“waiting with folded arms”
I just returned from the post office. The Italian postal service is an institution of legendary confusion and inefficiency, even for residents and other Italian speakers. Given that reputation, my trip actually went remarkably smoothly. But because I am me, it was a source of anxiety and distress just the same.
J and I had actually tried already to retrieve the package—a delivery of books for one of my writing projects—on Friday. The claim slip that I’d gotten in the mail appeared to indicate that I needed to pick up the package at sportello #40. The highest numbered desk in the place was 16. Hmmm. After wandering around for a while, we managed to match up one word on the slip to one word on a sign posted near the end of one line. We figured that was as good an indication as anything that this was where we were supposed to be.
Ahead of us in the queue were at least a dozen people, and no one seemed to be making much progress. Gauging how long we might be there was complicated by the fact that only about half the people waiting were actually in line, while the rest were seated on nearby chairs or leaning against the wall. Whenever someone new showed up to wait, a synchrony of pointing ensued, indicating who was last in line. At any rate, it seemed fairly clear that this would not be a short stop. Since J had pressing work matters awaiting him, and I hadn’t brought a book to read while waiting, we decided it made the most sense to bail and I would come back another day, at a less lunchtimey hour.
So today I get there a little after 9. There’s still a line, but it’s shorter than last time. There are also still people sitting, though, so I first have to figure out if—as before—they’re also “in line.” I hang back for a minute and see another woman get in line, with no pointing performance. Satisfied, then, that she’s the end of the queue, I go to stand behind her…
…at which point one of the seated women says something to me that I gather means the seated people are waiting after all. Okay, fine. I don’t get it, but fine. But then she goes on to gesture at the claim slip that I’m clutching. She tells me (I think) that I can’t pick up a package here anyhow. Uh oh. She does a fair amount of pointing (very popular here!), and although I don’t get most of what she says I do manage to grasp onto the words fuori and sinistro.
So I get outside, I go to the left, and yeah, I have no fucking idea what they’re talking about. There’s a giant gate to my left, inside of which there looks to be a loading dock and yes, some packages. But the gate’s closed and there’s no buzzer that I can see and no one around. There is a sign on what looks to be a pedestrian (as opposed to delivery truck) part of the gate, but, well, it’s in Italian. And the only thing I really understand on it is “chiuso”—closed.
I continue standing there with my by-now-slightly-damp claim slip in my hand and, I expect, a look of bewilderment on my face, an elderly lady happens by and starts talking to me. She reads the sign, she gestures, she says a lot of stuff in Italian, she points at the door. The door back into the post office. Where I just was.
But, since I don’t have any other leads to go on, and since this woman in her patterned housedress and orthopedic shoes doesn’t seem to be playing a practical joke on me, I go back in. And there, to my right, is a separate room from the one I’d been in originally. It’s still inside the building—which to me makes it not technically fuori—but at this point I really don’t know where else to go, so I may as well try this.
I soon realize that the sportello I finally end up at is some kind of localized center of amnesia. The elderly man two spots ahead of me in line forgot his glasses on the counter. Fortunately, the man directly ahead of me called him back and there were subsequent thank yous and smiles all around. Then the man ahead of me, the man who did the calling back, forgot some sort of official looking slips of paper on the counter. Possibly the very slips of paper he had come to the post office to get. I don’t know. I might have called him back and received my own thank you and smile if:
a) I had not been too wrapped up in my own little world of what amounts to a combination of stage fright and social anxiety to even register the fact that he’d left something behind
b) I had had any idea what the slips of paper that he left behind actually were
c) I had known any of the words necessary to call him back other than “scusa, signore”
d) I had been able to work up the courage to raise my voice above a whisper to actually get his attention
Suffice it to say, he remembered for himself and came back to get his slips of paper.
And then, after completing my own transaction at the desk, I forgot one of the coins from my change. The man behind me in line had to call me back to retrieve it. Clearly this place holds some sort of mind-erasing power.
Fortunately, however, it also turn out to be the right place. After a mere 40 minutes total, I escape with my life AND my package.
And now, to provide snapshot of my mental terrain, here are a few of the things that went through my head during this whole ordeal:
- This wouldn’t be an “ordeal” if I weren’t such a freak. It would be an “errand.” At least I think that’s what a normal/sane person would call it.
- Is this where I turn? I can’t remember. I think this is where I turn. I’ll just turn and if it’s the wrong spot I’ll just go around the block or something.
- Don’t step in that, it’s probably urine.
- Okay. Okay. I’m understanding like one fifth of what they’re saying. That’s not too bad.
- I probably have red marks on my nose from my sunglasses. That’s so embarrassing.
- Am I going the right way? Is this what they meant? And if it isn’t, are they watching me and laughing?
- What the hell. This gate is locked. I can’t get in here. This must not have been the right way. Which means they were probably laughing at me.
- But they said “fuori!” Why would they say that if I didn’t have to go “fuori?”
- I could just let them send the package back. I probably ordered too many books anyhow. I’m sure I can make do with what I already have.
- I’m sweating.
- I’m not sure what this old lady is saying. Oh wait, she just said “chiuso.” Yeah, I figured that part already.
- Okay, she’s clearly indicating that I should go back inside. I should try to tell her that inside they told me to go “fuori.” Oh my god, my mind is an utter blank. I can’t think of a single word. I’ll just follow her inside.
- Okay. Okay, this must be right. I don’t know why it says it’s for business, but whatever.
- I hope I get the desk with the girl. The guy looks a little bit mean.
- Oh good, I got the girl.
- She can’t find the package. Oh my god. I’m probably at the wrong post office. I’m going to have to do this all over again.
- Please let another desk open. The people in line behind me are all going to be pissed off at me for holding it up.
- How do they give you your package, anyhow? It obviously won’t fit through this little bank-teller money-slot thingy.
- She found my package. Great. But why is it in a giant white plastic-canvas bag?
- I’m going to look so stupid carrying a giant white plastic-canvas bag home.
- Ah, okay, so they hand it through the weird chute over there. Okay. How does this door thing work? Do I pull on it? Do I push on it? Does she press something from the other side that opens it automatically? Crap. OK, I’ll just try tugging on it casually. That’s not working. Crap.
- Oh good god, I forgot my change. This is so embarrassing. Grazie, signore. But honestly dude, you could’ve just kept the 20 centissimi.
- I wonder what that guy will forget? What happens if you forget something at that desk and there’s no one in line behind you to call you back?
- This entire block smells like donuts. That is so awesome.
- I think that guy just smiled at me. And maybe nodded. Was it a flirty smile? Or a “heh, nice giant white plastic-canvas bag” smile?
- If it was a flirty smile, what’s the protocol here? Am I supposed to smile back? If I do, does that make me look trampy? If I don’t, does it make me look bitchy? What would an Italian woman do?
- Oh look, nuns!
- I’m sweating.
parole del giorno:
sportello: deskfuori: outside
sinistro: left
chiuso: closed