Social Norms in Italy: Waiting in Line

Bruno Bozzetto - Italy vs EU

Although born and raised in California, by now I’ve spent about half of my adult years living in Italy. Living in a country other than the one where you were raised is challenging for all the reasons you’d expect: language barriers, different foods, missing loved ones at home.

But what about the things you didn’t realize would be an issue? I’d like to start exploring some social norms I’ve observed over the years in Italy.

Let’s start with... lines. 👀

Wait... what? 

Italians don’t do well with waiting in lines. In fact, they wait more in crowds, huddled around whatever it is they are waiting for. Public offices, ATMs, the butcher stand. 

Sometimes the crowds form like the onset of rain. One person dots the sidewalk, then another comes along from a different direction, then another. Before long the entire sidewalk is filled with folks, waiting to get into that public office building which doesn’t open for another 15 minutes. 

People wait in whatever area they find themselves once they’ve reached a short distance from the door. The ample space once intentionally left by early arrivers is infiltrated by those who come later. They casually squirrel their way between their fellow waiters until little to no personal space is left. 

Unless expressly told (read: yelled at) to do so by official staff, a single-file line is never the immediate solution to waiting. 

Ever. 

Some method to the madness

Of course, what happens when the doors open is often pure chaos. People push their way forward and “fanno finta di niente” (pretend not to notice they are cutting the line) and they swoop inside to what is usually some sort of system which objectively keeps track of who’s next once inside the doors.

Paper numbers coming out of a roll of a pull-tab dispenser is still typical for places like butcher stands, and hardware stores; all places which require the help of an employee to get what you need, and where the customer-to-employee ratio is still pretty low. 

Other places, like the doctor’s or post office have more complicated numbering systems. 

A touch screen silently greets you at the entrance and asks you, “What do you need to do today?” You scan the options, “send package - A,” “pick up mail - B.”

You need to pay a bill. You push the button and out pops your number: E42

Then you wait. The paper receipt with your number on it crinkles between your fingers as you stare at the electronic board in the corner as new numbers appear alongside the assigned station number. You get increasingly annoyed that the “A” line seems to be moving faster than yours.

When they finally call you, you’d better be fast as lightening to get to the proper station. You get what seems like fractions of a second to respond and then you get passed over. 

If you happen to miss your turn, you hover. 

You hover by the window where the employee is - by now - serving E43. You get their attention somehow, flash your crinkled paper receipt and sheepishly say, “I was E42.” They’ll usually tell you to wait right there, in what is definitely a complete violation of privacy of whoever is getting served so that they can backtrack and help you once they’re done with E43. 

If you’re lucky, the other waiters all saw this and understand what is going on. But if E44 wasn’t paying attention, he might perceive you as cutting in line. After all, it’s his turn now! Words will be said. Explanations made. And on you’ll go about your business - E44 now hovering and fuming behind you. 

As an introverted Virgo who thrives on following the rules, this all has the ability to either stress me out or fill me with pure confidence and pride. Some days I hate the waiting process in Italy. It’s all so nebulous and requires your attention at many steps along the way. 

But, I love the days when I’ve cracked the code. These are the days I manage to glide through every step and the days I call out that sneaky guy who tries to cut in front of me in “line” (read: the blob crowd). 

Waiting one’s turn is rarely a passive activity in Italy and on days when I get through the process while speaking up, standing my ground, and not getting lost in the crowd, I feel as though the authorities will jump out and present me with my Italian citizenship on the spot! 

Try talking to each other 

Perhaps the waiting “system” with which I have the greatest love/hate relationship is asking, “Chi è l’ultimo?”

Second only to actually JUST FORMING A GD LINE, I’ve found this to be the most civilized solution Italians have. 

Picture it: upon approaching a shop, office building, butcher stand, etc. you may find a small scattered crowd. 

Waiting. 

A quick assessment establishes there are no paper numbers in sight. So you ask, “Chi è l’ultimo?” Who’s the last person (in line)? If you’re introverted like me, you may be tempted to just ask this question to the crowd and see where it lands, but this usually fails and you need to ask once or twice more to get a response. 

You’ll have the best luck if you choose whomever is closest to you and make eye contact, maybe even smile, but intentionally single out one person to whom you direct this question. 

99% of the time they will know precisely what you’re talking about and point to the last “in line.” This may be the man closest to the door or the woman on her cell phone across the street.

Either way, you’ll get some indication of who was last, make eye contact, maybe nod. Now they and everyone else understand that it is YOU who are last. 

The next person who arrives will ask “Chi è l’ultimo?” You’ll get pointed at, eye contact, nod, and you’ve now established the small sequence of who is before and after you as you wait.

Order restored. 

Small victory. 

Exhale. 

If you’re moving to Italy (or anywhere in the world other than where you were raised), you’ll often find the most difficult parts of navigating life abroad are things you didn’t even know were different.

Social norms and, “This is just how we do things here,” will be some of the most frustrating to wrap your head around.

When you manage to do it, though. It feels like your own personal Mount Everest each and every time. Perhaps this is why I love living here. Even average and tedious things can feel like impossible mountains to climb. 

But once you manage to make your way up... you truly feel like you’re on top of the world.