I’m originally from a small town in Southern Italy, but I study foreign languages — one of which is English — in a big city. During summer holidays, I go back home and occasionally work in different supermarkets giving out free samples of new products. I work for an agency, not for the supermarket, and I rarely work in the same place enough to know where stuff is.

In summer 2019, I am minding my own business, giving out free samples of mozzarella. This guy comes up to me.

Customer: *In English* “Where are the chips?”

He talks VERY slowly, but we rarely get any foreign tourists, so I assume most people he has spoken to didn’t know English very well.

I don’t know where the chips are, so I try to tell him I don’t work here.

Me: “Sorry, I don’t—”

He cuts me off, thinking I am about to say, “I don’t speak English,” turns to his wife, and says something along the lines of:

Customer: “Jesus, do these people even go to school?”

Then, he turns to me and starts describing chips (I think) with his hands. I am starting to get really annoyed. First of all, YOU are in Italy, talking to an Italian in English, being outraged that I don’t speak YOUR language. Second, I do speak English, but you cut me off before I could answer.

Me: “Sir, I know what chips are. I just don’t know where they are located specifically in this store. As you can see from my attire and my badge, I’m not employed by the supermarket. I work for an independent agency. Oh! And I did go to school. I can actually speak five languages. How many can you speak?”

His face turned red. He mumbled something and left. I hope he never found the chips.

My grandmother and mother have always rented out an apartment they own. One day, the old tenants move out, and my father decides to take an interest in the proceedings because the rent barely covers the property expenses. He personally vets the new tenant, a posted worker, and decides he must be all right because he has “rough workers’ hands”.

Everything goes well at first, but after a while, several flags come up. The tenant asks my father for the deposit to cover a family emergency, and when he returns the sum, it’s not in cash but as two IOUs for the same amount. The tenant’s wife moves back to her family and he’s the only one left in the flat.

Despite this, the neighbours occasionally complain about loud noises. When Italian currency is converted from lira to euro, the tenant decides to “round” the 516 euro of the monthly rent to 500 and cover the difference with… lemons.

The lease contract is made so that the landlord can only end it for very specific reasons, and I need the apartment to go and live on my own. The tenant agrees, saying that he was looking for a different flat already as the rent is too high. But months go by and he stays on, giving excuse after excuse for being unable to move out, and saying that I always have my parents’ house — it’s not like I am sleeping under a bridge, am I?

To cut a long story short, when he finally moved out — half a year after the agreed date — he had two months of rent unpaid, not to mention several instances of “lemons”; he owed over 2,000 euros in maintenance fees which my parents had to fork over in his stead; the power was soon cut, meaning that the bills had gone unpaid, as well; and there were five or six rusty bedsprings (including one in a room with no windows), a sign that the tenant was subletting to immigrant workers. Even if they were paying him 100€ each, they would cover the rent, but I’m told the going prices are about three times that.

As a cherry on top, we were left with “smoked” walls, grease stains around the light switches, and someone’s name carved on a door.

It was a while before my boyfriend and I could make the flat fit for living, and a while longer before the other people in the building stopped giving us the stink-eye in the elevator.

We’re in the first hot days of summer, the air conditioning has not been activated yet, and the whole workforce is gasping. I’m visiting a different department — accounting.

Me: “How’s things?”

Accountant: *Puffing* “[My Name], make it cooler!”

Me: “Eh, you wish.” *Looking out of the window* “Did any of you know there’s revenue police just outside our gate?”

Accountant: *Gasps* “WHAT?!”

Me: *Grinning* “Gave you a shiver, did I?”

The lockdown has eased a bit and it’s finally possible to visit one’s relatives. My parents have not seen their granddaughter in months, so I bring my daughter along to see them. She does not really like to visit them anymore, because they’re constantly bullying each other, and the more audience they have the worse they become, but I get her to agree to grin and bear it. We’ve just sat down for lunch.

Father: “Jesus Christ, you’re huge. Have you considered cutting your stomach?”

Me: “Excuse me?”

Father: “Have you ever thought of cutting your stomach?”

He gestures around his own generous belly.

Me: “Not really. I think three surgeries in my life were enough. Have you ever thought of minding your own f****** business?”

My father splutters in outrage.

Daughter: “MOM! What happened to ‘grin and bear it’?”

Me: “It’s fine, dear. I’m grinning and Grandpa is going to bear it.”

My grandmother, having been through two wars, was unbelievably thrifty and would not throw away anything until it was so worn that it couldn’t be mended any further. And, of course, nothing new could be put into use as long as the old stuff had some mileage still in it.

I always suffered from cold feet. I have some woollen “bedshoes” that belonged to my mother, crocheted in a honeycomb style that leaves most of my skin exposed and does nothing for the cold.

An elderly aunt, staying with us for a while, knits me a magnificent pair of bedshoes: fully enclosed, ankle-high, thick, and warm. I profusely thank my aunt and start wearing her bedshoes.

A few days later, after my aunt is back with her family, I’m asleep in bed. I wake up with a start, in pitch darkness. My covers are lifted and there’s someone in the room, hovering above me. Bogeyman? Wild bear? Kidnapper? No, it’s my grandmother, replacing my bedshoes with the old ones at two in the morning and scaring me to death in the process!

She tells me to shut up (which I do — she’s already positioned to slap the bejeezus out of me if I don’t comply), takes away the warm bedshoes, and goes back to sleep.

The following weeks are an endless game of hide and seek with the bedshoes between the two of us until, at last, summer comes. Being a small child, I eventually forget about the bedshoes until years later, after my grandmother is long dead and we find them in their last hiding place, too small for my feet by now, and completely disintegrated. It’s a small relief to know that at least the moths enjoyed the bedshoes undisturbed.