Where are you from? I've never seen you in this bar!'. I look at the man: neatly dressed, hat on, a coat that is slightly too long, which he must have stumbled into.

My friends had already warned me: if you are 'new' in Italy, you will be subjected to the phenomenon of 'The Italian balloting'.

The Italian balloting

In fast Italian I tell him that I am from the Netherlands and what my plans are in this country: giving lectures and training courses in companies and guest lectures at universities and colleges. Everything to enable connection and international cooperation.

The man looks at me wide-eyed and asks how old I am. '25, sir. And I believe age doesn't really matter anymore in these times. But that the will to make something of it is much more important'. The man puts down his coffee cup and looks at me as if he hears thunder in Cologne. 'damn… that is special. And work in this country?' he frowns. 'I wish you the best of luck, sir. It is not easy'. He greets and wants to walk away, but changes his mind at the door: "Sir, may I give you one more thing?'. "Of course," I say to him gently. In a determined tone and with a completely different look in his eyes he says 'hold that will and bisogna crederci'. Keep on believing. Good luck!

Oh…Amsterdam!

As the door closes behind him, I feel ten pairs of eyes on me. On the other side of the bar I hear two elderly ladies talking about that one holiday in Amsterdam and that it is so much better in the Netherlands than in Italy. Two young people my age boastfully share their first 'joint experience' and a middle-aged couple talks with some melancholy about the tulips in Keukenhof.

Then they look at me again… I see the doubt in their eyes whether they can ask me something or not and I feel like Bokito in the zoo: people just look at me and I can't do anything with it for a while. 'Say biondo,' the barista looks at me with big eyes of fun. Her accent betrays that she hadn't been anywhere else in her life than in Florence. 'How long do you plan to stay? Couple of weeks?' 'For an indefinite period,' I grin broadly. My words are not yet cold when a torrent of sounds and comments erupts. 'Those Dutchmen too, they are crazy!' calls one. 'Yes!' says a lady between two bites of her cable by means of. "He doesn't know what he's getting into and he's so young!"

The barista starts to laugh out loud at the sight of my surprised look. 'Does not matter, blond, you go and do it well and live up to it here. You can. Just like what the gentleman said before: go for it and keep believing in it.'

And before new questions are fired at me and I am subject to opinions and judgments, I decide to pay for my coffee and brioche and leave the bar.