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* photo by micora
There are a plethora of small regional Italian Banks, but only a certain number of clearing banks, thus international transactions can result in astronomical bank charges. Consequently Italians generally prefer to do lots of their transactions in cash. In fact they don’t trust banks at all, and often prefer to keep their savings hidden under the mattress. In the end we tore up the cheque book in disgust and closed this euro account, as it was basically useless.
So we had to organise setting up an Italian bank account, to enable us to transfer some of our funds over to Italy. Guido’s cousin worked as a cashier in one of the bigger Italian banks and he said he would try to help us by organising for us to meet the Bank Manager. In due course the meeting went ahead, but we were advised that we could not open a “normal” bank account, as we were not registered as “Residents” in Italy, yet we couldn’t be “Residents” because we didn’t have a normal bank account ??? Therefore we had to open a “Stranieri” account, which of course was subject to significantly higher charges.
The staff in the bank turned out to be very helpful, and it was just as well, as it took a full hour and a half to complete the procedure of opening the account, which meant Paul had to leave to feed the parking meter on several occasions. There was a long list of questions and a series of screens on the computer that the clerk had to fill in using a complicated system of codes. The staff didn’t seem to have created a “Stranieri” account before, clearly they were unsure of the procedures, as they had to phone up Head Office several times for advice. Then reams of documentation were printed off in triplicate, at least half a tree’s worth!!! Eventually after much sorting and stapling we were given pages and pages of documentation to sign, before we were finally despatched with two enormous bulging folders of paperwork. We left the bank totally exhausted by this experience.
We soon learned that free personal banking does not exist in Italy, because an account holder has to pay a three monthly fee just for the privilege of having an account. We opted not to have a cheque book as every cheque you write also comes with an additional cost.
Subsequent visits to the bank also proved to be very time consuming. Firstly simply getting in and out of the bank can be quite an ordeal, as most Italian banks are, for security reasons, equipped with a metal detecting device. (There are said to be more bank robberies in Italy than any other country in the European Union !!!)
Firstly you are told to leave your personal belongings such as: keys; coins; watches; jewellery and mobile phones in a small locker, a system somewhat similar to that of a swimming pool changing room. Then you have to push a button to open the door of a small, claustrophobic “airlock”, and automatically the door closes behind you, imprisoning you inside. Then inevitably the machine picks up on something metallic on your person, and a grating voice instructs you to go back outside and put all your metallic objects in the locker provided. Paul found, to his great annoyance, that many seemingly innocuous objects can fall foul of this wonder of modern technology, such as a buckle on a belt, zips and in particular safety shoes with protective steel toe-caps. Paul was often stared at by other customers whilst approaching to the counter, in his socks, holding up his trousers with one hand, whilst trying to get a cashpoint card out of his wallet with the other.
So, having eventually gained entry to the bank, you now have to start the process of “waiting to be served”. First you must make a mental note of exactly your place in the queue, as this can be confusing. There are sometimes chairs for elderly customers to sit on whilst waiting their turn. On one occasion an old dear entered just before us, gnarled and bent double, hobbling on a stick, complaining of her artriti. We smiled sympathetically as she took a pew, and noted that she was before us in the queue. I watched her shrewdly observing how the transactions at the counter were proceeding. When she concluded that it was her turn, she jumped up and made a sudden sprint to the counter, we’d never seen someone be so quickly energised, despite their dreadful artriti !!!
Basically, Italians just don’t comprehend queuing, and customers tend to stand around in a rebelliously disorderly fashion, huffing and puffing, generally grumbling loudly about the excruciatingly slow speed of service. Meanwhile, they take advantage of the situation to size each other up and listen in to other people’s conversations.
Customers are, on the whole, served in turn, but inevitably there is somebody who just wants to sneak in to “ask a simple question”, and “it will only take a moment”, and “You don’t mind do you?”. Consequently you end up waiting forever and a day, because nothing in Italy is simple, so inevitably the matter in question turns out to be far more complicated than it should be. Meanwhile you are left thinking of all the other things you could usefully be doing with the precious wasted time.
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The road up to the rented villa was steep and winding, not at all straightforward for a touring caravan to negotiate, however our friend Guido kindly allowed us to park our caravan on his piece of land overlooking a delightful, hidden little cove. The grounds were overgrown with waist high weeds, so in exchange for his kindness we offered to help him begin to tame the wilderness with a temperamental decispugliatore (strimmer) which proved to be more trouble than it was worth. Guido showed us the way down the steep, rustic, wooden stairway that lead to the beautiful white, sandy beach.
* photo by paul ellson
At that time Guido had three dogs. The first, named “Fausta”, stood waist high, when on all fours, and was a Pastore Maremmano, a breed of large, powerful herding dog from the Maremma area of Tuscany. “Fausta” would come boisterously lolloping up, drooling profusely, her tail alone could give you a nasty lashing and if she jumped up she could easily knock me flying. The second was a sizeable swanky male, by the name “Geronimo”, who was a cross between a Husky and a German Shepherd. The third named “Mona” was smaller and more timid, with a sweet temperament.
Most of the time the dogs were kept in ramshackle kennel in a rickety enclosure, only being let loose to run off steam and play before their afternoon feeding time. They were generally fed on bones, scraps and pasta that had been boiled up in a large smelly pot.
One day we drove up to Guido’s terrain as usual, with our two dogs panting in the back of the car, feeling safe in the knowledge that the other three hounds would be safely contained in their pen. Paul released our dogs from the car, intending to tether them nearby, when in a flash Fausta and Geronimo came bounding across, bearing their teeth and growling ferociously. A terrible fight broke out, and they savagely attacked our two dogs who were screaming and yelping in terror. Paul scrambled about on the floor, wrestling with Guido’s hounds in an effort to curtail the attack. Fortunately reinforcements were soon at hand, in the form of Guido and his brother, who finally succeeded in separating the dogs, and we speedily locked our two safely back into the car. Paul was left looking pale and in a veritable state of shock, not to mention badly grazed and scratched. It took quite some time for him to catch his breath and stop trembling.
We checked our dogs over, and at first believed they had escaped without any injuries. It was only later that evening that we found that Barney had in fact received a nasty bite in a rather delicate region. The next morning we found a local vet, who pronounced that the bite was infected and needed stitches. Having paid the expensive vet’s bill we resolved never to take our hounds up to Guido’s again for it had proved to be a very costly mistake.
Barney soon made a full recovery, so much so that one day whilst I was playing ball with him he managed to leap up and head butt me under the chin, making me the proud owner of a fat split lip. That’s gratitude for you!
** photo by rogilde
Later, we heard that Guido’s dogs had twice broken out of their enclosure, and had gone “AWOL”. In their break for freedom they galloped off down the wooden stairway towards the sea, where no doubt they wreaked havoc among the poor, unsuspecting sun bathers. It was not long before it became evident that both the female dogs were pregnant.
Some weeks later Guido proudly announced that both the bitches had given birth to their cucciolini. The smaller Mona had produced a lovely litter of ten, and Fausta excelled herself in delivering another fifteen pups. Thus Guido’s patch was rapidly transformed into a “puppy farm” with the copious new arrivals !!!
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It became clear that very soon we would have to consider moving from Salvatore’s campsite, as the summer season was fast approaching.
Dear Salvatore had allowed us to remain with our two hounds as a special favour, although his campsite had an official policy of “no dogs”. He had been so concerned for us and had tried his best to prolong our stay, but before long another family from Rome would be arriving, expecting to park their caravan on our pitch. Already at weekends several families had begun turning up, busily organising themselves for the summer months. They arrived with their cars packed to the gunnels with crates, plastic tables, chairs, sun loungers, umbrellas, fridges, cooking stoves, plastic cupboards, shelving, fans, TV’s …… even canaries in cages and pet cats. This was an almost “home from home” relocation – Just how much could more could they manage to cram into a small caravan and awning, we wondered?
All the little local campsites, shops and restaurants dotted along the coast road had started springing into life, preparing for the onslaught of summer visitors. Boards were prepared advertising the local cuisine and delicacies such as zuppa di pesce, tiella and fresh mozzarella di buffala. Stalls appeared setting out a colourful array of holiday goods. Over-grown verges were cleared for parking so that in August hundreds of cars could squeeze into every little nook and cranny of space available.
At one stage we considered purchasing a second-hand mobile-home to accommodate us all on the building site, while the necessary renovation work was being undertaken on the farmhouse.
However in due course we abandoned this notion and decided that the quickest solution was to find a suitable rental property in the Itri vicinity. We had not taken into account that rental prices were significantly inflated during the profitable summer months, thus we were greatly relieved when Giampiero, the estate agent, came up trumps by locating a more reasonably priced property, which could solve our accommodation problem, at least in the short term.
This was merely a small, simple country villa, but to us it felt perfectly luxurious and spacious, compared to our compact little caravan quarters, and best of all it had a bath and lots of hot and cold running water.
Yet we were particularly sad to conclude our stay at the campsite, as we had very much enjoyed our spell there, under Salvatore’s watchful eye. We promised to drive down to visit him and his family regularly.
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So, we needed to get our Birth and Marriage Certificates translated into Italian. Therefore I spent several days with our huge “bible” of a dictionary, working on this exceedingly challenging task, and eventually printed off the translations to be checked by Guido. He awarded me seven out of ten for my efforts, but there are certain official words that just do not translate easily. Guido was wonderful and patiently amended the transcripts so that they made better sense.
Now “all we had to do“ was to get the translations officially authenticated as being accurate and true, but had no idea of how to accomplish this. We tried ringing the British Embassy in Rome for advice, but this turned out to be a complete waste of time, as we just got recorded messages saying that the Embassy was no longer open to the public, and only dealt with matters through the post, otherwise to consult the information on their web-site.
On the website we eventually hit upon a link to a list of approved translators, however they all seemed to be based in Rome ……… until we scrolled, down, down, almost to the bottom of the page and there we found one ……………….. in Gaeta … Bravo!!!
We phoned the lady immediately. She was English and very helpful and friendly, and advised us that as we had already translated the documents, we could save ourselves a lot of money, as there was a relatively new law that made it possible for anyone to “self-certify” a document. However, to do this one had to visit the Cancelleria department (probably the equivalent to visiting a Commissioner of Oaths in the UK) in the comune. She also added that if we needed any further help or advice, she would be very happy to assist. How wonderful – A new friend, that spoke our native tongue!!!
We dashed off, post haste, with Guido’s teenage son Peppe to help us out. However after climbing seemingly interminable flights of energy sapping marble stairs, we arrived at the very top of the building, desperately gasping for breath. The corridor was bustling with Armani suited businessmen, with leather briefcases in hand, their jackets draped nonchalantly over their shoulders.
Abruptly, Peppe was taken aside and firmly reprimanded for wearing shorts in an official building, and was asked to leave the premises directly. Thankfully we managed to find the Cancelleria department and queuing patiently,were successful in obtaining the necessary forms. We were instructed that we needed to buy Franco di bolli (official government duty stamps which) which are required to legalise many Italian official documents. These stamps come in various values and can be purchased from a tobacconist’s shop known as a Tabaccheria.
By now it was almost lunchtime, and the town hall was soon due to shut, and with it being a Friday it would not be open in the afternoon, of course !!! So over the weekend we had plenty of time to complete the forms.
So bright eyed and busy tailed on the following Monday morning we presented ourselves once again at the Cancelleria with various sets of forms and of very expensive Franco di bolli costing (at that time) about 18 euros per document. Giovanna offered to accompany us.
The lady official licked each set of stamps and stuck them onto each form, which in turn was stapled to the original certificate and the translated copy. Giovanna was asked to sign her name on each and every page of the document, having taken an oath that the translations of the certificates were in fact true and accurate. Each bundle of papers was allocated a number and these were then entered, by hand, in an enormous leather bound register. Each and every page of the documents was then heavily rubber stamped, indeed I think the signora found this to be the best part of her job, as she performed this with such gusto. Finally, we exited the comune skipping down the steps, triumphantly waving the papers in our hands.
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Next we revisited the Agenzia delle Entrate to change my surname on my Codice Fiscale. This was a soulless, echoing building of fairly new construction. As directed we took a numbered ticket and then sat anxiously in the uncomfortable plastic chairs watching the illuminated board waiting for our number to come up. Progress seemed painfully slow, and we were concerned that the office might soon close for lunch, no doubt just before it got to our number. However thankfully, that day the gods were on our side, and with all the right translated documentation to hand altering my name turned out to be a remarkably simple and painless procedure. Thank goodness or meno male as the Italians say.
It felt very strange though, signing on the dotted line in my maiden name, something I hadn’t done for many a year.
Some good news – We made further enquiries and it seemed that we were not required to have our Permesso di Soggiorno’s in order to purchase the house. Also, we learned that if we bought a house in the district of Itri we would have to register at La Questura in the town of Fondi, so thankfully we would not have to deal again with the aforementioned “green eyed hag”.
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* photo by LaertesCTB
We learned that we needed to apply for a Permesso Di Soggiorno, sometimes also referred to as a Carta Di Soggiorno, permission to stay in the country, for a period of more than 90 days. We wanted to be sure of exactly which documents we needed to present to the authorities in order to be granted this certificate.
We bravely ventured forth in search of the nearest Questura / Commissario Policia (State Police Headquarters), to make such enquiries. As soon as we entered the austere building we felt a sense of foreboding. In the reception area we were met with a formidably sized, uniformed and armed police officer sitting at a desk behind a large plate glass window. He tersely directed us to the Ufficio di Stranieri which translates inhospitably as the “Foreigners Office”.
Here we found a particularly unreceptive, lady official, with decidedly dodgy, olive-green eye make-up and brown lipstick. We were not sure if she had another profession, but we could have sworn we’d seen a broomstick parked outside. We greeted her politely in Italian, saying that we were British, and requested some information regarding applying for our permits.
“What?” she said incredulously, “You should have applied for the Visas from the Italian Consulate in your own country of origin. Surely you know that !!! “.
But ….. ??? We tried to explain that we were citizens of the UK and of the EU, which gave us the right to ………………………
But t’was in vain – she would have none of it. She continued to intimidate us asking us where we were currently residing. We replied honestly: “In a caravan on a campsite near Sant’ Agostino beach.” “What ???” – she said !!! I think she envisioned us as zingarelle – gypsies! “How on earth can you possibly expect to get a Permesso di Soggiorno if you have no proper fixed address !!! It is all highly irregular!!!”.
Brusquely she said she would have to contact the Provincial Police Headquarters in Latina for advice, and insisted that we should come back on Saturday morning. This was rather odd as later we found out that the Questura is actually shut on Saturdays !!!
So, we limped off, with our tails between our legs, feeling very despondent, depressed, confused, and frustrated. What on earth was to be done? This had been our first dose of culture shock.
We returned to the campsite and proceeded to relate our tale of woe to Pasquale. “These Officials – they know nothing!!!” he said, “All they want is their pay cheque at the end of the month, and to do as little work as possible. If they are in a bad mood you’ve had it!” It seemed that Italian bureaucracy was as much a “thorn in the side” of Italian citizens as it is to us foreigners. In Italy the wheels grind painfully slowly.
We re-consulted our books and internet articles, to once again check our entitlements. We also asked Guido to check things out for us on the official Italian Government website.
Yes !!! Of course we were right all along !!!
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* photo by John Morgan
So we were left with the possibility of buying the deserted farmhouse with the large acreage of land. However it seemed that even this property had problems attached. We discovered that there was an ancient clause in the deeds, regarding an ecclesiastical livello attached to one of the sections of land, something similar to a tithe agreement. It appeared that this land had once belonged to the church and via a half-tenancy, half-freehold arrangement had probably been let out to a local peasant, contadino, who worked the land. In return he was bound to give a share of his produce to the church. After a certain period of time the tenant had the right to acquire the land and pass it on to his heirs. The church and parish no longer existed, however the clause had still remained in the deeds, so it was possible that the church still might still technically hold an interest. We were told that this agreement would have to be legally cancelled by the current owners. Giampiero, the estate agent, said that this would only take a couple of months, however talking to our geometra Rocco, we learned that this could in fact be a long drawn out, complicated task. The local Church Committee apparently only met once a month, and if the proposal was brought up at the first meeting, the matter would not be considered until the following month. If there was some problem or opposition to the cancellation of the contratto di livello then this matter could take six months or even longer to resolve. This concerned us deeply, as TIME was the one thing we did not have. We were anxious to get my parents relocated here in Italy, so that we could all be reunited. Being an only child, I had no brothers or sisters to keep a watchful eye out for them. Since we had left them behind in the UK back in April, they had been left somewhat “in limbo”, anxiously waiting news of developments as the months were steadily ticking by.
However, there is one thing you have to accept in Italy – here things just cannot be hurried !!! “Italian time” greatly differs greatly from “British time”, and not just because the Italian clocks are set one hour in advance of good old “Greenwich Mean Time”. If a shop displays its opening hours on the door, this does not in any way mean that it actually sticks to this timetable. Most shops tend to re-open after the lunch break, siesta or riposo, at around “4…ish” in the afternoon. However this may depend on: the day of the week, the length of a snooze after consuming a huge Italian lunch, what’s on the TV, a game of cards, or other possibly more or less important engagements, to mention but a few. Then there is the time concerning appointments. Normally when setting a time to meet they say verso, meaning around, whatever the intended time of the meeting. Verso can be anything from a quarter of an hour, half an hour, even three quarters of an hour or more after the scheduled hour. If you are a punctual type, like my husband, you are said to be preciso, and to keep to “un orario tedescho” – a German / Swiss timetable!
Then there is “Rocco time”. Rocco, we have learned through bitter experience, is always late for appointments, come hell or high water! So many times we have been left waiting, shuffling our feet, outside an estate agent’s office, 15, 25, 45 minutes after the set time of the appointment. While making small talk with the agent Paul apologised profusely for the delay, in a very British manner, whilst I desperately kept trying to make contact with Rocco by mobile phone. Eventually we would succeed in speaking to him and he’s nonchalantly say “sto arrivando” which translates as “I am about to arrive”. Don’t you believe it !!!
5 minutes later, 10 minutes later ….. 15 minutes later ….. he’d still not turned up. “Sto arrivando” in “Rocco speak”, in reality means, “I’m just leaving”! 20 minutes later he’d finally arrive, to our great relief. But seeing that he had often been willing to give us his services for free, we couldn’t really grumble. He seemed to be able to solve many of the problems we were encountering in about 5 minutes flat, and if he couldn’t sort it out, then he always seemed to know someone who could. Therefore his unpunctuality was a small price to pay, and after all – it was the slow pace of life that had attracted us to move to Italy in the first place !!!
Rocco advised us that the casale and its vast olive grove offered plenty of potential, and would be an investment for the future. With the huge size of the land this gave the possibility of building another house or some smaller chalets or bungalows that we could let out to holiday makers. Or perhaps we could do Bed & Breakfast or even turn it into a campsite, if we could get permission from the local council or comune. It seemed that the council of the province of Latina was keen to promote tourism in the area, and grants were available to help local farmers to combine traditional farming with tourist ventures – in Italy this is known as agriturismo.
However, there still remained the piccolo problema of the livello. How much would the legal work cost to get this clause taken out of the documentation? How long would it take to get the church to cancel this ancient agreement? We learned that it was usual to offer a donation to the church in compensation. I joked with Giampiero, the estate agent, that if we paid the church a handsome donation, we would expect St Peter to supply us with “keys in hand” to enter the pearly gates of heaven. This resulted in much laughter and frivolity, but Paul was concerned that the church might expect a larger donation, perhaps for something like a new church roof. However, having taken advice from various professional sources, we thought that in reality the livello would not be too much of a problem. The parish church to which it was that it was linked apparently no longer existed. In the last 50 years the owners had never been asked to pay anything by the church, and many pieces of land come with such livellos.
Rocco also advised us to go to the Technical Department of the local Comune, and ask exactly how much extra we could build on the land and whether we would be allowed to use it for agriturismo purposes. We held our breath as the official at the town hall checked though various old documents and worked out calculations. From the horse’s mouth we were told that, as the law currently stood, we could build another ample property, and the possibility of adding more agricultural storerooms / barns. There were big sighs of relief all around.
After considerable thought we finally decided to start negotiations with an opening bid, as the asking price was supposedly trattabile, a low offer as we thought that we might have to pay to get the Livello clause annulled. The vendors had 5 days in which to accept the offer, or turn it down, so some patience on our part was required. After some to-ing and fro-ing through the agent an acceptable price was established for both parties, which we formally backed up with a proposta, a written offer accompanied by a cheque of a thousand or so euros, to confirm the seriousness of our intent to purchase. Historically, this cheque was held by the Vendor, but more modern laws now state that it must be held by the estate agents.
We arranged to view the property with the elderly Signora who looked after the property for her niece and nephew. She showed us the downstairs part of the house, which had previously always been locked, it had simply been used for storing tools and equipment for olive farming.
Eventually we managed to negotiate a price with the vendors, and Giampiero set about preparing the documents for the first stage of the purchase contract known as the Compromesso. We were aiming to complete the purchase as swiftly as possible.
We went up to visit the casale several times, to measure up and see the lie of the land, and we began to make plans for the renovation. We took Salvatore and our fellow camper Vittore, the builder from Rome, to take a look around. Vittore said that the building itself seemed to be sound enough, however he advised us to put in a damp-proof membrane downstairs. The roof also needed water-proofing under the tiles. There was a small existing bathroom with some very basic pipe-work leading to just outside of the property, however there was no septic tap or sewage system at the property. Thus any waste products literally plopped out of an open ended pipe. Perhaps that was why the olives trees behind the house seemed to grow so well!
So … we’d needed to get a new septic tank, as well as new plumbing, electrical wiring, central heating system, gas tank. Apart from that it was fine! We had thought that the work we’d done to our last house back in the UK was a big enough DIY project ! Vittore said he would prepare a modest quotation for the work that needed to be done. We also needed to think about organising the connection of water and electricity, and a perhaps a phone line as soon as possible.
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So our house hunting started once again in earnest ……..
It is clear that Italian builders have a “passionate love affair with all things concrete“. In fact it was the Italians who had invented cement over 2000 years ago, when the Romans combined slaked lime (derived from limestone rock) volcanic ash (known as pozzolana) with sand and water. The great architectural masterpieces of the Pantheon and the Colosseum in Rome were all built using this type of mixture.
Nowadays, in Italy, it is nigh on impossible to find any modern buildings not constructed of concrete, indeed Italian building techniques vary greatly from the typical wood and brick constructions commonly seen in the UK. In Italy there is also legislation that all new edifices must be built to anti-seismic specifications, using a reinforced concrete framework to provide strength to the structure.
As building was now strictly controlled near to the coast, Itri being situated slightly inland was becoming an up and coming area. A few years before the local council had announced that they would permit some limited new development in the Itri area. Immediately many of the Itrani folk realised they could be on to a very good thing here, and readily jumped on the bandwagon, selling off portions of agricultural land for handsome profits, especially those who had successfully procured the required building licences. Small property speculators keenly moved in with bulldozers to level off building sites, some required excavators to pound and chisel through stubborn limestone bedrock. The local roads were buzzing with huge, lumbering cement mixing lorries, and new villas, both large and small began springing up, like mushrooms, overnight.
We calculated that during our various trips to Italy over the last eight months we had viewed over fifty properties dotted around the country outskirts of Itri. Numerous estate agents had taken us to view an array of newly constructed properties that were generally approached by rough dirt tracks and exceptionally steep inclines. However it was still not proving easy to find just what we were looking for: an affordably priced property to suit all our family’s various requirements. Eventually we short-listed two possibilities and contacted the relevant estate agents to re-book appointments to view them again.
The first property was a deserted casale or farmhouse, which had not been inhabited for over 10 years, even before this it had not been a true family home. The facilities were very basic and left much to be desired, as it had only served as a place to camp at busy times of the Italian farming year, particularly during the autumn grape or olive harvest. It was situated in a secluded little backwater in an unspoiled valley, with mountain views and a glimpse of the sea.
The building itself seemed to be structurally sound, however was in need of a great deal of work and renovation. This would involve the installation of a new electrical system, plumbing, heating, windows, doors, bathrooms, kitchens, and so forth. However the property came with a large piece of land measure 33,000 square metres, which equated to between 8 and 9 acres. Of that 23,000 square metres was olive grove comprising around 600 trees, and the remainder was a sizeable piece of wood and scrubland. However, this property did have a great deal of potential, as with the size of the land came the possibility of building another house or some small bungalows, and the possibility of setting up a small farm holiday business or Agriturismo.
On the other hand the second property was a grezzo, a basic concrete shell of a new house, measuring a spacious 300 square metres, with a most scenic outlook of the mountains and valley. It came with an olive grove of 4,500 square metres and a sizeable agricultural store, which would have been ideal for our son to convert into a little studio. The grezzo lent itself to be converted into three or four holiday apartments. The slick, designer clothed estate agent was more than eager to inform us that there was the possibility of purchasing two adjacent plots of land both of about 5,000 square metres. On one section there was a tiny ramshackle cottage, a perfect place for an artist’s studio I thought. The other had a small rustic structure comprising two rooms.
The three separate pieces of land were individually owned by various brothers of the same family. It was here that the fun and games commenced. As soon as the brothers realised we were showing some interest, they began to put the prices up. They felt that they had hooked a potential buyer, who was a foreigner into the bargain, no doubt with copious amounts of ready cash to spend. We decided that we would only be interested in purchasing this property if we could procure all three plots of land, and vowed that there would have to be some serious bartering on our part to knock the asking prices back down to an affordable level. It seemed doubtful that we would succeed in getting all three brothers to agree.
In any case, further investigations revealed that the local council had in fact only granted consent to build an agricultural store house or barn, all on one level, measuring 150 square metres. The reality was that the proprietors had built something twice the size on two floors, therefore it was abusivo. You may ask how did they get away with it? Where were the building inspectors at each stage of the build? Why wasn’t it stopped or demolished, as would no doubt be the case in the UK? Well, the answer is simple. This is Italy !!! Here illegal building is commonplace, sometimes, literally, houses spring up overnight. In fact, a few years back when Berlusconi’s government was a bit strapped for cash it brought in a new law offering an planning amnesty, known as a Condono Edilizo, to encourage offending parties to come clean about any building irregularities in exchange for a reasonably small fine, that could be paid over a couple of years in easy instalments. You could compare it to how things are done in the Catholic faith. You commit a sin, you go to confession and your repent and say you won’t re-offend and are sent off to say an “Our Father and 10 Hail Mary’s” and then the slate is wiped clean. Thus all is well (especially with regard for government’s coffers), all parties are happy and nobody cares a fig. The only possible hazard with illegal building work is if a nosey or vindictive neighbour tells on you and notifies the local authority of your illegal work with a denuncio, before you get a chance to own up to the local council.
So we found ourselves to be in something of a dilemma. We generally preferred the casale, recognising the potential of the size of the land. However, I must say I had some reservations about the amount of work that would be involved with the renovation and the upkeep of the grounds.
The grezzo had less land, but was still quite sizeable. However, we did not know if our resources would stretch to purchasing all three pieces of land, and leave sufficient funds to finish the building and convert it into apartments. Both properties required connection to basic utilities such as water, electricity, and telephone. With each of these properties there was the need to find some temporary accommodation for us all to live in while the building work was getting underway.
We decided we needed some good, sound advice so we organised a long session with Guido’s geometra friend Rocco. We sat anxiously as he did several complex calculations. Finally he told us that the grezzo was not going to be so much of a “bargain” as the estate agent had led us to believe. Indeed there were several grave problems. As we had already ascertained the construction had been built abusivo, being twice the size detailed on the architect’s plans. In addition, only a small portion of the top floor had been granted a permit for civile abitazione – i.e. living accommodation. To get the property fully licensed would cost us significantly more. In order to obtain this permission, it would mean knocking down both the small farmhouse and little cottage. As the law currently stood, it was no longer possible to get planning permission to construct any additional structures on any of land. After doing more calculations it soon became clear that this property was turning into something of a liability, so we decided to exclude it from further thought.
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Back on the site some of our fellow campers seemed genuinely alarmed to hear that we had been going for a daily dip in the sea, as Italians, as a rule, do not dare to take their first dip before June at the very earliest. Yes – It was very intrepid of us !!! - when some days the temperature had already topped the 30 degrees C mark !!!
What on earth would they make of documentary clips of eccentric Brits taking their annual Christmas morning plunge in the murky, green sea, or of crazy cross-channel swimmers, plastered in goose fat, wading bravely into the icy British waters? It was clear that Italians are just not as hardy a breed as us northerners, and can’t possibly comprehend why we don’t tend to suffer like themselves from the cold. In the evenings the Italians would wrap themselves up in weighty woollies, to ward off the cool, night air and the treacherous colpo d’aria.
photo by dogfrog *
Yes, the colpo d’aria is a extraordinary mysterious Italian phenomenon. Literally it translates as a “hit of air“, a treacherous draught that can swiftly strike you down with a dreadful chill.
I first came across this phenomenon in my youth when my parents and I visited an aged aunt and cousin at their home in Milan during the dreaded month of August. We found Milan’s steamy, sultry weather to be insupportable, so we opened up all the windows in an effort to encourage a breath of air to circulate the stifling apartment. Zia Filomena, however, was horrified by our actions. Waving her arms about, “C’é un corrente !!!” she exclaimed, and swiftly came along right behind us, firmly banging both the shutters and windows shut. There followed a fiery argument, which served only to add to the unfavourable ambient temperature. Zia was loath to even leave a window slightly ajar, for fear of the potentially fatal consequences. As a result we were left to swelter with the perspiration literally trickling off us.
Hence we vowed NEVER to go to Milan again in August !!!
Some Italians, even in the midst of the summer heat also exhibit an aversion to air-conditioning, cooling refreshing fans, or travelling in a car with the windows wound down, for fear of being laid low by such an invisible current of air, it beggars belief. My mother used to tell us a story about an elderly Italian neighbour who lived in a flat in London’s “Little Italy”. For months she complained that she was being tormented by a malevolent colpo d’aria. The old dear convinced herself that the “draught” was being caused by a neighbour’s refrigerator in the flat upstairs, and would regularly stomp up there to vociferously express her grievances. I will leave it for you to imagine the sort of response she generally received.
Strangely it seems that it is mainly only the older generations that seems to be affected from this peril. During the months from October to April they take extra special precautions by swathing themselves in copious layers of clothing including: woollen vests and long-johns, chunky, high-necked jumpers; thick socks and tights, padded, fur-trimmed coats; hats; scarves; gloves and boots, you name it, and seem to us to be ratherly overdressed for the relatively mild ambient conditions. Similarly anxious mothers bundle up their babies and toddlers tightly like little Eskimos in padded tiers even in quite temperate weather.
However, curiously enough it seems that the present teenage generation’s genes have evolved to give them considerably more robust constitutions, especially the young females who can to go out in the worst of the winter weather wearing just a teeny mini skirt and a skimpy top, leaving their pierced belly-button midriffs wide open to the elements.
If my dear Italian grandmother was still living today,
I wonder what she would make of it all !!!
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Preparing Anchovies
One day Salvatore arrived with several polystyrene crates of locally caught silvery alice, better known to us as anchovies. He wanted to show us how these could be preserved in salt. The previous day he had already prepared one boxful, but he demonstrated us the whole procedure with the contents of the second. He commenced by decapitating the little fish by pinching below the gills using his fingers and nails and then with a gentle twisting action teasing out the entrails. I just observed, squeamishly, while Paul decided to have a go, while Salvatore vigilantly watched on. It soon became apparent that this task was not as easy as it first appeared, but little by little Paul seemed to master the task. The fish were then sprinkled with coarse granules of sea salt, and left for 24 hours – this procedure was to absorb much of the blood and to help soften the fish. The following day the fish would be ready for the next process.
Preserving Anchovies In Salt
Salvatore then appeared with the crate of fish that he had prepared the previous day. He now took some large, wide necked glass jars, and sprinkled some sea salt into the bottom. He then proceeded to carefully create a layer of the little fish, placing them in a head to tail fashion. When the first layer was complete, in went another handful of salt, followed by another layer of fish. This process was repeated several times until the container appeared to be full. Then Salvatore took out his penknife and cut some circles of polystyrene which just fitted perfectly into the neck of the container. A heavy weight was placed on top for an hour or so, which compressed the fish down, closing any air gaps, so that finally yet another layer of fish could be added with more salt scattered over the top. These containers were then to be left for a week or so, and we were told that then the old salt and any liquor had to be removed before replacing more fish in new layers of salt. This was a similar curing process to that used by Cornish folk of yore, when huge nets were used for the pilchard catch, and the fish were salted in huge barrels called hogsheads.
Salvatore had kept a few fish back and grilled them for lunch on his BBQ, the delicious wafting aroma was truly exquisite. They were scrumptious, served piping hot with a drizzle of olive oil and a generous squeeze of lemon, washed down with a glass or two of Salvatore’s home-made vino bianco. Perfetto !!!
We resolved to go down to the Gaeta fish market soon, to visit Salvatore’s brother who was a fishmonger. Salvatore assured us that his fish was always the best and very fresh, as Salvatore described it: “the fish are still talking to you!”.
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