Shopkeepers

Une langue est un organisme vivant, un être qui a un esprit et une âme comme nous. Et comme tout ce qui est vivant, elle naît, respire, se nourrit, grandit, se reproduit éventuellement, vieillit et meurt… Aucune langue ne naît riche ; c’est l’usage qui l’enrichit. (Adiaffi 106-7). 

Italians, who are known for their love of food, coffee and style, are quite adept at keeping their traditions alive. This means that they continue buying and selling the beloved products which they are known for. I have partaken in my fair share of consumerism in the past three months in Italy, and in these three months, I have encountered various different types of people who are in charge of taking my money from me. Here are three examples of the many types of merchants that can be encountered when in southern Italy.

The Expat’s Dream: The Kindly Chicken Merchant

This is the type of merchant that anyone who has lived in another country, especially in another country trying to speak in another language, can recognize and appreciate. He is the type of merchant who is friendly, patient with your second-rate language skills, and is curious about who you are and why you are here. He has you leave his fine establishment feeling like a “local.” An Expat’s Dream.

One day, I wanted to buy some chicken. Usually, I do all of my shopping at the local grocery stores where I can sneakily avoid talking to anyone to make a transaction. Admittedly, I get nervous at the idea of speaking with a Casertan who doesn’t know me. As far as I was told at the Comune (visa office), I am the only Canadian registered in  town, and therefore my halting Anglophone-accented Italian might be hard for someone to understand if they’ve never heard my accent before and are not expecting it. Speaking Italian in general makes me sweaty enough as is (seriously), but with people I don’t know, I may as well just run a marathon instead. On this particular day, I went to a grocery store, only to find out that there was no more petto di pollo (thinly sliced chicken breast). I knew there was a Polleria nearby. With no other appropriate pollo source in sight, I was forced to face my fears.

As I entered, I saw the chicken merchant; a workaday-Joe who has probably worked as a chicken merchant for most of his life (and if stereotypes hold true, has inherited his chicken business from his father or even grandfather). I took a breath and asked if he had any petto di pollo. Success! He did! Feeling courageous that he understood me, I went one step further; I asked him if he could cut the chicken a bit thicker than the usual petto di pollo. Double success! So while he went to work cutting up the breasts, he decided to ask the strange alien in his shop a few chit-chatty questions… all of which I understood and, as far as I could tell, he understood my answers, too. I was feeling linguistically elated. The questions started off at the usual starting point (where are you from, why are you here) and then, as we got to be closer friends, the questions became more personal: Are you married to this man you are seeing from Caserta? No? Are you going to? 

What would have been a slightly invasive/inappropriate interaction for me in Canada became one of the most rewarding times I’ve handed someone 5 euros since I arrived in Italy.

The Corrupt Cafe Owner

Since my Polleria encounter, I’ve been feeling braver about speaking to Italians. I exercised this bravery, in full force, when I met my dear friend Bess at a café near the central station in Naples.

Since we were waiting for her brother at this particular café, and had no way to contact him, we decided we may as well sit and have a coffee. I knew that this was not a great area to get a coffee, because near any central station is never an ideal place to sit and relax. However, we went in and ordered one coffee and one babà, a rum-soaked Neapolitan treat. I had an uneasy feeling from the start, as the waiter was seriously trying to upsell. I stood my ground and thought that we had gotten what we wanted. Wrong.

When they came out with our simple, very Napolitano breakfast, I thought they had brought us the wrong order. They stuck a ridiculous sparkly pink stick into the babà, covered it with whipped cream and chocolate, and gave me my coffee with a side of whipped cream (!?). I went inside and gave back the whipped cream, saying I didn’t order it, but the café owner made it seem like it was some sort of gift. I knew we’d be paying for it somehow.

Then they brought us the bill, which was about double the amount it should have been, even taking into account that you always pay more if you sit down rather than stand at the bar. I’ve been overcharged left, right and center all over Italy (especially when I travelled without Italians) but that day I decided to fight, wrongly assuming that I would be given some slack because I can finally argue in Italian.

I started off by questioning the bill (which was just a number on a piece of paper, with no break-down of the charges) and then decided to make my case:

 Ho mai pagato 2 euro per un caffè in Italia! I’ve never paid 2 euros for a coffee in Italy!

Non è vero. Un caffè è 3 euro a Venezia. That is not true. A coffee is 3 euros in Venice.

Ma siamo nel SUD. But we’re in the SOUTH.

Si, certo. Il caffè è meglio qui. Yes of course. The coffee is better here.

The argument did not end here. He showed me a piece of paper saying he has to charge this much because of how high his taxes are and I, in turn, tried to get another café patron on my side by asking her how much she paid for her coffee (she was having none of this, as she probably was annoyed at this silly tourist trying to get the same price as her at the café she’s been going to her whole life). Defeated, I threw the money on the counter and sat back down and started ranting to Bess about how tourists are taken advantage of in Italy and then phoned Gio to continue my rant. A kindly waiter came up to me and asked Sei arrabiata? (Are you angry?) I nearly made him jump out of his apron when I said SI! while shoving my cell phone at him and telling him to talk to my Napolitano boyfriend who is also angry about me getting ripped off. Even Gio had no success with the owner, who by this point already had my money and was not about to give it back after talking to some stranger on the phone.

As I said, this is far from the first time I’ve been taken advantage of as a tourist in Italy, but on this particular day, I decided to try to do something about it. While knowing the local language didn’t save me that extra euro on my coffee, I did manage to at least stand my ground whilst make a very satisfying scene. And I now know to ask to see the list of prices before ordering, to avoid this situation in the future.

The Opinionated Optical Fashionista

Italians, more so than any other group of people I’ve encountered, have amazingly fashionable eyes. In a country known for its world-class designers, why would eyewear be exempt? The frames I’ve seen on the Italians my age are oftentimes fun, colourful and fearless. So, when I went with Gio’s brother, Andrea, to help him pick out new frames, it ended up being an education in style.

As we visited about four or five stores in total, I started to notice a pattern in the staff and merchandise. The first place we went to, we were met by a curly-haired firecracker of a lady who seemed to be quite sure of what sort of glasses Andrea should have. He currently wears a pair of subtle rectangular wire frames and was looking for a change in the shape of some oval-shaped frames. Well, I can tell you right now, the oval-shape is simply not in style this season in Italy. You can forget about finding anything except nerd-chic rectangles or something in a Harry Potter-meets-the-1950s. Miss Curlyhair decided to hand Andrea frame after frame of black plastic Buddy Holly frames, claiming that this would look best for him. She was talking non-stop while he tried on the frames, giving him a running dialogue of her opinion about the latest trends in eyewear. He told her he would think about it, and we went to the next shop.

The next shops were more of the same types of frames, with similar merchants. The last shop though, had a particularly chic looking merchant in brightly framed glasses and a lab coat. He also had quite strong opinions about what style Andrea should choose (ruling out, of course, the oval-shape that is not in fashion this year and therefore is not available). He ended up trying on some really nice frames, but some of them had quite dramatic sides, for example, bright white plastic with a big Armani logo. Both Andrea and I agreed he looked nice in a couple of the more subtle frames. When the merchant saw this choice, he softly chastised Andrea, saying that he is young and should really go for something more “fresh.” After I sided with Andrea, the merchant made a comment about me being his girlfriend. When we corrected him saying I was actually his older brother’s girlfriend, (as he made sure to ask), the man nodding knowingly, as if it all finally made sense. Clearly, I’m just a bit too old to be a representative of the young and fresh Italian eyeglass wearers!

Andrea never chose a pair of frames that day. Perhaps he should just wait until oval comes back in style.

Interacting with people is one of the great pleasures of living in another country. The good interactions are rewarding and the bad interactions turn into good stories for the people back home, and a conversation topic with the people who live here (and how to avoid a repeat offense.) One thing is certain, as my Italian is improving, so is the overall quality of all of my interactions.