Quitting (actually written on Saturday)

OK, God, Universe, Supreme being or whatever, I get the message. Freelancing long term from Italy is not an option.

I had a nice, leisurely morning seeing my sister off at the station, then I mooched over to the Palazzo Farnese to use their free broadband service. It being lunchtime on a Saturday they were about to close for half day – because who wants to go and see a tourist attraction on a Saturday afternoon? So I perched on the wall next to the drawbridge with my computer and tried not to fall into the dried out moat while I caught up with some friends via Skype and sent drivelly emails. So far, so good, the technology gods were smiling on me today. I went home for lunch. I got ready in order to catch the 3.30 bus into Rivergaro to do my interview from my cousin’s office at half past four. I lumped my rucksack up to the bus stop and waited.

And waited, and waited, until my skin sizzled in the sun.

The bus stop is situated opposite the local bar an old-school cobwebby place owned by a couple and their son. They’re not bad people, I just don’t think they’re especially fond of foreigners. Or people from outside the province. Or the village. I asked the owner whether he’d seen the bus, and got a ‘no’ shrug. I asked whether he thought the bus might be late and got a ‘how should I know’ shrug. I said I’d been waiting a while and he shrugged again, and said: “Meh, it’s the weekend. Sometimes the buses don’t come.”

I took a couple of seconds to digest this catastrophe. The next bus was at five, half an hour after my interview was due. That’s of course if it turned up at all. I asked the barman if they still had a payphone and he shrugged in the direction of the interior.

After giving the greasy, tobaccoey-smelling phone a once over with a damp tissue I tried my BT chargecard. Nothing. I tried again, nothing again. I started to cry. Pathetic, but true. It just seemed like every time I tried to get things under control, something else ridiculous happened to spoil it. Like the entire universe doesn't want me to freelance from Italy, and I was sick of fighting it.

I did a quick sum and worked out that if I talked to my interviewee on the mobile my bill would end up swallowing half my fee, so called quickly, rearranged the interview for an hour’s time. Still crying a bit I walked about half a mile up the road to the next bar along and tried their payphone. It didn’t work either and now I was rancid, shiny with sweat and my eyes looked all swollen and wrinkly like a chameleon’s. The lady who runs this bar tried to help me, but nothing worked. “I need to get to Rivergaro,” I gasped. “But there’s no buses…”

Just at that moment an unfortunate maths teacher called Nicole wanders into the bar to buy a packet of cigarettes. Within a couple of moments, she’s been roped into giving me a lift. “I don’t mind,” she says. “You don’t have a dangerous face.” By then I had a gremlin’s face more than anything. But luckily neither of us was a murderer and I made it to Rivergaro without being dismembered.

Of course, by then, according to the Universal Law of Case Studies, my interviewee was out.