Musings of a future murderer...

It started out as seething anger, and I considered a “boiling cauldron” sort of post, with lava spitting and fire searing everything. But that lasted for a day, and then the despondency set in. Now I simply feel defeated. Not just by a whisker or a hair, but comprehensively.

I’ve written about Italian bureaucracy in the past, but this surpasses it, by far – laziness, incompetence, thievery, and couldn’t-care-less attitude. It has to do with mail, on 4 counts – yes, that’s right, not just one count, but four.

Case #1 – the 3 boxes. These were mailed on the day of my departure from the US, containing clothes, personal papers and accounts, home study course material, and a load of books that I bought for my business consumption and research here (i.e. important material for my money-earning intentions). I’ve been eagerly awaiting them. They never came. Finally, 6 weeks after they were mailed, we went to the post office in Tolentino, USPS tracking slips in hand.

“No,” we were told, “we don’t handle packages. You’ll have to call this number in Civitanova Marche.”

We did. They told us that since they in Civitanova (one of Marche’s larger towns and a coastal holiday destination some 50km from us) were not familiar with Regnano, they sent the boxes back. To the US, that is, where they were mailed from. Excuse me????

“No!” we said, “we live here, we have a house here, why didn’t someone come and drop the boxes at our house? PosteItaliano seems to know where we are – they deliver (some) of our mail.”

“Sorry,” they said, “but we don’t know where Regnano is.”

Is this a first world country I’m in? If your job is to deliver things to places, and you got a delivery to a place you hadn’t heard of before, wouldn’t you look it up? Apparently not. Incredulous doesn’t begin to describe my reaction.

Follow-up calls – which involve a minimum 15-minute wait before getting a live person – yielded this: “Complaints? You’ll have to do that in the US, where the packages originated.” There’s just nowhere to go from there, is there?

However, if I were to step away momentarily from my morass of anger, frustration, and evil desire to do someone some real, serious harm, and look at this whole scenario from a distance, I’d have to confess that this is, after all is said and done, brilliant. Teflon. No flies. They’re untouchable. Which makes me want to hurt them even more ... as the boxes make their way back to the US.

Case #2 – the other package. When we were enquiring about the 3 boxes, we learned that there was another package scheduled to be delivered. This is likely a package of special coffee Maria ordered. We gave them our phone number. “Call us,” we said, “and we’ll direct you to our house. It’s easy.”

They called this morning. “Can I drop the parcel at a bar outside the gates of Tolentino?”

I'm sorry, what was that? Tolentino is some 12 km away, and it’s not Regnano!!! Just after Maria said “Unacceptable,” they simply hung up the phone. I kid you not. Just like that – problem, go away. Smoke coming out of ears by now (ours, that is).

Call back – music, recorded message, no answer, and this from the number that just, just, hung up on us. Half an hour later, get someone on the phone.

“We were just talking to someone about our package, and they said they wouldn’t deliver it to Regnano.”

“Thank you for the information,” they say, and promptly hang up. Yes, that’s right – Click. We’re now beside ourselves. So we go and commiserate with Michael and Lili. In spite of their own personal experience with such things, lots of it too, they’re amazed at this flagrant display. Scruples? Conscience? Desire to do a good job? Absent. Actually, even that’s inaccurate – it was never there to begin with.

Later, we checked at the bar they mentioned – no parcel. Maria called again, and spoke with someone who said they’d make sure the parcel gets delivered tomorrow. Uh-huh.

Case #3 – the forwarded mail. While Cases #1&2 are in progress, I’m also anxiously awaiting a package containing all my mail from my US-based postal address. Amongst regular bank statements and such, I’m expecting several checks (one rather substantial), and another business-related book I ordered. I send an email to mailing service – where’s the package? Package on its way – sent October 2nd.

Two weeks later, and still no package. First-world country to first-world country, right? Uh-uh.

Finally, a card in the mailbox on 18th – pick-up registered package in Tolentino. I thought PosteItaliano didn’t handle packages? Scratch head. Don’t ask, just go. Off we go.

“€8.66 please, and then we’ll give you your package.”

“€8.66? What for?”

“Customs, postal expenses, and taxes.”

What? It’s a $%#%@^$$ package of personal letters!

“OK, would you like us to send it back?”

Pay the €8.66, more smoke barreling out of our now-prolific personal smoke-producing machines. And that’s on top of the $23 postage that’ll be hitting my credit card any day now.

Open the package. Checks are there – good. But the book’s not. Instead, there’s the “You have a package that wouldn’t fit in your mailbox” card that everyone who physically picks up their mail (in the US) gets. She forgot to include the book. I can’t believe it.

All of this, bear in mind, has happened in the last 3 days. This is when my head starts to droop. I turn off the smoke-making machine – it’s no use anyway. It’s a conspiracy.

But wait, there’s more…

Case #4 – the vanished check. Remember the container story? The US-based moving company promised to reimburse us several hundred dollars for our moving pains. Check the mailbox every day – not there. Send email – did you send the check? Yes, on 20th September. It’s a month later. No check. No hope. Defeated.

Maria philosophizes thus: “If we didn’t have all these attachments to things, this wouldn’t be happening. We’re trying to move from a complicated life to a simple one, and they just can’t (or don’t) handle things the same way.” All very true and rational, but this afternoon I could see the picture in her own mind of getting her hands around someone’s neck. And I know what her response will be if her special coffee doesn’t arrive.

However, she’s right. We can’t lose sight of the mountain top. And even though I might be reminded of my very first blog post “Who would think of moving here?”, I haven’t once thought: “I wish we hadn’t done this. I wish we were back in the US.” Not even for a nano-second. At the end of the day, I may get indicted for first-degree murder, but I’m staying in Italy.