After a week or so time, I heard from one of my referees that IBM in Rome had contacted her and grilled her thoroughly on my expertise and experience. The agent then contacted to say that IBM in Rome asked for a recent photograph. I sent one, it must have passed the Italian style check and I was offered the contract.
We arrived in Rome and lugged our suitcases to the hotel we had booked for five days. I started work while Judy tried to find long term accommodation. Not an easy task. Reasonable apartments were non existent. Judy discovered a publication for expats living in Rome, called Wanted In Rome. From that, she found a place available near the village of Zagarolo, about 40 km south of Rome. Out of a sense of desperation, we settled on that as maybe a short term solution while we found something closer in.
The accommodation was on the grounds of a country club about 10 minutes' walk out of the Zagarolo village. From the country club, it would be a 2 hour commute to and from work -- 20 minute walk to the train station, 40 km train ride into Rome, 25 minute metro ride out to the outskirts of Rome, then a 10 minute bus ride to the IBM site. A veritable trek twice a day, but needs must. As a sweetener, the rental included free use of the country club's 20 acre grounds, tennis courts and swimming pool.
The country club was run by a couple, Mariella and Dante. They lived in a large villa on the grounds. Dante was aged in his mid 50s, tall, slim, bespectacled, tanned, cropped grey hair. Dante, spoke good English and seemed helpful. As well as running the country club, Dante doubled as a tour guide for package tourist groups visiting Italy. He spoke English well -- slow and measured, careful to make sure you had understood what he was saying. He was expansive and explanatory without wasting words, everything you would want in a tour guide.
The village of Zagarolo is built on a ridge, with steep rocky cliffs on each side. The only access is the arched gateways at either end of the ridge. These gateways are imposing structures with statues of female heads looking down at you sternly as you entered, as if to say "You better not be planning anything that your mother would disapprove of." As Dante explained, whenever there was a new Pope installed, he would send out his army to sack the town and extract the dues. The stern looks didn't deter the papal armies apparently.
Our first residence on the grounds was a little bungalow bedsit affair, referred eupmemistically by Dante as"the chalet." It was situated under two large cherry trees, and in mid March, it was warm enough for us to eat our evening meal outside, and watch the lights appear on the mountain villages off in the distance.
One of the things we liked about the Italian lifestyle was the quality of the fresh food and the range and price of the wine. The local prosecco, with the cork tied on with a piece of string cost all of one euro a bottle at the local supermarket. Drinking more than half a bottle did tend to result in a dull headache the following day, but the cost offset that somewhat.
While opening a bottle one night, I had untied the string and was fist-gripping the cork firmly and twisting to extract it. Suddenly -- BANG -- the bottleneck exploded and from between my fingers oozed a horrifying mixture of fizzy prosecco and my blood. That rather dampened the appeal.
But no real damage done and there were plenty more alcoholic beverages to choose from. The Zagarolo region was home to many vinyards, and the area was particularly renowned for its dry white wines. You could buy a quite drinkable 1.5 litre bottle of the local white, Zagarolo's finest for one euro fifty. Another popular beverage was limoncello. Every household seemed to make it since lemons were freely available from the many cherry trees, sugar was cheep, and you could pick up a bottle of straight ethanol from the local supermarket. The only other ingredient was tap water, just enough to prevent full blown alcohol poisening.
Dante completed work on another dwelling in the grounds of the country club, "The Cottage." It was much nicer than our current accommodation, it had separate, dining area, lounge room and bedroom. It was spacious, light and airy. Dante and his wife sympathised with my transport shortcomings, and through friends, organised a car for me. We had thought of buying a car, but the insurance was prohibitive unless you had documented proof that you hadn't claimed anywhere in the world in the past 11 years. Dante had a friend with an old Fiat Panda which they were prepared to lend to me for a price. They would add me to the existing insurance policy which didn't cost much at all.
The Panda was old and had the customary set of dents that most Italian cars seemed to have from the various bumps and scrapes that driving in Italy inevitably involves. I became very fond of the Panda. It was reliable, a joy to drive in a basic wheels-and-engine kind of way, and I enjoyed mixing it with the Italians on the roads. The long commute was reduced because I could now drive to the station. My monthly train ticket which included train and metro fares plus car parking at the station for the month, cost 20 euros.
Dante quickly found new tenants for "The Chalet." Alfredo, a tall Italian in his 70s and Anna Lise, a 50 something German woman moved in. They communicated with each other in the closest language they had in common, which was broken English. We shared many pleasant hours under the cherry trees, misunderstanding each other, dining on Anna Lise's fine cooking, and quaffing the fine Zagarolo white wine.
Dante also had an apartment in his villa which he let out short term to various guests, some Italian, some English, some a mixture of both. These guests generally blended in to the country club social scene, joining us under the cherry trees, relating our various origin stories. Alfredo's party trick on these occasions was that he would proclaim "I . . Am an American," then wait for the looks of puzzlement from others, before recounting the story of his early years. Which was that his father, who worked for the bank of Italy, had been stationed in New York before the second world war. Alfredo was born in the USA not long before the war broke out.
After the US joined the war, Alfredo's father was reluctant to return to war-torn Europe. He arranged a job, translating with a media outlet since working for an enemy bank wasn't an option anymore. He contacted his family back in Rome with the happy news that he could now stay in the USA. His father, Alfredo's grandfather, said that no, this wasn't happy news at all, and commanded his son to get himself and the family back to Italy any way he could. So the family dutifully left the US and travelled to Italy via a mixture of red cross ships to neutral countries and circuitous road and rail journeys. Alfredo, as a one or two year old citizen of American, was only allowed to leave on the condition that he accepted a life long US pension.
I used to give Alfredo and Anna Lise lifts into town and to pick them up from the station if they missed the bus, and Alfredo became adept at referring to "The Panda" in a broad Australian accent.
Judy had to go back to Australia to take care of some business and, as a non-EU passport holder, to arrange an Italian visa. She tussled with the Italian embassy when applying for the visa. The embassy staff requested documentation to support the application, that I had to obtain and send back to Australia. After two or three batches, there was one final request which required me to take a day off work and criss-cross Rome to find the appropriate offices, join long queues, wait for them to find someone with at least rudimentary English skills, explain the situation, get a piece of paper signed and more importantly, stamped. Finally I had to locate the Australian Embassy to get my signature witnessed. The Australian embassy was like an air conditioned oasis of sanity after the Italian offices, and the ambassador himself quickly came out and witnessed my signature. I sent the documents off to Judy with the message that this was it -- I could do no more.
Judy took the papers to the Italian embassy but the embassy official said they weren't sufficient. Judy said that this was all they were getting, and that she insisted on a visa. The embassy official said that it was not possible. Judy said that she would appeal to a higher authority. The embassy official said that she, the official, was the highest authority when it came to issuing visas. There was no one else to appeal to. Judy said "Well I'm taking this up with my brother in law. He is the ambassador for . . " Before she could finish the sentence, the embassy official had signed and stamped the visa request.
So we settled down to life in Zagarolo. I managed to navigate the Saturday morning market with my extremely limited Italian. I experienced a breakthrough when I learned the basic numbers and the word for "that' -- questo. I could now go to the market and say "Due centi grammi de questo," and point to some particularly appetizing sliced salami, for example.
While opening a bottle one night, I had untied the string and was fist-gripping the cork firmly and twisting to extract it. Suddenly -- BANG -- the bottleneck exploded and from between my fingers oozed a horrifying mixture of fizzy prosecco and my blood. That rather dampened the appeal.
But no real damage done and there were plenty more alcoholic beverages to choose from. The Zagarolo region was home to many vinyards, and the area was particularly renowned for its dry white wines. You could buy a quite drinkable 1.5 litre bottle of the local white, Zagarolo's finest for one euro fifty. Another popular beverage was limoncello. Every household seemed to make it since lemons were freely available from the many cherry trees, sugar was cheep, and you could pick up a bottle of straight ethanol from the local supermarket. The only other ingredient was tap water, just enough to prevent full blown alcohol poisening.
Dante completed work on another dwelling in the grounds of the country club, "The Cottage." It was much nicer than our current accommodation, it had separate, dining area, lounge room and bedroom. It was spacious, light and airy. Dante and his wife sympathised with my transport shortcomings, and through friends, organised a car for me. We had thought of buying a car, but the insurance was prohibitive unless you had documented proof that you hadn't claimed anywhere in the world in the past 11 years. Dante had a friend with an old Fiat Panda which they were prepared to lend to me for a price. They would add me to the existing insurance policy which didn't cost much at all.
The Panda was old and had the customary set of dents that most Italian cars seemed to have from the various bumps and scrapes that driving in Italy inevitably involves. I became very fond of the Panda. It was reliable, a joy to drive in a basic wheels-and-engine kind of way, and I enjoyed mixing it with the Italians on the roads. The long commute was reduced because I could now drive to the station. My monthly train ticket which included train and metro fares plus car parking at the station for the month, cost 20 euros.
Dante quickly found new tenants for "The Chalet." Alfredo, a tall Italian in his 70s and Anna Lise, a 50 something German woman moved in. They communicated with each other in the closest language they had in common, which was broken English. We shared many pleasant hours under the cherry trees, misunderstanding each other, dining on Anna Lise's fine cooking, and quaffing the fine Zagarolo white wine.
Dante also had an apartment in his villa which he let out short term to various guests, some Italian, some English, some a mixture of both. These guests generally blended in to the country club social scene, joining us under the cherry trees, relating our various origin stories. Alfredo's party trick on these occasions was that he would proclaim "I . . Am an American," then wait for the looks of puzzlement from others, before recounting the story of his early years. Which was that his father, who worked for the bank of Italy, had been stationed in New York before the second world war. Alfredo was born in the USA not long before the war broke out.
After the US joined the war, Alfredo's father was reluctant to return to war-torn Europe. He arranged a job, translating with a media outlet since working for an enemy bank wasn't an option anymore. He contacted his family back in Rome with the happy news that he could now stay in the USA. His father, Alfredo's grandfather, said that no, this wasn't happy news at all, and commanded his son to get himself and the family back to Italy any way he could. So the family dutifully left the US and travelled to Italy via a mixture of red cross ships to neutral countries and circuitous road and rail journeys. Alfredo, as a one or two year old citizen of American, was only allowed to leave on the condition that he accepted a life long US pension.
I used to give Alfredo and Anna Lise lifts into town and to pick them up from the station if they missed the bus, and Alfredo became adept at referring to "The Panda" in a broad Australian accent.
Judy had to go back to Australia to take care of some business and, as a non-EU passport holder, to arrange an Italian visa. She tussled with the Italian embassy when applying for the visa. The embassy staff requested documentation to support the application, that I had to obtain and send back to Australia. After two or three batches, there was one final request which required me to take a day off work and criss-cross Rome to find the appropriate offices, join long queues, wait for them to find someone with at least rudimentary English skills, explain the situation, get a piece of paper signed and more importantly, stamped. Finally I had to locate the Australian Embassy to get my signature witnessed. The Australian embassy was like an air conditioned oasis of sanity after the Italian offices, and the ambassador himself quickly came out and witnessed my signature. I sent the documents off to Judy with the message that this was it -- I could do no more.
Judy took the papers to the Italian embassy but the embassy official said they weren't sufficient. Judy said that this was all they were getting, and that she insisted on a visa. The embassy official said that it was not possible. Judy said that she would appeal to a higher authority. The embassy official said that she, the official, was the highest authority when it came to issuing visas. There was no one else to appeal to. Judy said "Well I'm taking this up with my brother in law. He is the ambassador for . . " Before she could finish the sentence, the embassy official had signed and stamped the visa request.
So we settled down to life in Zagarolo. I managed to navigate the Saturday morning market with my extremely limited Italian. I experienced a breakthrough when I learned the basic numbers and the word for "that' -- questo. I could now go to the market and say "Due centi grammi de questo," and point to some particularly appetizing sliced salami, for example.
