I won't last long in this godforsaken country. I don't lick ass, can't bear rude people, won't stand bullies and arrogant pricks, therefore will be gunned down sooner or later. Or elected president. Either way, I'm doomed.
Take Friday for example. Following a brief correspondence, Professor P from Bocconi University, the renowned academic centre that churns out Italy's economic elite (errr....) since 1902, tells me to meet him at 2 pm at his office to discuss possible collaborations between the university and my project.
I turn up, as always, 20 minutes too early, and spend most of them finding his office, which is well hidden in the intricate maze that is the Bocconi hamlet. Once I get there, the office door is locked, and there is no sign of him inside it.
I wander the empty corridors, until I find an open office. Inside, an English professor offers to help me locate him, only to find out his email system had not been set up, two weeks into the academic year. I wonder what sort of a job university professors have, when they don't need to email anyone for 2 weeks. Maybe they just spend their time thinking about kitty fairies.
Finally, at about 2:20, I find the secretaries' office, where I have to beg for them to call the professor on his mobile:
- We don't do this sort of thing
- But I have a MEETING with him, and he's not there! What I am supposed to do?
- Come back during reception hours
- I am NOT a student!!!!
- Really!?!?
- REALLY!
- Alright. I'll call him. What's your name again?
- Dr MZ from T.. H.. in London
Riiing. Riiing.
- Hello? Professor P? It's S. There's one of your students here, M something
- !!!!!!!!
- He doesn't know who you are.
- I TOLD YOU I AM NOT A STUDENT. I AM DR MZ FROM T.. H.. IN LONDON
- He says he's from Ze Ab... Ok.
puts down receiver
- He's coming.
10 minutes later, as I stand by the professor's door, a slender man approaches me. He walks straight past me, unlocking the door. That's when I explode.
- Professor P?
- Yes?
- It's Dr MZ from T.. H.. in London. We were supposed to meet 30 minutes ago.
- I didn't make a note of our meeting.
- But YOU gave me the appointment.
- Well I didn't write it down.
- Don't you have a diary?
The professor's jaw drops suddenly.
- I asked you, don't you have a diary to keep track of your meetings? Or do you think people just have all the time in the world?
- Excuse me?!
- You heard me. I give you 20 minutes.
20 minutes later, he asked me to give a lecture to his students.
Yes. I won't last long.
4 comments:
Think of yours as a mission civilatrice. Soon you'll have the whole country whipped in to shape, showing up on time, recording meetings in government-issued, mandatory diaries. People will be required to arrive 4 hours early for trains and planes, and the tardy will be executed.
On a different note, isn't sort of flattering to be mistaken for a student ;)
I was told twice now I looked 22. And Catherine was told she looks 23. It's so flattering I almost feel I am on candid camera...
well am very proud of you
you won't stand for it
and well neither will i
(she says wearing a short skirt and getting touched up by undersecretary in the hope of leaked information)
what happened to your diplomacy darling?
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