Knocked Up Abroad

Posted in Culture, Expat Life, Featured by sexliesandnutella

Unlike the show, “Locked Up Abroad,” I can’t say I’ve ever been placed in a foreign jail – but I can chalk up “having a baby” to the list of things I never thought I’d be doing in a foreign country. And not only am I ecstatic to be having my first child, I’m actually grateful to be doing it here in Italy. After all, I’m about to become a sort of untouchable institution in this country: una mamma italiana.

Lately, I’ve been nesting like it’s my job – because technically, the Italian government has mandated that it is. Having reached the eight month mark, I’m no longer permitted by law to be working. In fact, I had to file a special request accompanied by a doctor’s certificate to stay in the office an extra thirty days, since the standard rule of leaving work actually kicks in at the completion of the seventh month of pregnancy. How ‘bout them cannolis?

Giving a bloated, anxious, sleep-deprived expectant mother the chance to relax and adequately prepare for one of the biggest events of her life, instead of working up until the day she gives birth: now there’s a novel idea.

In Italy, maternity leave lasts a total of five months, at full pay. Traditionally, these months are divided up into two before the due date, plus three after. Otherwise, as I’ve chosen, there’s the option of working an extra month before the due date then carrying that over for a total of four months of leave after the birth.

And it doesn’t end there:

Once you go back to work, you’re only required to be there for six hours a day – a little something called allatamento, or a nursing benefit. This reduced schedule is automatically extended to mothers until the child’s first birthday.

But wait, there’s more!

In addition to the standard five months, there’s also aspettativa, or an elective, additional leave of absence, paid at 30%. These available months total as many as twelve and can be used anytime – either all together, or split into days, weeks, or months. And get this: they don’t expire until the child is four years old. So if you need extra time (months or even years after your initial maternity leave) for whatever reason, you’re entitled to take it. Oh, and all of this is protected by law, meaning you obviously cannot be let go from your job for having taken advantage of these benefits.

All in all, not too shabby – and light years away from what we’re used to in the States.

Aside from the generous, kick-ass maternity laws, being in dolce attesa in Italy just seems a little sweeter in general. I’ve never had the experience of being pregnant in the States, so I may not be aware of the perks that exist at home. Whatever they are, though, they certainly aren’t as noticeable in daily life as they are here, or I’m sure I would’ve been aware of them at some point.

For example, all the major malls in Rome have special parking places next to the handicapped spots called posti rosa, which are reserved for pregnant women and recognizable by their pink painted lines and a sign like this one:

Welcome future mothers. We invite you to leave this spot available to expecting women. (Small writing) This request is not part of the street code (law), it’s an invitation to make a gesture of civility.

Of course, these spots are designed as part of an honor system, so who knows how many people don’t respect them. But hey, at least they exist.

Parking privileges are just the beginning. The pancione, or pregnant belly, elicits big smiles and “auguri” (congrats) from just about everyone I come in contact with. It comes along with quite a bit of unspoken respect and a certain sense of entitlement in public. I notice that older women especially take an extra second to lock eyes and give me a wink as they pass by, as if I’ve entered into some kind of secret club.

It’s also normal practice not to have to wait in lines of any kind. In fact, most major grocery stores actually have a separate line marked for those with special needs, where pregnant women are welcome to cut in at any time. And at stores without this designated line, all it usually takes is a pop of the belly and people move aside, graciously (or occasionally, not so much) leaving you to pass them and head directly to the checkout.

In terms of the quality of the medical care I’ve received throughout my pregnancy, I can honestly say it’s been top-notch and incredibly thorough. Between regular checkups and special screenings, I’ve had at least one ultrasound a month, with the newest equipment in an exceptionally clean and modern facility. I do consider myself lucky, since my insurance through work covers this private clinic – but it’s worth noting that all women, even those without insurance (the overwhelming majority), are entitled to the same routine checkups and tests in public facilities at no charge at all, thanks to Italy’s state healthcare system. No doubt, these public visits most likely mean more time, energy, and hassle, but regardless, they cost nothing. And having a baby in a public hospital, even via c-section, is completely free as well.

Both my gynecologist/obstetrician as well as the specialist I’ve seen have been great, and experiences in themselves. They’re both well-known as complete pros and baby delivering machines, but at first glance, you’d never know it.

My obstetrician is in his early forties and is so chill, he seems like one of our friends. Totally no-nonsense and relaxed, he never indulges me much in the “what happens if” questions. He’s pleasant, straight-forward, and delivers a slew of babies per week at one of the best maternity hospitals in Rome.

The specialist is so calm and collected, it’s almost unnerving. A bit older, I’ve seen him three times for the in-depth trimester checkups. Each time I walked in, he was leaning on his hands, looking like he was about to fall asleep at any moment. Instead of a white coat, he’s always in his street clothes, which consist of a tailored, decidedly snug (from his substantial pasta gut) button-down shirt and a Gucci belt.

But as soon as he starts the ultrasound, he’s all business – not saying a word, just moving decisively from one side of my belly to the next, calling out measurements for his assistant to record. During my first trimester screening at twelve weeks – without even asking if we wanted to know the sex – out of nowhere he blurted out, “Ecco, guarda che cosa abbiamo qui… un pisellino” (well, look what we have here… a little pee-pee). He then proceeded to print me a 3D picture of said pisellino.

And at the end of the big second trimester screening, which really confirms the solid development of the baby, he simply said, “Tanti cari auguri, signora,” (many heartfelt congratulations) and walked out.

I guess that’s all you really need to hear anyway.

15Dec2012

Return to Innocence

Posted in Culture, Featured by sexliesandnutella

Do I want to move back to the US? My answer tends to depend on the day and the arguement at hand. Today, for example, the answer would be no.

Like so many people, I woke up this morning feeling sick and disgusted after following the Connecticut school shooting story until bedtime last night. Since I feel so far away yet so connected at the same time, it’s jarring to view my own country struggle with a situation that’s practically inexistent in the country where I actually live. I can’t help but analyze this tragedy by comparing it to the Italian reality. And when I do, it only creates more anger, frustration, and confusion. I may critique this country for many things – but Italy definitely has us beat when it comes to this issue. Yesterday, we truly lost our innocence and soul as a country, in the most literal way possible.

Whenever one of our senseless gun tragedies occurs, the rest of the world definitely notices. Here in Italy, I get the usual look of confused disbelief and the inevitable, “How is that even possible in America?” question. Unfortunately, that question is an especially complex one to answer. Similar to the whole healthcare issue, the Europeans basically shake their heads and shrug their shoulders. They just don’t get it, and I can’t blame them. They call us “cowboys,” but not in any good sense of the word (if there is one). After these shameful displays, it’s completely justifiable that foreigners have come to define America as a reckless, gun-wielding society where you have to fear for your life at any instant. We can’t even send our kids to school anymore without worrying about them never coming home. Nowhere is safe, and nothing is sacred.

In my four years here, I’ve never heard a story even remotely similar to our school shootings. In my husband’s lifetime, nothing of the sort has happened in this country, if ever. So, I inevitably pose myself a very logical question: why do these horrific acts continue to happen on a repeated basis only in the United States? Without even calculating gun laws, what makes our society so different, in that people feel entitled to lash out and massacre the innocent for no apparent reason? And most importantly, regarding gun control, are we really so arrogant and misdirected as to think our way of doing things is better than what has been done for centuries (and worked) in so many other countries?

I believe things are different here for two reasons: clearly, the first reason is the difference in gun control laws. Here’s a brief run-through of my understanding of how guns are regulated in Italy:

In general, only select groups of people who are determined to have a specific need to defend themselves are eligible to privately own a pistol. These groups include certain types of merchants, like jewelry store owners, for example. To obtain a license to own a pistol for protection of home or business, you have to deal with a lengthy and involved bureaucratic process, which could take up to a year.

During this time, applicants are subject to a background check as well as a thorough psychological evaluation (which apparently many do not pass). Once a license is obtained, it must be renewed every year – but only after the psychological evaluation has been repeated. The same is true for those requesting ownership of a rifle for hunting purposes.

Each firearm is assigned its own unique identification number, so it’s always traceable. The few people who gain access to a personal pistol must go through training, and the gun must never be taken out of its assigned residence (i.e. home or business). Only law enforcement officials are permitted to carry firearms in public.

The general sentiment is that guns are certainly more trouble than they’re worth, and the less of them around, the better. The average citizen just doesn’t want the responsibility of having a gun. Even if a burglar were to enter your home, for example, the law is such that if he is only carrying a knife (which is the most likely scenario) and you shoot him, you would go to jail.

The second reason why I believe things are different here (and no doubt the more important of the two) is the moral integrity of the Italian culture, which still prides itself on maintaining a basic sense of human decency and respect. It’s a sort of unwritten code of conduct that isn’t a matter of law, but a matter of upbringing. It’s reminiscent of something that existed in the US some decades ago, but has since deteriorated and practically disappeared. The Italians probably think the same of their own country, but they don’t realize how in tact their collective conscience still is, compared to ours.

Religion may be the origin of this unwritten code, but since so many Italians are no longer practicing Catholics, I believe at this point it’s more a matter of tradition and a general sense of good will. Despite how modern this society is, they have managed to maintain these ideals through their stong family ties. Italians are creatures of habit, and they like the way they do things. They carry over the same pride and attention to detail they’re known for in their cuisine, fashion, and lifestyle to their society’s code of conduct. It’s instilled from the beginning, and although there are of course those who don’t follow it, they seem to be called out as ineducati, or uneducated/uncivil, and quickly shunned.

Italians use and live by this code without even realizing it. I realize it, because I didn’t grow up here, but they don’t. In this culture, certain known truths and rules just simply exist – always have, always will. These unspoken rules range from the most banal to the most profound, but regardless, they exist, like: binge drinking is stupid and uncouth; when you enter a room or a store, you acknowledge who’s already present and say “good morning”; younger people give up their seats to senior citizens; no cappuccino after 11am; one expensive, well-tailored suit is better than five made in China for the same price; and perhaps the most important of all, i bambini non si toccano – you don’t touch children. Children are literally sacred here, and as their track record shows, Italians do not mess with them.

Even the mafia, in all its warped and vile dealings, wouldn’t dare to touch a child for vendetta or something similar. In fact, most violent crimes involving guns here are usually linked to some kind of mafia involvement, which means when they do happen, there’s usually more to the story. Shootings are almost always linked to adults who have chosen a certain lifestyle, and suffer its consequences – not to innocent people randomly attacked while shopping at the mall for Christmas presents.

The US is the great melting pot, and there is beauty in that – but our diversity also comes with great difficulty in understanding and interacting with one another. We’ve gotten used to being on guard all the time, because we can never assume someone will behave the way we would in any given situation.

The reality of our history is that the various immigrant ethnic groups have always banded together in solidarity. They came from the same types of families, ideals, and culture. They were more comfortable together because they automatically had a point of reference in each other. Italians with Italians, Polish with Polish, Irish with Irish.

In Italy, everyone’s obviously Italian (at least, the overwhelming majority). So when you come in contact with someone, you can pretty much guess how they will react in most situations. Of course, personality is always a factor, but again, that basic underlying code of conduct exists at the core, and keeps everyone on a fairly level playing field.

I certainly don’t want to insinuate that crazy, twisted people don’t exist in Italy, because I know they do – but honestly, what happened yesterday would be unfathomable here. Regardless of gun laws, I just don’t see it happening – and that deepens the discussion for me because it means our American society is void of critical ideals others still hold dear. Those ideals must be discovered and appreciated again, and reintroduced into our society… Essentially, we need a return to innocence. It’s crucial to our existence, our well-being, and the future of our children. Let’s just hope it’s not too late.

19Sep2012

Count the Putans

Posted in Culture, Expat Life, Featured by sexliesandnutella

It’s summer in Rome – and in this city, when the temperatures rise, the clothes come off. Which reminds me, time to play one of my favorite seasonal games: “Count the Putans.”

Some may have already guessed how the game works. It’s not a complicated concept, but it is nonetheless quite amusing. If you haven’t figured it out yet, by putans (the Italian-American slang for the word puttane), I’m referring to prostitutes, women of the night, hookers. Whatever you choose to call them, they are a living, breathing part of the scenery here in the outskirts of Rome.

I happen to live and work in Roma Nord (the typically highly-regarded North end of the city), and therefore use Via Salaria every day for my commute. La Salaria is a main vein leading out of the city. Throughout most of the year the area is your standard, four-lane business district lined with hotels, businesses (including my office), and luxury car dealerships. Continuing on after the commercial area, in about fifteen minutes you reach our suburb of Monterotondo. But something bizarre starts to happen once the warm weather breaks around May: spring fever hits, the weather heats up (along with libido, apparently), and the girls start their high season.

All of a sudden, a wave of putans hit the street – and as summer progresses and the heat scorches, they get progressively more naked. Yes, from May to September, the world’s oldest profession is alive and well on Via Salaria – so much so, the scene has inspired this impromptu game we’ve shared with friends and visiting family (and have had great fun with, I must say).

The game begins on the way home from Rome’s city center: once we reach the start of this 2-3 mile stretch of sex for sale, everyone in the car has to guess how many putans we’ll spot by the end of the road. At the moment, we have a standing record of thirty-four (and that doesn’t count those who may have been on “business” while we were passing). That’s pretty staggering for such a small area. If it’s true that supply reflects demand, then the numbers are quite telling.

So you just can’t help but wonder: who are these men who keep this business thriving? Every now and then, you get to answer that question in first person: when you’re lucky enough to be behind a car that happens to be dropping a girl off, and you use all your powers of peripheral vision while trying to pass and get a good look at his face without actually turning your head.

My colleagues and I have become so accustomed to it by now that we’ve actually started to be able to recognize the putans personally, since they’re usually always the same and in the same locations. It’s entirely possible to hear one of my colleagues say, “Anyone notice the blond with the 10-inch white boots wasn’t by the entrance? She must be sick today.”

And Via Salaria is only one of the areas where you’re guaranteed to get a show; let’s not even get into the “tranny” zone, which happens to surface after a certain hour in one of the richest neighborhoods in the city. Oh, che scandolo!

So, prostitution must be legal in Italy, you say? No, it’s not. But that’s clearly not stopping anyone. Sure, the occasional squad car pulls up to take record, and shoot the breeze – but rather than threatened, the putans always just look blasé and mildly irritated at best by police presence. Prostitution seems to be yet another of one of those “look the other way” laws in Italy – just another subject that stirs the usual response from most Italians when they feel powerless about something: “It’s always been that way; it’s just the way it is.”

While in the States there would probably be protests galore and a new organization formed within a week (perhaps MAS – Moms Against Sex – or something similar), here in Italy, everyone is so immune they don’t even pay attention anymore. After all, who are they going to complain to, the politicians who frequent the escorts (aka, higher-paid, more glamorous cousins of the puntans)?

So, when our child is old enough to ask, “Mom, why is that girl standing half-naked on the side of the road?” I think I’ll go with the answer my mother-in-law used to give my husband when he was little: “She’s just waiting for the bus, honey.”

Let the blind eye philosophy continue. After all, when in Rome…

7Aug2012

Real-life Scam City

Posted in Culture, Featured, Uncategorized by sexliesandnutella

No, I’m not just trying to make a shameless plug for our new National Geographic Channel series, “Scam City,” soon premiering globally (there, that was a shameless plug). I actually want to tell a real-life tale of what happens when my husband and father are together for too long: something my mother and I like to refer to as, “The Adventures of Tommy and Gimmi.”

Over the years, my father has developed a solid bromance with my husband, as well as a semi-unhealthy obsession with the fact that he has a certain position in Italy that makes anyone who may have something to hide immediately squirm. This has become a somewhat dangerous situation while my parents are visiting us in Rome. Tommy has become quite accustomed to preferred treatment such as the occasional discount, free tickets, and well, the general respect that comes with my husband’s title – so much so, that he now seems to be on a one-man vigilante mission to correct all the wrong-doings he encounters in this city. Of course, he only attempts these antics when his cohort is close by for moral support; otherwise, he would likely risk being picchiato (beat down) Italian-style, and he knows it.

This is dangerous for my husband because he really doesn’t identify himself much with his position, since his daily work is in a specialist health clinic. He is a high-ranking member of the Carabinieri (Italian military police), but he’s never actually worked on the street fighting crime or restoring order. Therefore, he tends to keep a low profile and play that card only when absolutely necessary.

Tommy, on the other hand, will mention it in any and all situations, and with a very bad Italian accent, causing a certain reaction of disbelief/amazement/confusion in anyone he encounters. Want to get to the front of the ticket line at the Forum? ”My son is a Mariscial!” he’ll proudly state, waiting to be escorted to the front. The person will then look at my husband, who at that point slinking back in embarrassment, is forced to own up and try to diffuse the situation with humor and charm, as only he knows how.

But there’s never been a scene like the one they put on this weekend: Tommy had been venturing off into the city on his own during the day, when my mom didn’t feel like putting up with the oppressive heat. On Thursday, he found himself at a bar for breakfast directly in front of the Colosseum, just past the exit of the metro. Using the most decent Italian he could muster, he ordered a cornetto and cappuccino. Only problem was they charged him €5.00, when it really should have only cost €1.80. Not having been his first breakfast standing in an Italian bar, he knew the price was excessive – especially since the man in front of him had ordered the same thing and paid €1.80.

Tommy left the bar and immediately called Gimmi, who of course quickly realized the cashier had taken him for a ride. Yes, Tommy had just become Rome’s most recent victim of tourist price gouging. That essentially means once you open your mouth and it’s obvious you’re a tourist, you risk paying double or triple the price at some places. That’s discrimination, and Gimmi and Tommy weren’t going to stand for it. Besides, Tommy’s no tourist at this point; he spends six weeks a year here and has an Italian passport, for God’s sake!

So, they scheme up a plan to return to the same bar on Saturday morning, but this time, together. Tommy walks in and nonchalantly orders the usual cornetto and cappuccino, with Gimmi a few places back in line. This time, for some reason, the cashier has some mercy on him and charges €3.50. Gimmi follows with the exact same order, pays €1.80, then proceeds to the counter and asks the waitress (actually, demands) to see Tommy’s receipt, which she had just collected.

At first, she gives him attitude and refuses. Then, given Gimmi’s clearly authoritative tone, she complies (this is before he has identified himself in any way). She fumbles through the trash can, creating confusion and claiming to have lost the receipt. Gimmi tells her if she can’t find it he’ll be happy to come behind the counter and find it for her. She finally locates it, and he asks to speak to the owner immediately. Meanwhile, Tommy’s sipping his cappuccino and enjoying the scene with a smirk, understanding only about 10% of what is actually being said.

Out from the back of the bar apparently steps the tallest Italian on record, scowling and impatiently asking what the problem is. The problem, Gimmi explains, is that his bar is charging different prices for the same orders. ”That’s not true,” the owner responds, “we have a discount for Italians.” ”Oh, really?” responds my husband. ”Quit with the stronzate (bullshit), or I’ll have this place closed down in an hour. You’re speaking to a Maresciallo of the Carabinieri.” Those magic words are truly the only thing that will strike fear in the heart of any swindling Italian from Milan to Palermo. And now was a great time to pull them out of the arsenal.

The bar turns silent, and the owner’s demeanor changes from bullying mafioso to profusely apologetic quicker than milk turns to froth. Then Gimmi says, “You will now give my father-in-law the €1.70 you owe him for this morning’s breakfast. And keep your eyes open, because you’re under surveillance from this moment on.”

And just like that, Gimmi the “Conquistador” (as Tommy calls him), and his trusty sidekick, “Sancho Panza” (as I’m calling Tommy and he’ll hate me for) ride off into the sunset together, continuing their crusade to fight injustice – one steaming hot cornetto and cappuccino at a time.

25Jul2012

Italy’s Biggest Problem

Posted in Culture, Expat Life, Featured by sexliesandnutella

Italians are realists. I don’t think I’ve met one who isn’t willing to recognize and/or openly criticize the current state of this country. At the moment, many people around here have a tendency to concentrate on the negative, and for the sake of this post, so will I.

Italy is suffering from a terrible case of low self-esteem, and not without reason. Reeling after the twenty-year reign of a tyrannical, pseudo-Roman emperor wannabe, the state of affairs in today’s Italy can only be described as molto triste (very sad). This country, which has so much going for it, is in total and utter shambles. Premier Monti’s recent efforts may have been baby steps in the right direction, but I’m afraid this black hole has been dug too deep and too dark.

On a macro level, Italy is teetering on the risk of a financial breakdown not far from that of its Mediterranean neighbors in Greece. Overall, the global economic crisis has taken its toll, and things are tight for the working class (although this was the case even before the crisis). Cost of living in the metropolitan areas is comparable to that of New York City. Combine that with the lowest salaries and highest gas prices in Europe, and you’ve got tombola (bingo).

After countless brutte figure (bad impressions, oftentimes aptly dubbed, “The Berlusconi Show”), this country’s name has been dragged through the mud while its population has been brutally represented by a lackluster group of ego-centric politicians, each with their own variety of complexes, corruptions, and/or sexual disorders. Gaffe after despicable gaffe from these pagliacci (clowns) has made Italy the laughing stock of the European Union and the entire Western world, time and time again.

Just to play devil’s advocate for a moment though: some members of the EU are quick to depict Italy as the black sheep of the group, criticizing its politics and dismissing it as an unorganized mess of a country – but then when it comes time to sip Chianti overlooking the olive groves in Tuscany, they’re all first in line. Anyway, back to the topic at hand…

What I consider to be the most pressing, serious issue – which the same pagliacci I mentioned earlier still haven’t seemed to prioritize as urgent – is that the young, talented college graduates are fleeing the country at an alarming rate. And with each of them goes a small piece of Italy’s bright future. The most talented Italian youth is going, going, gone – in the hands of countries that can offer them something more, something better.

The worst part is, that something better doesn’t refer to anything so grandiose, like a better job or more money: all they’re looking for is a job (any job at all). With the youth unemployment rate at around 30%, at this point they’d be satisfied to just be able to build a decent (albeit, humble) future. This is hardly a standard the world’s most beloved country should have for its youth. Since their own homeland isn’t even capable of offering them employment and a place in society, young people are forced to abandon it. And who could blame them?

As for those who choose to stay and stick it out, well… They win the chance to have their egos destroyed by interviewing for jobs as waiters and cashiers, with law/business/engineering degree in hand. The youth of today’s Italy have been so beaten and battered down that they’ve lost all sense of enthusiasm before even getting out of the gate. That’s because they know exactly what’s waiting for them once they finally finish their degree (after all, these are some very highly educated do-nothings).

They can already picture themselves hitting thirty, unable to find work in their field, stuck at home cooking carbonara with their parents because they can’t even afford to get their own place. Forget about visualizing an illustrious career; they can’t even get past the hurdle of moving out on their own and entering the workforce.

In the States, anyone who still lives with their parents at that age is generally shunned. They’re labeled as failures – lazy, pathetic losers who couldn’t get their act together long enough to afford rent. In Italy, however, this is the norm. And before you start with the insults, consider the following:

1. The university system is completely different from the American system.

And by different, I mean unstructured and non-sensical. There seems to be no set amount of time to receive a degree. Some finish in three years, others in eight or more. In theory, university should last a maximum of either three or five years depending on your major, but because of the complicated course structure, it’s often longer. And even after having had it explained to me numerous times, I still can’t really wrap my mind around it (don’t think the Italians really can either – they mostly seem disgusted whenever they’re forced to explain it).

What I have been able to understand is that rather than a standard course semester, where your overall grade is comprised of multiple tests, projects, mid-terms, and a final – as well as class participation – each course here consists of just one, overwhelming final exam that determines whether you can move forward to the next course. You technically don’t even have to show up for class the entire semester, as long as you pass the exam on crack (which would be practically impossible, but nonetheless, some do try). There is minimal interaction between professors and peers, and word on the street is some professors are actually instructed to hold a certain number of people back on purpose to keep the course fees coming.

2. Salaries are not commensurate with the cost of living in most cities.

If they’re lucky enough to find a job, university grads are barely scraping by with €1000-1500 per month (take home pay). Yes, you read that correctly. And sadly, that’s not just a starting salary – many can expect to earn that sum for years, perhaps decades. It’s so pathetic I can barely even stand to write it.

But don’t feel sorry for them just yet, or think you necessarily have it so much better – because many of them are driving the newest Audi, regularly buying pairs of €500 shoes, or perhaps just returning from a 5-star resort in some exotic location. No joke. All of that is easy to do when you don’t have to calculate a mortgage, rent, food, or utilities into the equation. Without all those pesky, inconvenient… wait, what are they called? Oh, yeah – living expenses – there’s plenty of liquidity to be spent on, well, pretty much anything you want.

After all, what’s the point of putting away that measly salary? At that rate, you could work for forty years and still not have enough for a down payment on a half-million euro apartment in the center of Rome (and for that price it’d be about the size of a large American garage).

3. The mammoni (mama’s boy/girl) stereotype still rings true, but only to an extent.

It’s true that deep down many people in their late twenties and early thirties love the fact that mamma still does their laundry and irons their shirts. She even prepares lunches for work, and who wouldn’t love that? Mamma makes it extremely difficult to face the cold, cruel world alone, and she knows it.

Italian mothers certainly do find joy in the fact they’re still needed by their adult children, so they don’t push for any changes. Children know the world outside is expensive and not worth their effort, so the option of living within the comforts of the home they grew up in looks more and more appealing. From the point of view of American culture it’s a strange phenomenon, but also an understandable one, given the economic conditions as well as the strong familial cultural tendencies.

The reality of this “failure to launch” stage is that it’s incredibly frustrating for most young people, and it’s stifling to their growth and development as adults. In the US, we pride ourselves on being entirely self-sufficient very early on, but the Italians simply don’t have that opportunity. And if they do, they’re either: a. very lucky; b. being bankrolled by someone; or c. have to make some immense personal sacrifices.

The million-dollar question to the politicians is: WHY can’t they get it together? Do they actually want this country to go to hell? From the outside it would seem like it, although it seems ludicrous since their children live in this country, too. Or, do they? There’s such a great divide between rich and poor here, that sometimes the elite seem immune to this society’s problems; it’s literally as if they’re living in a completely different country, within the same borders.

Wake up, and smell the espresso, Italia… The future of this country should not be in the hands of those who only want to exploit it and suck it dry. If the Italians don’t take back their cherished paese soon, Italy’s best and brightest are all going to end up with British and German accents.