Italian Babies: Why So Few Are Being Born

“How to solve Europe’s pension crisis: Work longer, have more babies”

cover of The Economist, Sept 27, 2003 – with a photo of a rather horrified (and rather Italian) -looking woman

“Sheesh! What is wrong with you Italians?! You inherit one of the most beautiful cultures the world has ever seen and you jeopardize it by refusing to breed.”

Reader comment on an article about Italian birthrates, Zoomata

The Economist speaks somewhat tongue-in-cheek; I’m not sure about Zoomata’s anonymous reader. So, in case you’re wondering, today we will address the question of why Italians don’t have more babies.

To quote an American politician, completely out of context: “It’s the economy, stupid.”

First, real estate costs: Buying a home is expensive in the desirable parts of the country, i.e., those where you can actually find jobs. Rentals are almost non-existent, and also very expensive. Until recently, rent laws so favored the tenant that a landlord could well find himself saddled with a tenant who didn’t pay rent, yet could not be evicted until after a long (ten years!) and expensive court battle. People who own real estate are therefore reluctant to rent it, unless they are large-scale landlords who can afford the risk. There aren’t many of these, so the market is tight, and rents are high.

The high cost of renting or buying is also part of the reason young people don’t move out of their parents’ homes until age 30 or beyond, and/or they marry. You can’t afford a home of your own until there are two of you to contribute to the expenses, and even then you probably need help from one or both sets of parents (as we had).

If you’re living at home and not married yet, you most likely don’t have kids. So, by the time an Italian woman marries, she’s often past 30, with few reproductive years left. This is also about the age that people first begin making decent salaries, and, in spite of fairly liberal maternity laws, Italian women face the same career-vs.-family choices that American women do: being a mother slows you down on the career track, so the choice to have a child is also a choice to lower your lifetime income.

Once you do get married and move into your own place, your first home is probably a small one. Enrico, Rossella, and I lived in a three-room apartment for 12 years. And I do mean three ROOMS (plus bath): two bedrooms and a living/dining room; our kitchen was so tiny (1 x 2 meters) that it didn’t count as a room. The refrigerator had to be in the living room, along with the dining table, TV, sofa, and shelving. Enrico’s piano had to go in Rossella’s room, which began to be a problem as she got older and wanted her privacy. Her room also contained a huge closet/bed/desk unit called a cameretta (used partly for storing off-season clothes and other stuff for the whole family) and a second closet, as well as shelving. Our room contained a large closet, our bed, bookshelves, and one corner was my “office”.

Had we had a second child, where would we have put it? Buy a bigger place in Milan, you say? Couldn’t afford that – that’s part of the reason we moved to Lecco. Where I’m now looking for work. And did I mention how hard it is for anyone to find jobs in Italy, especially outside the big cities?

At least in Italy putting kids through college is not the huge financial burden that it is for Americans. Italian universities are essentially free and open to everybody; a modest tuition fee has been introduced in recent years, but the only other expense is for books – IF you live in or near a city that has the kind of university program your child wants to attend. If not, you’re looking at big-city rents again: say 1000 euros a month for a studio apartment in Milan, maybe you can get it down to 500 if your student shares a small apartment with several others. This obviates any small-town low-rents advantage you might have enjoyed previously.

Then, when your kid finishes college, he is likely to be at home again (or still) while searching for a decent job, and then working his way up to a salary level that would permit him to move out. So you’re still supporting this kid, and you’ve got to keep a home large enough to hold everybody until the he’s finally out in his own place, which you will likely help to finance. Oh, and, by the way, that pension you’re being taxed up the wazoo for? Don’t count on it being there when you retire. Which will be later than your parents did, and you’re still going to get less than they did. Why? Because Italy has been paying over-generous pensions for decades, the system is going bankrupt, and there is no political will to make the necessary reforms (just like in the good ol’ USA). You’d better start saving now for your retirement.

So… are you still surprised that 45% of Italian children have no siblings?

See also: Rebecca’s view

Other People’s Bookshelves

In the course of looking for a place to live in Lecco, we’ve seen the insides of many strangers’ homes, up for sale (for the moment we’ve ended up renting, but that’s another story).

The décor was extremely variable. Many Italian homes run to a type I think of as “classic” Italian: heavy, dark wood furniture, with family photos in silver frames, and lots of silver gewgaws of the type that you give as gifts when you want to give something costly but don’t know the recipient’s tastes (I loathe these things: too ugly to display, too expensive to give or throw away).

We did see one place stunningly decorated with masks and sculptures from all over Africa; the owner has travelled there a lot. The interior design of this house was also stunning, with an iron spiral staircase going up to a loft office under the peak of the roof. But the furniture was a little too well-matched for my taste – and it was green! As was the kitchen. What is it with green in this country? Do we have to pay homage to the olive in everything?

Another place had furniture clearly designed by an artist and custom-built for the house. It was made of laminated layers of different woods, cut away in strange angles and curves and polished to a sensual smoothness that made you want to stroke it. If the furniture had been included in the (exorbitant) price, I’d have wanted the place on the spot.

What I found surprising in most of the houses we saw was the lack of books. I admit that we probably err on the side of excess. But I’m always suspicious, and somewhat uncomfortable, in a house with no books. You can tell a lot about a family by what’s on their shelves, and you can always find something to talk about. In one friend’s home, I could see instantly that someone was a classicist. In another, it was downright hilarious how many books we had in common, right across the spectrum from science fiction and fantasy to Indian novels.

Travelling India in Luxury… and Out

In 1998, I visited India twice. The first trip, around May I think, was to fulfill a promise made in 1996 to Woodstock School, that when they got Internet access I would come and help train the staff in using the Internet. Which I did, and it was both fun and funny, but that’s another story.

The second trip was almost accidental. I was at the Adaptec offices in California, on one of my usual summer visits, when the subject of the HP Asia trip came up in a staff meeting. Hewlett-Packard planned a six-week trip of Asia, Australia, and New Zealand, a marketing road show for resellers and distributors throughout the area. They wanted someone from Adaptec along to talk about our software, which was bundled with their CD recorders. No one wanted to do the entire trip, so we discussed how to divvy it up. There were immediate volunteers for Australia/NZ and east Asia. India was also on the itinerary.

“I’m probably the only one who has all the shots for India,” I said.

“Shots?!?”

There were no other takers, so India was mine.

The first half of the trip I spent in the lap of luxury. In Delhi I stayed on the Executive floor of the Taj Mahal hotel, one of the world’s finest. With HP’s corporate discount it wasn’t, by US corporate standards, even terribly expensive (about $175 a night) and I wasn’t paying for it, anyway. The service was the best I’ve had at any hotel, ever: competent, efficient, and always there, without being intrusive. Internet access from anywhere in India wasn’t great in those days, so downloading dozens of email messages per day was quite a chore, but, with the help of a very smart hotel technician, we eventually got it done. She was startled when I told her how valuable her skills were, but I’m sure that by now she has figured it out.

From Delhi I flew to Mumbai (Bombay), then Chennai (Madras). I was one of three or four speakers at each stop. The others had prepared PowerPoint presentations about various aspects of HP technology; I did off-the-cuff demonstrations of our CD recording software. The audiences seemed to enjoy my ad-libbing more than the canned presentations, even though those included lots of multimedia bells and whistles.

While drinking tea after the presentations, I would chat with the resellers and distis. One man kindly asked if this was my first visit to India, did I intend to visit the Taj Mahal etc. etc. I explained my long history with India, including four years at Woodstock School, a study abroad year, and a degree in Asian Studies and languages. “You’re more Indian than I am!” he exclaimed. A women in Delhi told me that her own kids didn’t speak Hindi fluently; they spoke English at home and school, were studying French as a second language, and only spoke Hindi with the servants, “So they speak it very badly.”

From Chennai I flew back to Delhi, then took the train and a taxi up to Mussoorie for a visit to Woodstock. From the lap of luxury to the lap of… well, not luxury. I traded my snappy business suit and heels for jeans and hiking boots. It was unseasonably raining most of the time I was there, and I was staying with friends at the top of the hill, so by the time I got home from school each evening I was soaked to the knees (sometimes higher), and the air was too damp for anything to dry just by hanging. (Clothes dryer? Are you kidding?) I put my jeans on top of the woodburning stove to dry, and accidentally scorched them.

When my week was up, I took a taxi back down the hill to catch my train. It was raining harder than ever. We drove over a few minor landslides, and probably just missed getting stuck behind a major one. As we bumped along, I amused myself pondering the contrasts of my two weeks in India, and the amazing contradictions and contrasts you can see every day, anyplace, in that country.

Deirdré Straughan on Italy, India, the Internet, the world, and now Australia