Column: the polling station

A few weeks ago, I got a call. It is half past seven o'clock. City of Florence. Normally I get a little stuffy, because that's one registered mail; a registered letter. Immediately I check in my mind whether I have driven too fast somewhere or whether I have not yet paid for the garbage. 

I look at the lady who hands me the letter. "What kind of letter is this?" I ask carefully. She looks at me. "This is for voting in the city council, the mayor and the European elections."

'Vote?' I look at her questioningly. 'Yes, you can because you are resident. You belong to the municipality and you have the right to vote for Europe because you live in Europe.' She sighs audibly, because apparently I had asked a less intelligent question. 'Anyway,' the woman continues, 'put your signature here, then I can go home'. I sign and thank her very much for her time.

When I walk into the living room I look at the envelope and open it. tessera elettoralethe election card. It's a big thing and apparently, just like with the evening four days in the past, you get a stamp when you vote. I put the voting pass in the drawer and continue working. We will not start until May 26.

Buzz

A week before the elections, I wonder who I should actually vote for. Centrodestra .e is not an option for me, neither for Europe nor for our municipality. The thought that my vote will give the Lega an extra seat in Europe or that Uncle Berlu will return gives me shivers. I decide to consult with my friends. What does the city need and what is tactical for Europe?

We'll make it an evening. All arguments are put on the table and so are the councilors (the counselors) of the mayor are reviewed. What is tactical, looking at the long lists of names and backgrounds? After much deliberation, we agree that we want the current mayor of Florence to stay. Which of the councilors we don't know what our preference might be. There is too much choice.

For Europe it quickly becomes clear: voting with impact. Only on a large party, because those little ones have less to say and with an extremely divided field of colors and political backgrounds (from black to green) it is better to ensure that your vote goes to a party that ensures that some color remains in parliament. In other words: 'that it doesn't get too black', as a friend of mine, Andrea, always wisely says.

Sunday 26 May

As in a number of other countries, it is customary in Italy to vote on Sundays. The polling station is around the corner from me, so I decide to go early, so it's not too busy yet. At the entrance to the old school where I'm supposed to vote, there's a stern-looking cop watching things closely. I have to report to counter 65, where I see two tables, with a number of people behind them.

One table is for the ladies, the other table is for the gentlemen (like going to the toilet). I walk to the 'men's table' and hesitantly hand my ID card and voting pass to the boy. "No," he says, "you give the ID card to the boy next to me and the voting card to the girl."

A little surprised I look at the others at the table. "And what's the number four in a row doing?" I ask as I wink at the other girl. 'I'm here for the foreigners who don't speak Italian, but who are residents.'

How does this work?

I get the ballots handed to me by yet another person. Three different colors, three different purposes. I thought of the Dutch ballot paper, until I open the ballots and see that they are empty. I start to shake. How do I indicate my vote? I see a battery of party logos and next to it a line you can write on. No explanation or anything.

I quickly grab my phone from my inside pocket and look up the voting procedure. I thought it was too embarrassing to step out of the box and ask how I should vote. Fortunately, Google offers an explanation: you put a cross through the party logo of your choice and on the lines you can indicate which person from that list you prefer.

The total blackout left me with no idea who I wanted to prefer. Because I had already been in the booth for fifteen minutes, I decided to just put a cross through the logo.

Somewhat tense, I walk out again and look around dazed. The girl who is only allowed to hang out with the foreigners who don't speak Italian looks at me with concern and asks if I'm okay. I nod and walk to the polls. Before dropping the bills into the box, I glance around. "There go my first Italian votes."

I drop them softly into the box and turn around. The boy hands over my ID card and my voting pass (apparently I also had to fold them in a certain way). 'Be careful not to lose the card, otherwise you'll have a problem. You'll need this the next 18 times you still have to vote (if I get that, by the way, with elections every five years).

I walk out, greet the policewoman and move to the corner bar, because every special moment or milestone in Italy, big or small, is celebrated with coffee and a brioche.