Mamma's Boys and Girls

There's a law in Italy that says something like you can't kick your kid out of the house if he can't support himself.  In one case some parents took their 41-year old unemployed son to court just to get him out of the house. However, it seldom comes to that because most Italian parents and their kids (30-year old "kids", successful or not) are very happy living under the same roof.  

I worked when I was in high school.  All of the money I made was given to my parents and put away for college.  They gave me spending money, which you could say was the money that I earned scooping ice cream and serving burgers, or you could say that my spending money was my parents' money and it was my burger money that went for college.  In any case, my funds were controlled.  The only money that ever went straight into my piggybank just for me was the money that I earned babysitting when I was 13 (and still using a piggybank).  That's a bit different than the 18-year old Italian that was asked to babysit by a new mother only to be told by the father that she was too young.  I suppose that's probably because most Italian babysitters are over 60 and they're almost always called Grandma and Grandpa.

The four years that I lived at university I got a letter from my mom every Friday.  Every Friday.  And with the letter came a twenty dollar bill.  I'm not sure what happened to all of those letters, but all of the twenty dollar bills were spent on Diet Coke, ice cream, Sunday night pizzas (because the dorm cafeteria was closed), toiletries, stamps and greeting cards.

The reason my money came in the mail every Friday is because I never went home.  Never.  University life meant a new life.  New friends.  New places.  New things to do.  And on the list of "new things to do" were things like laundry, budget my twenty dollars, iron, study and learn how to live without my parents.  As far as I'm concerned they were all good things to do.

Most of the Italians that I know that attended university either lived at home or went home every weekend.  They didn't learn how to do their laundry.  They didn't learn how to budget their twenty euros.  They didn't really learn how to make new friends because they still went out with their high school friends.  And they didn't learn how to live without their parents.  Maybe that's why so many find it necessary to continue living at home for a lot more than just a couple of years after college.

At age 29 one of my female students finally decided to get an apartment and live on her own.  She lasted six months and then decided to move back home.  Her decision was based on the fact that she couldn't go out as often, she couldn't take vacations and she couldn't go shopping because she had to pay for rent and food.  Moving back home gave her back her independence.  And if parents are willing to live with their adult children and do their laundry and cook their meals and share their cars, why not live at  home?

Another 29-year old girl said that she's only recently started thinking about living alone.  She said it seems like a step toward maturity.  Not a bad idea to finally have the desire to grow up considering 30 is right around the corner.  

I have a 31-year old male student that is having a really hard time leaving home.  He's almost done moving into the house down the street that his parents bought for his brother.  (His brother got married and moved into the house his wife's parents bought for her, so the brother's house was available.)  I think he's been in the process of moving for almost a year, but he's not quite ready.  In the past couple of weeks he's spent a few nights there.  He's eaten there a few times, but since he doesn't really have time to grocery shop (I think he works about 40-45 hours a week) it's just easier to eat at his parents' house.  After the lesson last week I asked him if he was going home (to his new home).  He said he had plans to meet friends at 9pm so he'd called his mom before the lesson to tell her he'd be home (his parents' house) for dinner because he'd only have an hour between the lesson and the bar and that really wasn't enough time to go to his own house to eat.

How do 30-year olds in Chicago survive without their mommys?  (And 23-year olds and 35-year olds?)  They work the same 40-45 hours a week, or more.  They fit grocery shopping in at some point, because they have to.  A dinner cooked by mamma isn't necessary because they can live on a sandwich and still make it to the bar by 9pm.  They might live alone in a tiny studio apartment or they might share a bigger place with 2 or 3 roommates if they want to save money.  If they have to stay up late or get up early to do their laundry, they do it......because their mothers don't.

The difference is that American kids don't only do it because they have to, but they also want to.  I know I did.  And I know my friends did.  There's something different in the way young Americans think.  They're excited to be on their own.  I'm quite sure if an American guy had a house waiting for him down the street (and no mortgage payment, don't forget, it was a gift.) he wouldn't be slow to move in.  And he'd be happy to eat a box of macaroni and cheese every night if he couldn't find the time to shop and cook.  

When young Americans declare their independence it means life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.  When young Italians declare theirs it means the opposite.  They have less life and liberty because they have to do their own laundry and aren't free to spend money on whatever they want. And their pursuit of happiness seems to lead them right back to the home sweet home of their mamma.

The Garlic is Free

I seldom venture far from a Pizza Margherita (cheese pizza), but the other night at the take-out place I ordered a Pizza Marinara.  That's a pizza with tomato sauce, garlic and oregano.  It cost 3euro50.  At the last minute I decided I couldn't live without cheese so I added mozzarella di bufala.  That's fancy mozzarella.  It's usually on the extras list where you find prices for stuff like an extra-large pizza, an extra-small pizza (called a baby pizza for the real babies that can't eat a normal-sized pizza) and extra toppings.  The addition of mozarella di bufala was 1euro.  When I got the receipt I noticed that my pizza cost 6euro.  The receipt only lists the prices and not the kind of pizza you've ordered, so you never really know what you're being charged for.

Just to be safe, I went back to the counter to see if she'd understood my order.  (When you make a big move like straying from a normal cheese pizza, you want it done right.)  In situations like this I still apologize and say that it's probably my fault because my Italian isn't perfect.  I repeated my order, "A Pizza Marinara with the addition of mozzarella di bufala."  She said that she'd understood and that the garlic was free.  Still confused, I repeated my order again and said that my receipt said 6euro but it should have only been 4euro50.   That's when she said she'd charged me for a Mozzarella di Bufala instead of a Marinara, and then added garlic which she happily repeated was free.  She'd chosen to charge me for a more expensive pizza and throw in the garlic instead of for the pizza I'd ordered and charge me for the cheese.  I probably would've caused a scene in the States, but life in Italy has few rules so you seldom win.  I let her keep my 1euro50 and tried to enjoy my fancy cheese.

Keeping my cool with public services is a different story.  How about the bus that came 7 minutes early?  I'm used to running for buses and trains because I'm always late, but should I have to run when I'm early, too?  I got on and asked the driver, "For future reference, is this bus always early?"  He said, "Oh, am I early?  What time am I supposed to be here?  I'll pull over now and wait."  He seemed proud of himself for responding to the public's needs.  After a three-minute pause he started up again.  Apparently arriving at the rest of the stops four minutes early is acceptable.

And the post office?  I don't think I'm the only one who has left in tears. Having sent birthday cards to America for 2euro in October, I was shocked in December when the clerk said 100 stamps would cost 400euro.  I told him I was sure there was a mistake because I'd paid half that price only two months earlier.  He said, "This is life in Italy."  Not ready to spend 400euro to mail my Christmas cards, I started to cry and left.

I decided to research the cost of mailing a letter to the States from neighboring countries.  I thought 300euro might get me a weekend in Austria and I'd spend the extra 100 on Austrian stamps.  I checked Greece and Slovenia, too.  Maybe sending Christmas cards could become an adventure.  Then, during my research, I learned that the current price of an Italian stamp for a card to the States was 2euro30.  An increase of 30 cents in two months was acceptable (and very Italian).  I was sure I couldn't get a trip to Greece AND 100 stamps for 230euro, so I went back to the post office a few days later.

After a 37-minute wait, the same handsome clerk was all mine.  I told him that I'd done my research and as much as I'd liked the idea of a 400-euro weekend in Slovenia just to mail my Christmas cards, it seemed a bit more practical to buy them from him for the correct sum of 230euro.  He continued trying to convince me that the stamps cost 4euro.  He even turned his computer screen my direction to show me the calculation.  Then he slowly and quietly turned it back.  "Oh.  I get it now, " he said.  "The last time you were here I was still on the screen of the packages you'd mailed before you asked me for the stamps.  I'd given you the small package price of 4euro instead of the stamp price of 2euro30.  How many do you want?  A hundred?"

Had there been an apology or a thank goodness you double checked or a please forgive me, it would've been easier to accept.  But when someone thinks they've done nothing wrong by accidently asking me to pay an extra 170euro and there's not even fancy cheese on top, I go postal.

Welcome to Italy where even the people who speak the language perfectly have a hard time saying they've made a mistake.