Italians usually
pooh-pooh precision, brushing off Anglo exactitude as neurosis pure
and simple. Minutes matter little; promises are more symbolic than
specific; plans evaporate as quickly as boiling water in a pot. And,
hey, I get it. The hour hand on my watch hasn’t worked for a
century and there’s nothing wrong with the decision to fare
un bel niente every once in a while.
Even boredom can be beautiful when you have the scenery for it. And
those with meticulous blood running through their veins will find
Svizzera right across the border. Vacci se vuoi,
è vicino.
Thank
you, but no. Switzerland is far too drastic a step. There, neighbors
synchronize their watches and measure the length of each other’s
Venetian blinds by the millimeter. I’m not good enough for Geneva.
I am only suggesting that sometimes, just sometimes, it would be
lovely to live in a place where things could go as per agreement. In
business, when Italians promise to meet expectations, they assure you
with tutto andrà secondo copione (‘everything will go according to script’). English-speaking
people, especially the English, are initially comforted by this
phase. Shakespeare is reassuring: ‘All the world’s a stage.’ We
strive to ‘set things up,’ put all the props in place and say the
lines that keep us in character. Italians, on the other hand, are
preferential to opening-night performances, not rehearsals.
Assignments change direction quicker than an understudy changes
costume.
And in the end, when
the curtain finally goes up on a project, Italians will wow you with
their brilliance and silence you with their saper
fare. But that doesn’t mean they’ve
learned their lines. Improv theater is what audiences want in the
end. That’s cultural difference numero
uno.
On a logical level, I know
this. I’ve seen it. I’ve even appreciated it dozens, if not
hundreds of times. But cultural difference is not about logic. And,
if you get careless, it can wreak emotional havoc at every turn.
This week at work
has been particularly difficile.
‘It’s terrible,’ I complained to Filippo last Friday night. ‘No
matter what I do or say, nothing is going according to plan.’
‘Relax,’ he
replied. ‘You’ll see, tutto andrà
bene.’
‘I don’t want things
to go well, I want them to go right.’
He shrugged. ‘Well,
that’s impossible. What’s right for you may not be right for
everyone else.’
Cultural difference
numero due:
things should be ‘good,’ not necessarily ‘right.’ In Italy,
personal conviction means little when measured against the weight of
collective opinion. ‘Collective’ does not mean that the group
adheres to a single view. It means that the group envisions all
projects as a patchwork of ideas. Try as you might, you won’t see
the design until the quilt is finished.
‘Filippo, here’s the
thing: I know these things rationally. But at times, I’m just taken
aback by the way projects are carried forward.’
‘What’s “taken
aback”?’
‘It’s when someone
surprises you so much that you take a step back in shock.’
‘Hmm … sort of
like essere spiazzati.’
‘Yes,’ I agreed.
‘It’s exactly like being spiazzati.’
Despite everything, his translation made me smile. Could the
equivalent of ‘to be taken aback’ be anything but ‘to de-piazza’? We live in a country where the piazza is
paramount-the outdoor stage of all tragic-comedies. Take one step
outside the square and surprise will grab you by the shoulders and
shake you up good.
I looked at him,
miserable. ‘For me, being spiazzata is pretty much a permanent state.’
He laughed. ‘That’s
not bad. Astonishment is something positive.’
‘No it isn’t.
Even obvious things mi spiazzano and there’s not a single situation whose impact doesn’t somehow
hit me straight in the stomach.’
‘Non “lo
stomaco,” “la pancia.”‘
‘What?’
‘Lo stomaco è
lo stomaco; la pancia is further down …
at the intestines level.’
See? This is exactly
my point. Sono spiazzata again. Italians shun all things precise, except when talking about
body parts. It’s not enough to give a ball-park body region. If you
mean the belly, then you must say that exactly. Cultural difference
numero tre:
when it comes to the body, the Italian sense of accuracy is nothing
short of astounding. And what’s more, they can feel their internal organs the same way you and I suffer cold hands and
feet. So try not to be taken aback if after tre patatine fritte,
your dinner guests grasp at their livers and moan about ending up con
un fegato così.
When it does happen, avoid exclaiming: ‘Really? I don’t even know
where my liver is, much less the state of it.’ Your Italian friends
will think you’re lying, and when you swear you’re not, they’ll
say mean things about your home country. So, take note of it: the
liver is on the right side of the body and it’s meant to
perceivably react when you eat something as simple as an egg
over-easy.
With regards to
Filippo’s correction, I was immediately peeved. ‘Does it really
make a difference whether I mean stomach or belly? You get the point.’
He looked at me,
totally calm. ‘Certo che fa
differenza; the intestines are where
digestion happens. Your problem is that you take too long to digest
situations.’
Vedi?
There he goes spiazzandomi again.
This time, in a good way. Astonishment, bewilderment, wonder-they
usher in life’s scenarios like number girls announcing rounds in a
boxing ring. Cultural difference numero
quattro: in a country where food comes
first, digestion comes second. All problems and their solutions are
simply a question of pancia.
