Thursday, November 10, 2016

First Act of Trump-lessness
I'm still with her

Today I was possibly a little too revved up in my grass roots, proactive, take care of each other, defiant positivity. That said, it was the perfect morning to address the fact that our friend Paul, after years of being forced to beg for a living, finally managed to find employment in Tuscany as a dishwasher only to be forced to use most of his wages to pay his approximative light bill. Since no one will rent an apartment to him because he is an African refugee, he is taking care of an apartment of an American who had to return for an undetermined amount of time, and the contract and the light bill are not in his name. His inability to report his address to the police, also means that we are having trouble getting him a health card because my contact at the Health Office in Lucca says that since his last registered address is in Borgo a Buggiano, he would have to go to Pistoia to ask for the health card. I have exchanged over a dozen terse emails with my contact there, and I think I burnt that bridge and built a Walmart on it.

aint I a stinker?

This is my long-winded way of telling you why I put on my crazy large hoop earrings (always a bad sign), dragged F over to Paul's apartment building this morning, buzzed all the buzzers of his neighbors, and pretended to be the dear American friend of the apartment owner in search of her friend's missing light meter. I called myself Elena, and, I am ashamed to say, I temporarily had to take custody of the real owner's package slips in order to do the necessary reconnaissance. I, of course, will give them right back to Paul to place inside the apartment. Anyway, Antonella-the-neighbor, told me that the landlord plays around with the design of the place so that it is totally irregular and that she thought that more than one apartment was assigned to each of the three observable meters in the white, metal cassettone in the lobby. In Italy, Enel, the light company, sometimes sends a guy to read the meters, but sometimes they just guess how much you are using and this can lead to very inflated bills, as we assume is Paul's situation. Antonella suggested we call the landlord or complain to Enel, but we can't because Paul's name isn't on any of those documents and we don't have "my friend" and fellow American's documents or a letter of delega. 


I think our only hope on this one is that me and Franco, which is F's undercover name, can ask my mother-in-law to let us pay Paul's light bill as a Christmas present to all of us.
p.s. Crazy man Stanli gave us a call at the crack of dawn the other morning to say that a friend of his in Sweden had got him a job at a hotel and that he wanted to thank us for all our help for him and his family. While this is great news, it's also Stanli, so we don't know the possibility of it working out, or if it doesn't, if he will manage to have airfare to get back to his pregnant wife...

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