Chiacchierare

A subtle act that says it all

In Lazise, on the eastern shore of Lago di Garda, I step into a Poste Italiane – Italy’s analog to the U.S. Postal Service. It’s mid-afternoon on a Tuesday in September. A few people are milling about, addressing envelopes, completing forms. There’s a someone or two in the queue ahead awaiting a “Prossimo!” (“Next!”) from the pair of busy clerks to approach the counter.

“Un momento,” instead, says one of them.

The man comes around the counter, across the office, through the line, and walks out the front door. I turn to watch him cross the street and enter a bar. Four or five minutes later, he emerges with due espressi. The man reenters and heads back to the counter. No styrofoam to-gos, we’re talking cups and saucers, and flanked with little biscotti. He hands an espresso to his colleague. She stands and the two of them jaw for a minute, sipping coffee and dipping biscotti, having a proper office day chiacchierata (chit-chat).

The lady dabs the corners of her mouth with a napkin and returns to her seat. “Prossimo!” she says, like a referee’s whistle, and the time-out for a huddle is over. We’re back to business per usual and no one bats an eye. Meanwhile, I am over the moon, beaming in a nondescript lobby with quiet glee as I ponder chiacchierare, the infinitive at play here in the Poste Italiane. Can you even imagine this scene in a U.S. Post Office? Maybe in an episode of Portlandia.

THIS is exactly why I want to move to Italy.