Ricochet
To sell or not to sell? What a pinball machine. What’s been set in motion? My emotions and enthusiasms, too, ricocheted daily from one side to the other, setting off bells, whistles, and lights. A new tactic was needed. Out for progress. How about personal contact? Intervention, perhaps? Basta! with surfing the Internet. I decided to bussare alla porta of real-estate agencies’ doors in Sarzana. Maybe they would pull out some fantastic property not listed on the gutter real-estate websites. One can only hope. Belief in serendipity. Or suspicious of duplicity. They’re real-estate agents, after all. If there is no luck, I will move on.
There is no better comfort than to know what scares you scares others, too. The Italians. They are so awkward at first meeting. Ditto on phone calls. They want for lessons on how to deal with the public at large. Yet, once they’ve sniffed you out… you… are… in! Consistency, regularity, and frequency. Until those traits are satisfied, tolerance to persistence are required. Like tilling a field for planting. Oh! This is also the procedure with barmen for your morning’s cappuccino or the cashier at the local Conad grocery store. Other encounters are problematic.
I had no such luck…
The day of my first foray with personal contact was gorgeous. Blue skies, a light Southerly breeze, mild temps. I could have sung that Pollyanna song. No, wait a minute. Who sang Everything’s Coming Up Roses? Internet, please? Oh, gosh-golly. Ethel Merman! I should’ve known that. Forgot. Music by Jules Styne, lyrics by Stephen Sondheim for the 1959 Broadway hit show, Gypsy. It’s about a strip teaser. Has there ever been a musical about a Gay person? Yes, there has been. La Cage Aux Folles. Saw it. Hated it. Liked the French movie way more. Really, only the French can do ridiculous with any savoir-faire. Now, back to Ms. Merman. She once lived down the street from us in Denver. She and her husband, Robert Six, owner of Continental Airlines based in Denver, lived in Cherry Hills. We weren’t in such a tawny stretch of the road. So, what was Pollyanna’s tune? I had such a crush on Hailey Mills. Did you see The Parent Trap? A thousand times for me. First was at a drive-in movie theatre. Thought Maureen O’Hare was stunning, too. Not to forget Brian Keith! They were all once Hollywood gold in the 60’s. Internet again, please. Oh, Lord! The song has nothing to do with Hailey Mills or Pollyanna. It was an Afro-American man singing Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah from Song of the South. A Disney production. And, long since pulled for being thought racist. What’s racist about an Afro-American man singing a happy song about everything going his way? Never mind. It was a gorgeous day.
The first agency on my list was right inside La Porta Romana. Remember: Italian city gate names indicate the destination if you were to walk and keep walking until you get somewhere. For La Porta Romana, its destination would be Roma. Rome: terminus for trains and roads. The agency was part of an Italian real-estate chain. They’re everywhere. Like mushrooms after a rain or pimples after chocolate. Your choice. I was struck by the office’s layout. Its street windows which might have once shown women’s lingerie or pillows & comforters were plastered with a hundred or so announcements with crappy photos of properties in & around Sarzana. So many. Of course, none appealed. These windows expanded into a long corridor of more of the same until I reached a set of double glass doors leading into the inner sanctum of a shockingly white… SHOCKINGLY WHITE!!!… space where, in a corner, a Guy with lots of hair sat slumped in his swivel chair at a white metal Parson’s desk enraptured by his iPhone.
Clearing my throat… Buon Giorno!
He stayed enraptured. I waited. Then, he swiveled over to his PC without acknowledging me.
Again… Buon Giorno!!!
I got… Un attimo.
Okay.
A note on the Italian language, its usage, and notions of courtesy: un attimo without a scusi or such before might be appropriate for a younger sibling, an annoying aunt, or a buddy at Scuola Elementare. Everyone else should rigorously receive a scusi first and foremost, and then whatever afterward.
To promote and strive to maintain un’aria di buona volonta’, I ignored the Guy’s lapse of courtesy and proceeded with a more elaborate introduction… mainly to fill the VOID of initial meeting…
Sono venuto per avere informazione dei immobili in offerta qui a Sarzana.
Bingo! Up rose lots of hair to reveal a handsome Italian face. Not quite angelic but on the street. The Guy with lots of hair looked at me inquiringly. This did not last long. It turned into another which remotely described total alarm that an alien from Pluto had just shat upon his premises. To be Democratic in this Age of Dictators & Demagogues, I might have had a similar reaction to a 6-foot man with a white beard and a black mustache towering and dressed in rigorous dark Navy Blue and a light-cream puffer jacket. Do you think it was the jacket?
Si?
Come gliel’ho detto prima, I am interested in property in Sarzana.
Relieved from his initial shock, the Guy with lots of hair shot out LA QUESTIONE NUMERO UNO of every single real-estate agent gracing the entire Italian landscape…
What’s your budget?
I hate that question. There are so many others more interesting, ie what sort of property are you interested in? Location? To renovate or move right in? Less stupid. Forces me to fight this dumb standard with a different one of my own. Matter of principle.
Depends. There!
He seemed bored with that. Too complicated? I had lost him. Un attimo di silenzio occupied the space between us. The Guy with lots of hair suddenly turned to his PC, fingers danced over the keyboard, and, in a jiffy, the monitor was swung towards me. I was still standing, by the way. There on the screen was a photo of a super, super, super contemporary salotto. All hard contrasted black & grey against white walls. Big artwork, too.
The Guy with lots of hair said while proudly staring at the monitor and not me… We can forego the budget. I want to show you this really interesting property near to us in Sarzana.
Okay.
It was bought and renovated by a German man to be his Italian vacation and party house.
Oh? He likes contemporary Italian vacations, does he?
Oh, that’s not all. Take a look at this!
131666More clicking on the PC. The salotto disappeared and was replaced by an enlargement of one of the big art pieces in the same salotto as it was swung back towards me… in an XXL version. It was of a portrait… I guess you could say it was a portrait. Illustration? Human physiology lesson? I don’t know… of a rather athletic and quite naked young man… in the throws of? Throws of? Twisting from Ecstasy? The Guy with lots of hair smiled… knowingly.
I smiled… knowingly too and could not resist the temptation to add… Well, I can imagine what type of parties. How many bedrooms?
Oh, six.
Obviously. En suite bathrooms?
Oh, yes, of course.
I stopped there. The Guy with lots of hair shrugged his shoulders and clicked off the monitor. We were done. He did take my contact details after I rapidly gave him a synopsis of what I was after… the Combo Platter of selling Il Poggiolo and buying something else. I didn’t have to take a breath. He promised to be in contact if anything interesting came across his white metal Parson’s desk. I thanked him, bid him a Buona Giornata, and left. N’er a peep since. Did the Guy with lots of hair have my number? Had I missed his?
Onwards on Via Mazzini away from La Porta Romana and Roma, way more than a day’s walk away.
Next?
To the agency You & I had contacted back in the Summer before all these To sell or not to sell shenanigans had started. I wanted to reconnect with an update on my property search in Sarzana. The Combo Platter. We had wanted to check out a small apartment advertised on the top floor of one of several of Sarzana’s gigantic watch towers, originally connected to the city’s walls, long since demolished. The agent was simpatico al telefono. We met him outside the gated entrance to the Torrione San Francesco. There, a guy about You’s height stood waiting, enraptured with his iPhone, and was dressed in a shirt, a wool cardigan vest, corduroy pants, and Birkenstock’s. Italian men. They often look still dressed by their mothers. Bet the sandals were a rebellion. But hey? Corduroys and a wool vest in 90F-degree heat? You & I were amazed. We introduced ourselves, exchanged handshakes, and off we climbed to the top floor of the tower, chatting as we went. Unexpectedly, a labyrinth, though, it followed the gentile curvature of the tower’s outer walls. The apartment was microscopic, yet it had two floors! One could cook an egg while slumbering on the adjacent double bed. Only You could visit upstairs. He’s 5’-8” in heels. I have scares from previous attempts with low ceilings, doorways, etc. You & I sort of knew all this. We were curious. The owner of the apartment was there to greet us. I looked at You, and he at me, and in English, I said…
he’s retired, has had some health issues, and is selling to be nearer to his daughter.
And sure enough, the real-estate agent confirmed the story. I apologized for the unsuccessful ploy of hiding behind English.
No problem.
Back where we had met earlier, I summarized what I was after… a single-story house with a fenced-in garden within walking distance to central Sarzana.
What’s your budget?
No Comment.
On my morning’s visit, I found the agent vaping outside his shop. How does he do that? I know he is a runner. He had said so when we said our goodbyes the last time. He excused himself to dash off for home to change for an hour’s run. There he stood in a puff of smoke. Different corduroys, the same wool knit cardigan. He recognized me. See? Repeated contact.
His agency also belongs to a chain. The shop sported only one window with similar announcements with crappy photos filling the glass up to the top cornice. Inside, there was one large room in a slightly topsy-turvy state. Stacks of folders haphazardly cluttering up a couple of tables and chairs scattered with no purpose. A look of being busy?
Got right to the point. It took one long sentence. No commas. The agent, Mr Corduroy, said he was keen to show me properties in Sarzana. Smoke twirled around us as he spoke. However, he explained another agency of his chain and nearer to Codiponte would deal with selling Il Poggiolo. Logistically, a hike from Sarzana. An hour’s drive, at least. More in Rush Hour. These chains are also territorial. My little village is covered by the Santa Stefano di Magra office. Nearer to the Lunigiana. I conceded the procedure, though I was disappointed. I had grown fond of Mr Corduroy. In between puffs of his vape, we shook hands, and he added as I departed…
Aspetti una chiamata dalla agenzia di Santo Stefano di Magra. Ci sentiamo dopo piu’ in la’!
Okay.
I approached a couple of other agencies… nearly identical to the first two… before heading over to the McDonald’s on the Via Aurelia… the Roman road connectens Romam in Hispaniam… for a Double Cheeseburger, large French Fries, and a small Coke Zero. A reward. While dining, I mused upon the growing impression that none of these real-estate agencies, the American-style global ones, too, did not take the bait of my Combo Platter. Apparently, not a one-stop Sell ‘n Buy adventure. Their headset may not allow it. Chain agencies or, a preference to go for the fast Euro. One or the other, apparently, not both. Fine.
A change of tactic… again. I returned to Il Poggiolo and to the enthusiastic greetings from my Adored Dogs and picked up where I last was on the Internet to check out buying land… again. Resurrected the idea of building a prefab on a scenic overlook… again. Discouragement greeted me after a review of any new opportunities… again.
Don’t you think a reflective glass prefab box or two would be stunning on one of these? Plots of land? I don’t. Nope.
Took a break and went to play with my Adored Dogs in the garden.
Back inside, Dogs fed, me too, I returned to the laptop and found… TOTALLY OUT OF THE BLUE!!!… a message from You, AKA Mister Instagram. He had sent a post off an Instagram page belonging to Domi_inspirations.
It is worth saying, they were the ruin of me. Sent me…. over... the… edge… with delight. A heaven of space, simplicity, italian Interior Design, slightly ruined. Another point to remember, and one particularly directed at Americans keen to come to Italy, buy a house, and spiff it up: degrado fa bellezza. Yes! No box. No Mom & Pop. No ex-Chapel. No, 60’s villa. No re-do. Only four rooms like these would suffice. A couple sticks of furniture, a bed in one, an enormous sofa in another. The fourth room would be divvied up for an Entry, Kitchen, Storage, Laundry, and Bathroom. Hard to choose which one to sacrifice for the sake of utility. I’ll deal with it. In the meantime, I am remotely interested in how the outside of a four-room villa might look. Italian, for sure. However, with interiors such as these, a corrugated metal or crumbling stucco facade would be fine for all I care. I want space with a couple of somethings soft to plop my fanny on. The Dogs too. You likes to sit on the floor. Really. Wants his head scratched. My job. Oh! It must have a fenced-in garden. Done. I feel so happy.
Maybe we should all be glad that I do not want a Japanese house!
