Almost immediately upon my arrival in Italy, I had a problem on my hands.
When I opened the fridge in my new kitchen, it was completely warm, room departure, not even the teensiest bit cold. This was strange, because the utilities had been turned on for days at this point, and presumably the fridge would have gotten cold by now. Clearly, the fridge was not fridge-ing.
A broken fridge is a problem for anyone, but it was especially a problem for me. Let me explain.
I have a fun little chronic illness called Crohn’s Disease. To keep my intestines from mutinying, I take a medicine that can be administered either by IV infusion or self-injection. Before I got to Italy, I received a months-long supply of these injection pens to bring with me. The only trouble is, they needed to be refrigerated at all times.
And here I was, having kept the pens cold in special insulated coolers the whole trip, only to find I did not have a cold fridge at my destination. The coolers would do for another day or two, but then I really needed another solution.
It dawned on me that, well, I had plenty of neighbors in my building, all of whom, I assumed, had functioning fridges. So I started knocking on doors.
Four or five doors in, someone answered. “Chi é?” she called from inside her unit. “Umm, il tuo vicino nuovo!” I tried to call back in Italian. When she opened the door, she was more than a little confused to find a stranger standing before her.
In halting Italian, I tried to explain that I just moved in upstairs, and that I had this package of needles that I would please like to store in her fridge, if she wouldn’t mind?
She asked me to explain what disease I had that called for this strange medication. “Morbido di Crohn,” I said, which is in fact the correct translation, but not one that was familiar to her. She offered to switch into English, but even then I had trouble explaining my illness. I pulled it up on Google and showed her my phone. She then asked for a similar explanation of the medicine, and again I let Google do the work.
Seemingly convinced that I was not, in fact, trying to smuggle illegal drugs into her home, she tentatively took the thermoses full of injection pens and brought them inside.
I walked back upstairs relieved and more than a little proud of myself. Not only had I defused the ticking time bomb of my medication, but I had done so in a creative and neighborly way. Go me!
But over the next couple days, as my landlord raced to find a replacement fridge, I realized I’d need to bother my neighbor again.
You see, because I still had the pens inside the thermoses, the fridge might not be doing much at all for the internal temperature. It would be better, I figured, to swap them into a plastic bag and store them that way.
My parents suggested that I bring my neighbor a peace offering, something to compensate for annoying her so much. I grabbed two pastries from a nearby bakery and, after more than a little procrastination, knocked on her door again.
As I stood there waiting, she turned the corner of the staircase and came into view. “Oh, I’ve been looking for you,” I called out in English. Her eyes widened. I imagined she was thinking something like, Oh god, not this guy again.
I explained that I just needed to quickly swap the container and then put the medicine back in her fridge, and then offered up the sweets. “For me?” she asked. “Yes, for you!” I insisted. She brightened at this, and went inside to fetch the medicine. As I freed them from the thermoses and put them in the baggie, she started to make small talk and told me she was a painter. I told her I was a writer, and she replied, “We’re both creative people.”
Suddenly, I felt my neighbor warming to me, no longer afraid of this strange man and his fussy medication. I assured her that I would return just as soon as my new fridge arrived to relieve her of this burden.
When I did, I thanked her profusely. She asked me how my week was going and I told her it was going well, especially because I now had a fridge! “Wow, you’re living a life of luxury,” she teased, “with a fridge!” We both laughed.
The next day, a Saturday, I was reading inside to avoid the heat and got an unexpected text from her, asking how I was doing. I told her that I was at home relaxing. She asked if I could eat pizza and when I told her yes, invited me to dinner at her favorite neighborhood pizzeria.
I was thrilled. A dinner invitation! From a local! “What a beautiful idea,” I told her, and we set a time for that evening.
As we walked over together, I learned that she, like me, was an immigrant to Italy; she originally arrived for graduate school and simply never left. This meant Italian and English were both second languages for her, and she offered to speak in either.
Over a pair of pizzas, we continued to chat in Italian—hers simple and confident, mine tentative and messy. It turned out that she was a perfect conversation partner, someone I could understand easily and felt comfortable speaking with. It helped that we also had some common interests: namely, watercolor painting and a preference for tea over coffee.
When we arrived back at her door, I bid her goodnight and thanked her for the dinner invitation. “You’re my first friend in Italy,” I told her.
🤌🏻 Today’s Finocchio Fav
🍗 Giannasi dal 1967 — Another neighborhood spot, this takeout kiosk serves up a wide array of grilled and fried delights. Think fried chicken, but also polenta fritters and other tasty snacks — all for cheap.
