Italy does not work. The most recent episode of rank dysfunction was the simple matter of a power cut which blacked out my block on Friday. A full day of flickering lights in a semi-basement apartment where luce is a luxury made daily life like a night in jail. ACEA parked a white van right outside the entrance and dug a ditch tailor made for anziani. A British tourist died in one of Rome’s metro stations some years ago after falling into escalator machinery because workers didn’t make sure that (1) their work was cordoned off with warning signs, and (2) that the escalator was switched off. Little has changed. For the record, the two maintenance workers who failed to replace escalator parts were sentenced to more or less two years in prison but neither of them served any time, and directors of their employer, OCS, were also let off as first time offenders.
The overnight supply truck worked wonders. We could see, eat, wash ourselves and check Facebook, that is until the following day when the episode went into past forward. A handful of numpties in blue jumpsuits started hammering away in the magazzino next door and bulbs started to fizzle then pop. Just add TIM call centre operatives cold calling twice daily, timed to within seconds of my leaving home to work on some new fangled Vatican tours project, and it’s easy to feel somewhat cornered by lackies.
Beautiful country, but getting things done is a constant battle.