5 Reasons I Couldn’t Live in Europe (Redux)

As I mentioned yesterday, I discovered six-year old posts that I wrote discussing why, at that time, I thought I could or couldn’t live in Europe. I should add before I re-post the cons that there are several things I should point out first.

On our previous trip to Europe (2011), we spent two weeks in Abruzzo so I could do more research into my grandparents’ lives before we headed to Vienna and Prague.  While we were in Vienna for three days, we spent a little over two weeks in Prague as I was studying at Charles University. From the moment we stepped foot in Vienna, I felt like a fish out of water.

As beautiful as both of those cities were, I never felt comfortable in them. While I could understand a few of the German and Czech signs, most of the words a bunch of strokes scratched on paper and metal. Worse, the spoken languages were strange, coarse sounds that reminded me too much of my paternal grandparents. (You can read a little on them here.) The food, with gravy covering every thing we ordered, didn’t sit well with me, and I couldn’t get used to coffee costing two-to-three times as much as beer. The worst thing, though, was the robbery/burglary two nights before we left for home. (If I haven’t bored you with that story, it’s here and here.)

It was with a lot of trepidation that I returned to Europe with Mike in 2013, but except for the weather, our weeks in France and Italy were fine. We stayed in Sulmona, the “big” city near my grandparents’ village for about three weeks, and my new-found friend, Novelia, showed us an apartment that her brother-in-law was selling.  Mike and I both loved it—he a little more than I—and it got us both thinking about living there—he more than I at that time.

That is, as you might guess, why I started thinking and, eventually, writing the two posts I’m re-posting this weekend.

I would have to take Riley with me if we were moving.  That isn’t as much a problem as how to get him there.  While most of Europe doesn’t have a quarantine law for pets, the big hassle would be transporting him on a plane.  I would never put him in cargo for such a long flight.  That means, I would have to shove his chunky butt into a carry-on case, and while he fits, it’s more like a sausage casing which, considering his porky little self, would be appropriate.

Once I solved *that* problem, I’d have to figure out where to put him while on the plane.  If you saw my post about our flight home, you know that we are now spoiled since we flew business class.  The big problem with that is that there is no place to stow a case during take-off and landing except in the overhead bin.  While he’d fit, I don’t know if the airlines would permit it.

Don’t worry, Little Dude.  We’ll figure it out.

 Uncovered Food in Markets & Stores

Americans complain a lot about the post offices here.  Heck, if you live in our area, our post office is about 8 miles away (There are two a lot closer, but heaven forbid the government should make things easy.), and it is always always always packed with customers waiting in line to go to one of two manned windows.  Think that’s bad?  Think again.

“Laurie, is there a post office near here?” I asked our Spoleto host one afternoon.  “I need to get a box to mail some stuff home.”

He told us how to get to the closest one and added, “It’s quite busy, though.”  He told us about another one that was almost as close.

“Is service faster in that one?” I asked.  Silly me.

“No,” he replied.  “It’s worse.  If you go there, plan on taking a lunch.” (Hello! Why even bother mentioning it then?)  

He is right, though.  We’ve had to deal with post offices in Italy a few times over the years, and they are all the same. There are three machines from which you can take a number, so you have to decide what you want to do.  Cash a check or money order?  Box A.  Buy stamps  or mail something?  Box B.  Do something else that I couldn’t figure out?  Box C.  Do any combination of the three?  Good luck.

So what do you do in the post office that is so maddening?

Take your number, sit, and watch the displays sssslllloooowwwwllllyyy move when a patron who was smart enough to get there earlier than you finally finishes and leaves.  Try not to fall asleep while the heat inside the building increases in proportion to the number of people (A LOT!) waiting in the lobby. Wonder what is so complicated that it takes every customer about 10-20 minutes to complete his or her transaction. Glare at the man who has burped loud enough to wake the dead.  Jump up and yell as soon as you see your number finally appear on the screen and stamp on feet or jump over chairs to get to the counter so the clerk who is lucky enough to get you doesn’t think you aren’t there and moves on to the next number.  Thirty seconds of hand-signaling and broken Italian later, the clerk sends you on your way without performing a transaction and takes the next number.

Of course, I could fix this one, too.  I’d never mail anything.  End of story.

Bottom line, I could live with most of these things by simply avoiding them.  Heck, we’ve moved all over the country and adapted.  Europe wouldn’t be that big of a stretch.  The weather is a big issue, though.  It’s one reason we moved back to Vegas, so you know we put a lot of importance on good weather.  Sigh.

Any of you have reasons you couldn’t move somewhere?