Introduction

I am seven months pregnant, and I am sitting in the tiny, cluttered real estate office in our local town, Dogliani, in Piemonte, Italy, while Renato, the short, stout Italian realtor, explains in slow English that our Sicilian cleaning woman is going to seek vengeance if we don’t pay her one thousand euros immediately. Jason and I have just arrived, a week ago, to administer the maintenance of the three hundred year old Italian farmhouse we recently purchased. We intend to run gourmet food and wine programs for American tourists out of our farmhouse in the tiny village of Bonvicino.

The baby kicks. Fury is mounting in me. I point to the neon pink T-shirt stretched across my expansive belly, announcing “due in August.” “Are you kidding me? I am carrying thirty pounds of extra weight and I could clean that house in three days. She is claiming she spent one hundred hours cleaning four bedrooms? What was she using –a toothbrush?”

Renato agrees that she is scamming us. But he also says that she is vicious and will carry out her threat to make it “impossible” for us to live here. She is Sicilian, after all, he points out with a knowing look. We haven’t even moved into the house yet! I am far and exhausted, and my ankles are swollen. I have no patience left for some old lady who thinks she’s got us over a barrel.

Jason’s brow is furrowed in concern. “Sweetie, she might do something rash. If she carries a vendetta against us, maybe she’ll show up with a shotgun! Or poison all the vines...once we have a vineyard.”

A vineyard?! We don't even own furniture yet. I push this issue aside. The Big Mama vibes in my core are pounding. Renato watches us. Actually, it is difficult to tell what he is watching, since he has one lazy eye.

We found Renato on a fluke. After a couple of trips from Paris to Piemonte to look for a property to buy, we stumbled into his office accidentally. We had spent the past forty-eight hours looking at properties. We wanted a rustica. A pile of stones. A piece of land that we could hold onto and build on later. Something affordable. We were about to go ahead and purchase an uninhabitable dwelling, for much more money than we had planned on, when we decided to take a break and head to the seashore.

It was my thirty-third birthday, so we extended our stay by a few days and headed to the Ligurian coast. On route,we drove through Dogliani, a town that previously we had never set foot in. It was hot and we felt cramped from being in the car, so we parked in the town center and set out to look for gelato to cool off.

Walking along the ancient cobblestone street in the pedestrian section of town, we passed a realtor shop, the window full of pictures of homes for sale.

Jason sauntered up to it. “Look at that! Can that be for real? It’s huge!” He pointed to the ad for a large farmhouse sitting on nine acres. The property sat on a hilltop overlooking a forested valley. The hilltop town of Murazzano could be seen in the distance. Most importantly, unlike all of the properties we had seen previously, which were various piles of rubble waiting to be reassembled into a dwelling, this one was a solid structure with a solid roof.

“Um, yeah, well...let’s go find some gelato.” I was exhausted from the two-day whirlwind tour of the region. We had already found a property. I was simply not in the mood to keep looking right now.

“Let’s go in and ask!” Jason pushed the glass door open. I groaned. Oh no. I really did not feel like yet another discussion with a realtor.

A tiny woman sat at the desk, her blonde hair set in a casually chic style. What is it about the Italians that they are able to pull off simple elegance so easily? Everyone looks so hip and stylish, but in that oh-I-just-threw-this-on-way. Not like in Paris, where everyone looks like they spent hours applying makeup, putting together a fashionable outfit and styling their hair. I can’t seem to manage either effect. Whether I spend time primping and coiffing - which I don’t, ever - or not, I always look like I just came out of a tumble dryer. No matter how much time and how many products I apply to my hair, it inevitably looks like I got caught in a windstorm. Every effort I make to look fashionable leaves me looking frumpy.

Jason asked about the property in halting Italian, gesturing towards the photo in the window. The woman dialed her tiny, chic mobile phone and replied that the realtor would be back in fifteen minutes and would be able to speak with us.

Jason waited in eager anticipation. “I think this could be it! Look at it! It’s huge!” He pointed at the photos of a two-story farmhouse.

Now, almost a year later, we are seated in the same chairs, facing Renato across the desk. I look him straight in his good eye. “Get that little lady in here. This is bullshit. I am not paying some blackmail fee.” I settle back into my chair, my enormous belly sticking out in front of me like a small mountain. One thing pregnancy has done for me, aside from giving me a huge ass, is to limit my patience and tolerance.

Five minutes later Francesca is sitting across from me. She looks like a short toad wearing glasses. She peers at me, squinting through her spcs. Renato addresses her in Italian, asking her to explain her invoice- a scribbled note on a sheet of scrap paper. She gives me a sideways glance and then responds to him. She is so clearly lying. “Renato,” I begin, willing myself to sound much calmer than I feel, “please ask her to explain to me how she arrived at the sum of one hundred hours. You hired her less than ten days ago. She’s been working over ten hours a day?” I bestow a sparkling-smile-completely ungenuine - on the frumpy little lady next to me.

He translates and turns to me with an unsatisfactory answer. “She says you owe her one thousand euros.”

Argh. I want to scream. As is in agreement, the baby kicks. We are getting nowhere. I turn to Jason, who looks baffled. I sigh. Let’s try another tactic. “Okay, please tell her I will of course pay her for her time. I just don’t understand, stupid me, how she has arrived at one hundred hours. You hired her fewer than ten days ago. Has she spent over ten hours a day cleaning?”

Renato explains my stupidity, pleading that I am pregnant and clearly do not want to incur any bad feelings at this time. Francesca throws the “invoice” at Renato, jumps up, spouting furious words in Italian, and bustles out the door.

Jason and I stare after her, our jaws on the floor. Is this psychotic display a prelude of what’s to come? We haven’t even started renovations yet. Is this normal behavior here?

Renato explains, “She says she now refuses to be paid.” “What a nutcase! Fine.” I get ready to leave. If she is refusing to be paid, what am I supposed to do? Run after her?

Jason looks anxious. “We’ve got to pay her. I don’t want any bad feelings.”Renato brightens, “Okay, leave the money with me and I will go and see her husband. He works at the factory and is a reasonable man.”

We leave the wad of cash with Renato and head out to console ourselves with Dogliani’s best chocolate gelato.

If you liked that chapter and can’t wait to find out what happens next, you can find the full version here!