Who's on First?

I feel like Alice in Wonderland. Sometimes I feel like I am living in a movie - sometimes it's a "romantic" film with scenes in Paris and the rolling hills of Italy, sometimes it's a comedy of errors, and sometimes, like now, I just don't know what to make of it.

Yesterday, I went to Turin to try out my new office for the first time.  I’m starting a small counseling practice and renting office space from a psychiatrist colleague, Franca.  After a typical morning of prying the children out of bed, tantrums about what to wear, not wanting to get dressed, who gets what for snack and disappointment that we are out of Isabelle’s favorite cereal, I raced out the door for the hour long drive to Turin.

It was pouring rain and I was happy to find a parking space right in front of the building.   I parked and ran into the foyer.  Franca texted me last minute that she wouldn’t be able to meet me with the keys and that she would send a Fillipino man to meet me. It sounded like either he is a colleague or the cleaner.    The concierge, a FIllipino woman, was just coming into the fall.  I figured I must have heard wrong, and maybe this was the woman, not man, who would have the keys. I asked, in stilted Italian, for the keys and she handed me a bunch on a chain. I felt like all was going smoothly. I was an hour early for the workshop I was about to lead and would have plenty of time to prepare.

I tried the key in the lock. It wouldn’t fit. I know I'm not technically adept, but after five minutes of carefully retrying each key in the lock, it was pretty clear that none of these keys fit.  Franca had warned me that the concierge is not particularly friendly (no problem, I used to live in Paris!) so I wasn't thrilled at the prospect of having to knock on her door again.  She opened the door and I tried to explain the keys wouldn’t work, shrugging and apologizing like maybe it's my fault for being such an idiot that I don't know how to work a key in a lock.  She closed her door with a sigh, carefully putting up her "back in ten minutes sign" and followed me back to the apartment. Only this time, she rang for the elevator and indicated that we needed to go to the third floor.  

I pointed to Franca’s name on the office door and assured her that this is the office I want.  It dawned on me that we are having a misunderstanding.  She seemed to think that I was the cleaning lady for the third floor apartment.  

At that moment, a Fillipino man entered the hallway. Ah ha! I was relieved to see that he was expecting me.  Phew. He must be the man with the key.  

“Do you have the key?” he asked me. Thus began a comedy of "Whos' on first," in a melange of Fillippino, broken Italian and English.   "You have the keys!" "No you're supposed to have the keys," at which point I dialed Franca’s number and and thrust the phone into the man's hands. I could hear Franca bursting into a tirade.  Even though my understanding of Italian is minimal, I got the gist of her leaning into him for not understanding that his instructions had been to bring me the keys.  

He handed me the phone and Franca explained apologetically in broken English that she would hurry down to the office with the correct keys. 

Twenty minutes later, after many apologies back and forth and thank yous, I was finally alone in the office. I needed to prepare for my workshop.  Moms ouldl be arriving in ten minutes at this point, and I should at least get my bearings. But at that moment, in this private office, the size of my Paris apartment, I was tempted to just lie on the floor and revel in the solitude.