Ferragosto

"A week in Italy is a day in America, " our friend Alan cautions, with a subtle lift of his chin toward the waiter for another espresso. "One must move slowly and appreciate the details."
Alan Epsten, a writer and historian that fell in love with this city as a student, and his wife Diane, have lived here as expatriates for twelve years. They have joined us for a morning caffe, and have kindly offered to help sort through a list of our questions regarding setting up our new apartment and Jeff's office.

We have arrived in Rome in the last two weeks of Ferragosto, the Italian summer holiday where the entire country closes down and takes a vacation anywhere from two weeks to a month. Indeed, nothing is moving fast. The air is warm, and the atmosphere lethargic. Street sweepers and garbage men lounge against marble fountains whose basins resemble oversized bath tubs, cigarettes glued to the bottom of their lips, chatting and shouting taunts to one another. Circles of tourists, tired and sunburned, bob and weave across the piazza, their heads buried in their guidebooks. Well-dressed Romans in groups of two and three, stroll casually with no apparent destination in mind, stopping to chat for long periods with neighbors and acquaintances.

Our small outdoor table sits overlooking the Renaissance square of the Palazzo Farnese. The 16th century palazzo was commissioned by Alessandro Farnese, a cardinal with high aspirations who would go on to become Pope. It is a grand and imposing composite of three stories of Renaissance and Baroque architectural style , begun by Antonio da Sangallo, worked and reworked by a successions of artists and architects over time, including Michelangelo. The piano nobile was frescoed by Anniabale Carraci in the 17th century, and when the lights dim at night, the piazza and palazzo are beautifully illuminated, allowing one to catch glimpses of the paintings through the open windows. It now serves as the French Embassy, overlooking one of the most romantic stage sets in Rome.

"The Alaskans have over 25 words to describe snow, but the Italians must have 100 to describe rest," laughs Diane. Riposo, pausa, sostegno, rimanenza, poggiare, pisolino.

Nonetheless, they cannot quell Jeff's typical American resolve and enthusiasm to accomplish his long list within the week. After discussion, it is decided to call Julian, their eighteen year old son, to assist us as our consigliere during the next few days before school begins. He is perfect in that he speaks both english and italian fluently, knows every part of the city and the bus and trans-portation systems, is a typical teenager in his computer skills, and can whip out a cell phone at a moment's notice and determine whether places are aperto, open (rarely) or chiuso, closed (usually) their hours of operation, addresses and location.

The next morning after espresso at our local bar, Jeff and Julian take a bus to meet Andrea Marzioni, head of the Foreign Desk for Deutsche Bank. We need euros transferred from our account in the United States to a new account in Italy. When can it happen? Andrea shakes his head. If you are not an Italian national and want to do anything finanical or official, you must acquire a codice fiscale, the equilvalent of a social security number in the United States. To do that, one must go to the Ufficio dell Entrate, loosely translated, "the office of entering". You must take your passport, and after getting the proper forms stamped and signed, return to the bank to open an account. Jeff is anxious to go right away, but the office is across the city in Trastevere and will be closed for the day after lunch. Julian and he agree to go early the next day before it opens, because as Julian warns, there might be many people and they will be "physical."

They arrive to find a small crowd outside the government office. More people gather, and suddenly, as though there is an unseen signal, everyone charges their way inside the doors. People jostle to form a loose line for a ticket with a number. Jeff has number #12 and feels encouraged, but Julian warns that the number system is a bit idiosyncratic in the way it works. That becomes more evident as numbers 50, 26, and 4 are called first. Finally, after sheafs of paperwork, Jeff emerges triumphant with the codice fiscale.
"If we get to the bank now, I can call my office and get the euros transferred today by 5pm".
Julian raises an eyebrow. Sorry, the bank is closed at two for the day, and we cannot possibly make it back before then. Bankers in Italy only work until 2pm? Yes. Tomorrow then.

They are at Andrea's desk when the bank opens the next day. Following problems with the fax machine and a flurry of calls to Milano, the account is finally opened, but it is a question on when the transfer will occur. Andrea shrugs, "It is, after all, the holiday, and we are in Italy, Signor Green." He smiles, "But you are persisent, so perhaps it will happen."

In the two days that our euros are unaccounted for in the virtual world, we make good use of Julian's time in accomplishing other tasks on our list. We buy cell phones, and computer equipment, rugs for the bathroom, wine, water, office supplies, batteries, and a hair dryer. We locate the nearest internet cafe for faxes and copies, the ASRoma ticket office for soccer tickets,
and our closest teatro and cinema. He takes us on the bus to Eurogarden, a lovely nursery that overlooks the ruins of the Caracalla Baths, and we purchase flowers, pots and soil to plant a garden on our terraza. We stuff all of it and ourselves in a taxi, and struggle to bring it up to the top floor in our ancient cage elevator. We have apertifs on the terrazo with Alan and Diane on Thursday night, and they are amazed at our progress.

On Friday afternoon, Andrea calls. The money is in. Jeff is just able to make it to the bank to sign the papers before closing. We have our first visitors, Deborah Van Nest and her daughter Rory joining us for dinner tonight, and we all have a toast on our terraza, now filled with flowers, herbs, and a tiny lemon tree, to celebrate. Strolling through the streets toward the Piazza for dinner, we notice that more and more stores and cafes in the neighborhood are beginning to reopen. Ferragosto is drawing to a close, and we have spent our first week in Rome.