Frustrations

Rome is culturally rich and efficiency poor. Undermining daily life here are persistent frustrations, tied mainly to transportation and bureaucracy. Getting around the city is difficult, whether you're driving or using public transportation, as we do. Last Sunday, for example, we attended a church banquet at the Mongolia Barbecue, a restaurant in an unfamiliar area. As he always does, David had mapped out an elegant bus plan for us. We took the first bus to the depot, where the second bus was waiting in its stall. The bus' route number was not lit, however, signaling a problem. We inquired, and a lady asked a bus driver about it. Turned out that a whole quadrant of the city was restricted to bus traffic then and we would have to find another way. The driver suggested we take a certain tram to a certain spot, then hop across the street to wait for another tram, which would put us in the vicinity of the restaurant. So that's what we did. After the banquet, we needed to figure out the way home. It was dark and we saw no buses anywhere. This is not an uncommon scenario, and sometimes it's dark, desolate and even raining! You then face a number of options: 1) wait for your first-choice bus no matter how long it takes; 2) jump on the first bus that comes along, hoping it will carry you somewhere busier and at the same time keep you warm and dry; 3) start walking. (If it's really, really bad, like the night we were very far from home, it was very late and not raining, but hailing, we flag a taxi.) I tend to like options 2, 3, preferring to keep moving. David is more inclined toward option 1 but can be talked into option 2 or 3. When someone makes a decision and it turns ugly, the recriminations fly--"if we had done it my way..."--which is understandable but pointless since success is largely a matter of chance and we all take turns being right and wrong. But much time is wasted waiting for buses and sitting on buses. The Italians wait patiently, while I pace and sigh really loudly and want to scream, "Do you realize how inefficient your country is? Don't just sit there and take it!" The post office is another source of exasperation. Each month I need to wire rent money to Giovanna. Last month, on my third try and with the help of a nice English-speaking man, I managed to get in the correct line, fill out the complicated form and send the money successfully. I carefully saved a copy of the form so I wouldn't need translation help the next time. That time came and I took my form to the post office, and grabbed a ticket for the correct line (there are P, C and A lines I think, depending on what you want to do). I was #190 and the teller was helping #160. These post office lines are incredible--they remind me of those gloomy photos of bread lines in Soviet Russia that ran out the door and around the block. Finally my number was called. My teller did not speak a word of English, but I proudly presented the form, used the Italian word for "same," and showed her the cash. Speaking rapidly, she pulled out her own form and pointed to a particular line. Seeing my confusion, a customer volunteered his help. I explained, I just want to do the same thing I did last month--all the info is right here on my form. Oh no, he tells me, the form has just been changed. You now need to include your codice fiscale, the tax number that all Italians have. I don't have a codice fiscale, I say. I'm only here for four months and all I want to do is send money to this lady. The nice man starts talking about bank accounts and such and I'm completely dejected and don't know how I'm going to send Giovanna her money. The man apologizes, I say, it's not your fault and leave. I'm convinced there would be more great, accomplished Italians if they didn't have to spend so much time on buses and in post offices.