Have you ever been called “egregious” in English? The word doesn’t get out much these days and, in its best version, means “special”, “individual”, “above average”, literally “out of the flock”. In England, nobody writes to me to tell me that I am special, but in Italy such flattery is normal, as in the letter I recently received from an electricity company, which addressed me as “Egregio signore”. This was followed by text from a polite clerk bringing to my attention that I had overlooked a payment and apologizing in the event that my payment had been made but not yet recorded. The letter ended with “distinct salutations”. That sounded rather military to my ears, so I clicked my heels as the letter ended up in the wastepaper basket. I consulted Google Translate and found that it means “kind regards”. I was so flattered by the experience of being kindly regarded by a clerk whom I have never met that I retrieved the crumpled letter and paid the bill.
To the letter
Old-fashioned manners survive in letters. Here is a typically verbose example of a friend writing to a business stranger, never met, to withdraw a job application: Good day, how wonderful to receive your email. Thank you. I am replying after an inexcusable delay and that is why I am taking this opportunity to write immediately today… This was followed by six dense lines of regret and explanation with full details of the alternative job accepted. How endearing for a routine business letter. With Anglo-Saxon coolness, I would have written something like this: Apologies for the delay in replying. Thank you for the offer, which I have to refuse as I have found something more suitable. Two unfriendly lines; no emotion, no warmth.
The same friend has castigated me for being rude to a dermatologist, when I wrote: You kindly removed a skin lesion two years ago and I would like to discuss a new lump. Please tell me the number I should call for an appointment. Apparently, I should have started with a greeting before introducing the delicate matter of my skin. Something like this: Buongiorno Professore (or better still Buongiorno Egregio Professore). And then I should have deviated with plenty of additional words, thanking him for the formidable success of our last meeting and the pleasure it gives me to be granted another opportunity to meet, talk and be reminded of the excellence of his previous opinion. Only then should I have troubled him with intimate details.
Dining superlatively
Of course, it is not just letter writing. Every day, by Italian standards, I am rude. People shake their heads as they generously forgive my abrupt foreign manners. I do not greet acquaintances with anything like the enthusiasm they show me. I do not tell people I hardly know how beautiful and well dressed they are. I do not grip them and bounce up and down, saying how much joy it gives me to meet again. When someone asks me to join them for lunch, I reply yes or no according to my diary and do not bother them much with my emotional attitude. I start from a position of giving accurate information and assume that they can do without the flavour. I now realise that I must sound completely heartless. How can I accept an invitation without writhing like an egg whisk to show my pleasure or refuse an invitation without having (and sharing) a minor breakdown? I praise people’s cooking quite a lot because I am keen on food, but I make the mistake of asking for details. Recently, when I was asked what I thought of the soup, I replied,“Buono…what herbs did you use?” “You mean you didn’t like it. Was there too much garlic? Don’t you like oregano?” There was no going back. I immediately asked for more soup and threw in some superlatives, but it was too late. Superlatives must come first and anyway “buono” is feeble. The rough order of adjectives for food appreciation, starting from the bottom, goes buono, molto buono, buonissimo, delizioso, squisito. Start high and keep climbing, otherwise you will have an unshakeable reputation about soups in general and will have to listen to your kind hostess suggesting myriad reasons why you didn’t like the soup when actually you liked it a lot. I now know that the truth is a minefield: if you don’t like the soup, keep quiet until afterwards, when the host is not there. Then it is quite usual to extend the range of foody adjectives: immangiabile, cattivo, passabile, all come before buono.
To heel
However, when it comes to other, less personal talk, Italians can be refreshingly blunt where we English might be strangely apologetic. Shopping can be quite frightening as Italians can be dangerously frank and come close to inviting a row. Recently, I overheard a woman trying to choose shoes:
“Can I try these on?”
“Yes, of course, signora (pause for fitting)…they look very good on you.”
“No, they don’t, they look terrible.”
“Would you like to try these instead? I think they would really suit you.”
“They are even worse. What kind of a shop is this? Is this your first day here?”
On the offence
At a petrol filling station, when the car in front was blocking my access to the pump, I hesitantly suggested the driver might, perhaps, please, just move forward a little if it was not too much trouble. He looked at me as if I were a mosquito that he intended to swat and started, extra slowly, to fill his tank. I tried again, more firmly. “Move forward. Can’t you see that you are blocking the road?” He hesitated, stopped filling his car, gripped my shirt and said “stronzo” with his face very near to mine. Then he smiled and went back to filling his car. I was left with a dilemma. Should I reply “stronzo Lei” or “stronzo tu”? On these occasions, I am keen to get the grammar right. I also crave a rising scale of offensive words, so that I can insult with Tuscan precision.
Serving differences
Florentine shop assistants, ticket office staff and restaurant waiters are generally more polite and gracious than their British equivalents. Brits are fine once you have warmed them up, but at first they seem to dislike their job and hope that you, the client, will give up and go away. Rumour has it that Florentines are polite to their friends and clients, but rude to everyone else, but I don’t really think that’s the case. Some say that Florentines and Piedmontese are cool, polite and insincere, Milanese are abrupt as they want your money (and quickly), while Roman waiters are friendly, but prefer to spend time chatting about themselves rather than serving you. There are certainly regional differences, but these are small compared with the national ones. Try comparing a restaurant in France with one in Italy. The French waiter sniffs to imply that you have ordered the wrong thing from the menu and looks pained if you ask for beer rather than wine, while the Italian congratulates you on your choice and genuinely wants you to enjoy the meal. Whatever the differences, there is a general rule: every region likes being rude about its neighbour.
One consequence of this courtly politeness is that Florentines are sometimes accused of being two-faced and insincere, not polite and charming as they seem. I don’t think this is true, but if it is, how much better than being totally sincere, offhand and surly. Where there is a genuine love of humanity and when you, as a member of the human race, are included, then every chance encounter is enriched. That is one of the many reasons that we expatriates enjoy living in this country.
