All posts by Deirdre Straughan

Customer Service in Italy (Again)

We’ve been customers of Ikea for over 15 years – sometimes satisfied, sometimes not. I suppose that eventually we will replace most of our cheapish Ikea furniture with stuff that Rossella won’t be embarrassed to inherit, but for the time being, given budget constraints, we still buy Ikea. The Ivar unfinished pine modular shelving has mostly migrated out to the garage (after I spent hours this summer cleaning, sanding, and staining shelves coated in a decade’s worth of Milanese grime – I thought we were going to use them in the house!). The Billy bookcases are still in use, though by now they’re so old that Ikea doesn’t even make them in this color (pine) anymore. At least all this old stuff is no longer in the fancier public spaces in the house; my office and the taverna(basement den) have become the repositories of our less-presentable furniture.

Anyway, my point set out to be about customer service at Ikea. Which has markedly improved. A few years ago we got very angry about some customer service failing, I forget now what it was. As we stood arguing at the counter, a non-Italian Ikea manager observed, and came over to set things right, going the extra mile to make us happy, and showing the staff that this was the correct approach. I supposed that Ikea HQ had detected customer unhappiness in Italy, or this particular store, and sent someone from Sweden to make improvements.

During our latest visit, we saw that they’d taken great strides in staff attitudes. All the floor staff were knowledgeable and enthusiastic, in spite of being swamped with customers. It appears that Ikea have finally found the secret to training Italians to provide good service; this is knowledge they could sell, if they chose.

They could start with Telecom Italia, who continue to lose marks on both competence and politeness…

Meeting Cat Stevens

Everyone’s had their brush with fame, or at least with famous people. My personal biggest to date occurred in Bangladesh in 1976 or ’77, when Cat Stevens came to give a lot of money to UNICEF, and to visit some of the projects he was funding in various parts of Bangladesh. (I guess this was just before he officially converted to Islam.)

There wasn’t a lot going on in Dhaka in those days, and a famous person even landing in the country was huge news. It happened that a friend of the family, part of our usual weekend music group, was a huge Cat Stevens fan. He learned Stevens’ travel schedule, and showed up at the airport every time Stevens and his entourage of one (his lead guitarist) passed through. Eventually, our friend managed to invite them over for an evening.

The result was a private concert, for about 30 of us, at someone’s house in Dhaka. I was already familiar with many of the songs, and was surprised that the two of them alone sounded just like they did on the albums, without benefit of the rest of the band or any studio mixing. Cat Stevens also looked just like his album covers, with the long curly hair and beard. He did sing one song I hadn’t heard before,”My Lady d’Arbanville.”

I don’t know if anyone got any pictures with him, but I definitely didn’t, so all I have is the memory and the story to tell. And there you have it.

The Plant of Happiness

During one of my several visits to our new home before we moved, the previous owner offered to leave us some things that wouldn’t fit into her new apartment, including a two-meter tall Yucca plant. I didn’t really care for its looks, but what the heck – it was certainly thriving. When it actually came time to move, she told me that this plant had been taken away by her (soon-to-be-ex) husband as it actually belonged to his mother, but she had a smaller version that she would leave me instead. The smaller one, only about three feet tall, was sitting in the front yard in a pot. I noticed that the neighbors also had one, planted in their yard.

Then we found out that these neighbors, too, are separating and on the road to divorce. “La chiamano la pianta della felicita’, ma dicono che porta sfiga,” remarked Enrico. [“It’s called the plant of happiness, but they say it brings bad luck.”] Given the plant’s track record – 50% of the couples in this small complex divorcing! – we decided not to take any chances. I thought a ritual dismemberment or burning of the plant would be appropriate, but Enrico felt that would be going too far. So one day he took the plant out in the car and left it in front of someone’s house in a nearby town (thereby leaving the bad luck with them, we assume!).

The following week, two friends of ours died in completely unrelated incidents in different parts of Italy (one in a car accident, one of aneurysm). We concluded that we had either got rid of the plant just in time, or had not got rid of it fast enough. I still think we should have burned it.

Dec, 2004

Mike Richter says: “The yucca has an attribute you overlooked. Those ummm ‘startling’ spines are the ‘cactus needles’ some used to play 78s back in ancient times. I had a three-meter yucca beside my front porch (until it threatened to replace the porch) and still have some of its needles in my Grafonola. I hasten to add that they are not used in place of steel or plastic ones; they tend to leave resin behind in the groove.”

Reversing Sexual Liberation

By the time I reached adolescence in the mid-1970s, women’s sexual liberation, in the West at least, had supposedly been accomplished. No longer were women divided into “good girls” and “sluts” as they had been in the 1950s and early 60s – the sluts being sought after because they would “put out,” but then despised for doing so, while every man wanted to marry a virgin. That virgin-whore dichotomy died in 1968 – didn’t it? The Pill removed the risk of pregnancy, so women were free to have sex as, when, and with whom they pleased, simply because they enjoyed it.

Well, that last was never entirely true. Even Western culture assumes that women want sex only or mostly within the context of “a loving relationship,” and feel betrayed by men who “use love to get sex.” Few people were ever really comfortable with the idea of women having sex on the “male pattern” – that is: often, casually, with many different partners, just because they liked it. Outside of pornography, one of the few fictional characters who personifies and enjoys this lifestyle (and is not ultimately punished for it) is Samantha in Sex & the City.

Even Buffy (the Vampire Slayer) couldn’t have sex just because she liked sex; a very passionate sexual relationship was presented as degrading to her because she wasn’t in love with the guy. Sex just for fun, or for comfort, was unacceptable. This is one of the few points on which I’ve ever disagreed with the Buffy writers.

It appears that we have now moved on to the service model of female sexuality, where sex is something that women do, and do often, but primarily for the benefit of men. Some girls of my daughter’s generation are using sex as a way to get male attention – not a new phenomenon, I know. A recent article in Seventeen magazine (a long-running US monthly for adolescent girls) told of girls who gave blowjobs to multiple boys at parties, then were shocked that everyone in school heard about it. Some girls Ross knows here in Italy have done much the same (or claim to have), at discos or parties. In both places, these girls are labeled “sluts,” and they do get noticed by the boys – many of whom take it for granted that these girls will perform oral sex on them as well, just for the asking. And the idiots do!

I don’t see what the girls are getting out of it, except perhaps some fleeting sense of power – the ability to give pleasure is a form of power, and some people find that in itself pleasurable. But this surely should not be the sum total of the pleasure a girl gets from sex.

The boys demanding blowjobs seem not to have any notion that they are obliged to do anything for the girls in return – nor have the girls. These boys are receiving service, not making love. I don’t know where they will learn the skills they need to uphold the long-standing reputation of Italian men as the world’s greatest lovers.

I am not anti-porn, but I can’t escape the conclusion that this attitude is leaking into the wider culture from that part of the porn industry that caters to straight men – which is the major part of the industry, right now. I got worried a few years ago when I saw girls wearing t-shirts saying “Porn Star.” The  majority of porn panders to male fantasies, offering a distorted picture of women’s sexuality.

My feminist antennae are quivering. Is this just another way to control female sexuality? Make girls believe that sex is something you do for the boys, not for your own pleasure, and they will then have sex on command, or not have sex on command, with equal indifference.

The solution to this commoditization of sex, I believe, is to teach girls, not that sex is bad or dirty, but that it should be done in an atmosphere of mutual respect, if not love. Girls should respect themselves and their sexuality, and demand respect from their partners. The question is not whether he will “respect you in the morning,” but whether he respects you NOW, enough to give as good as he gets – at least

A Travelling Show of Italian Classic I Promessi Sposi

The weekend of October 9-10, all of downtown Lecco was the stage for the Corteo Manzoniano, a “travelling” representation of that famous piece of local literature, Manzoni’s I Promessi Sposi (The Betrothed), most of whose action takes place in and around Lecco and Milan. Groups of actors in gorgeous costumes paraded among five or six fixed stages, or acted out scenes on small travelling platforms, or on horseback.

Tradimento! (Betrayal)

shot Oct 10, 2004, 1:17 mins, 3.7 MB

The betrothed couple of the title, Renzo and Lucia, attempt to trick the priest Don Abbondio into marrying them. Don Abbondio is understandably reluctant, since Don Rodrigo (a different use of the title “Don” !), the local Spanish overlord, has sent a couple of thugs (bravi) to inform him that: “Questo matrimonio non s’ha da fare.” – “This marriage should not take place.” (Don Rodrigo wants Lucia for himself.) Don Abbondio discovers the trick in time; much yelling and confusion ensue.

The Kidnapping of Lucia

22 secs, 1.8 MB

You can’t see it in this shot, but Lucia is being grabbed and bundled into the carriage, screaming. The horses didn’t like the noise and started rearing, which was scary, but after watching the scene re-enacted, I suspected that they were very well trained to look as if they were freaking out, but were actually under the control of their driver.

Procession

31 secs, 2.5 MB

I don’t know who all these characters are, but I liked the chanting and the pretty horses. Until my cellphone rang…

La Peste

1:55 mins, 5.6 MB

The plague (peste) ravages Milan. Bodies are carried away by the cartload. A grieving mother says farewell to her young daughter, placing her body tenderly on the cart, and tells the corpse-collectors: “Come back this evening to take me, and not only.”

Parade

1:59 mins , 5.8 MB

The first character you see here (with the leather banding on his shirt) is probablyl’Innominato (the Unnamed), the bad guy who turns good. The band and the music are totally out of period, but at least they’re Lecchesi – the theater company is actually from Bergamo.

The Grim Sweepers

44 secs, 2.2 MB

These stilt-walkers closed the parade. Black and purple are the colors of mourning in Italy. I have no idea why they had brooms, except the purely practical purpose of balancing the scythes on the other end.