Desidero Un Apartamento

Allison and I have begun the search to try to find (is that verbose enough for you?) an apartment here. Today we picked up an Italian publication called Porta Portese that comes out twice per week, and it is basically a newspaper classified section on steroids, and it is basically all in Italian. The apartment ads all have phone numbers listed, so I tried to call some of them. What I did first was to look up a bunch of words and phrases in Italian and to try to get them in the memory bank, or at least on paper in front of me, before calling, knowing full well that, even if I articulated them passably, as soon as the person on the other end of the phone started talking, it would be game-set-match in favor of someone other than me.

Despite this premonition (foreboding as it was), I called some of the numbers. I had almost made an appointment with one guy for Saturday at 12:20 (I think) when I asked him what street the place was on (the ads don't always list such information). He said a bunch of stuff, but he might as well have been speaking in tongues. So I asked him again. He said a bunch of stuff again and I sort of sat here, breathing heavily into the phone.

Then he hung up on me.

I don't blame him. I would have hung up on me too.