No Country for Young Men (nor Women) — an Italian report

Once upon a time… No, not this time.
Each of us lives or has lived, at least for a period, in a big city around the world. You know what it is. Because there is always too much going on, you need to step out from your crazy busy schedule and take a break from your stressful job, or study, or even from your stressful hospice retirement and move your gluteus maximus to the countryside, to slow down and relax.
Do not worry anymore, children! There is a place on earth where you can be in a metropolis, but have absolutely nothing to do even if you want to!
Let me transport you to Milan, the business and fashion capital of Italy.
Now, be sure that I have not picked Milan “just because” — I come from there, and I am a wonderfully inclusive and homesick soul who wants to take you with her on her homeward-bound trip to the one and only city which has raised and amazed her.
Let’s start from the beginning, more or less.
After completing my three-year BA in Amsterdam in only two and a half years, getting a ranked-first-in-the-world degree in Media Studies, getting a Minor on top of that because why not, speaking seven languages and having work experience both in “serious” jobs and as a bartender (because, let’s be honest, out of everything one can do, it is essential to your resumé that you are able to tap beers, serve sandwiches and smile on rainy days) — after all of this and many a sleepless study nights and sleepy hungover days, I moved my body and soul back here.
After two and a half years of intense on-the-go life in rainy, cold, cozy, bike-friendly, eco-friendly, civilised Amsterdam in the north of the flat and organised Netherlands, I decided to make my move back to my Italian urban jungle. I felt ready to face my destiny, ready to see where the unbeaten path would take me, eager to discover what would be up next in my big city, where nothing is to be taken for granted and nothing is given to anyone.
Approximately at this time a week and a half ago, I land in my hometown. I close my eyes and breathe and hope fills my lungs to the top.
Then I open my eyes again. Bee Gees — Tragedy. Say no more.
None of my friends here have ever worked a single day of their lives, everyone is doing something at university, which they have been doing for the past three years and will keep doing for the upcoming five. My parents are at work from dusk till dawn and collapse at home every night, hardly ever going out for a drink with friends and dreaming of retirement even if they’re barely 50. Nothing seems to be fast-paced, nothing appears challenging. Everything looks flattened, even though there is mountains on both sides of the sweet Pianura Padana (Padan Flatlands) where I live.
At this point, my brain promptly provides me with an inner speech which sounds somewhat like this: “okay, those people are just not valuing it. They do not know how wonderful the climate, food, culture and people of this country are. They are just not trying hard enough. Let me send some e-mails, some resumes around. Something will come up, I would do any job after all, I just want to get started and then I will figure it out”.
Oh. Well.
Last famous words.
I open LinkedIn, Indeed, Glassdoor, any employment site you name — the amount of job ads is so little and each ad is so poorly explained that I start to think of closing all of the websites and knocking on the door of some Church to pray and be forgiven for the step I have taken.
Still, I do not want to give up. I am motivated to send letters everywhere. I do not even specify anything anymore when looking for an employment. I just go “look for: anything; where: Milan”.
To sum it up, every enterprise within the range of a 100 km around me (for Americans reading this real surreal story, that’s ca. 65 miles) holds a copy of my resume and a motivation letter tailored to whatever position I have applied to. And the positions are endless, trust me: just so that nothing is left behind, Cristiana’s applications span from bartending/waitressing, to customer service anything, to goods production, to sales, to offices of any kind, to freelancing, to social whatever, to construction and to the Lord only knows what else.
Any profession that capitalism has ever invented, I applied to.
Any entry requirement needed for any profession I applied to, I satisfied.
Not. A. Single. Call. Back.
Until one day — oh, that day! — after a week of tears and after starting to contemplate moving to Australia to pick fruits in strawberry fields forever, I receive a phone call. They are inviting me to an interview.
I hesitantly ask them what the position is for, prepared to literally anything and eager for whatever and, to my surprise, it is not even for cooking frozen pizzas at Domino’s.
They tell me “marketing accountant, B2B, in collaboration with UNHCR”. I am shook. I wake up the next morning, do the best I can with my hair and make-up to beat the tropical thunderstorm going on outside (for no good reason, by the way, since in Italy it is always sunny — that’s why I came back) and I march towards this company’s office, happier than Gene Kelly singin’ in the rain, looking forward to learning more about them, about their noble humanitarian mission and about my potential noble role in it.
After I have entered the office (a subterranean bunker in the vicinity of Milan Central Station), a stressed secretary doing thousands of prints points out a couch at me, where I shall sit and wait for “the boss”. Along with me, there is a reasonable amount of fifteen more people waiting there — three early-comers who are sitting on that famous couch, and the rest of us standing there wondering who will be the lucky one to get a UNHCR-related job.
“The boss” eventually appears — a middle-aged, short-legged, fat man with a freaky smile on his lips. He announces to us that we will be sent “on the spot” immediately for training purposes and to verify who is fit enough for the role. For training purposes, each one of us is given a blue t-shirt with a huge UNICEF logo on it and a pile of papers, containing brochures with pictures of hungry African children and black-and-white modules to be handed out to people to sign.
What is next?
Of course, we are taken “on the spot” — the Central Station of Milan.
Our training begins here. “The boss” is a kind man and he gives us a first-hand, live example of what the job consists of: UNICEF t-shirt on, brochures in hand, you have to run after people and stop them — and have I mentioned that in Milan, as in any big western city, humanity is always rushing to something and constantly pissed off?. Once you have managed to successfully block someone from peacefully carrying on with their meaningful daily routine , you drop the bomb: “Hi Sir/Madame, I am a UNICEF ambassador, could you sign this form with your name and bank account so we can withdraw 40 euros from it every month to sustain a water-related project in *insert African country of choice*?”.
Needless to say, you are no UNICEF ambassador and this is all a big legal lie.
Your goal? gather at least fifteen signatures per day.
Your workday? from 10 am to 8 pm, 6 days a week, with no pause, standing outside.
The purpose of standing outside? scamming people, because none of that money they might give goes to humanitarian action. Half of it goes to “the boss”, half of it goes to the employee.
Your minimum wage: 0 euros.
Your expected wage: 400–500 euros a month for a working week of 60 hours.
The honesty contained in any money you may earn that month: below zero.
The deal: you sign a real contract, everything is legal, no one can file a lawsuit against you and you cannot file a lawsuit against this company.
And you did your hair, you went out in the middle of a thunderstorm, you witnessed the magic of the lie happen, and you actually saw someone shake hands with “the boss” at the end and accept that job offer, probably out of despair, there right before your own eyes.
With all my qualifications, languages, experiences and eagerness to work, all I was offered to do was to be a con-woman.
This is no country for young men, nor women.
Soon enough, this may not even be a country at all.
Come visit though, the weather and the food are great and we need tourism to make the economy work.
It breaks my heart to leave, it breaks my heart to stay.
It is not about underdevelopment that we are talking here — underdevelopment implies that there is some sort of movement towards something, even if the observed movement is different or differently paced when compared to the idea of “development” in force in Western countries.
Here, we are discussing a situation of stalemate.
We are not even discussing it. I am reporting it, you are reading it from God knows where.
This is no country for young men nor women.
Soon enough, this may not even be a country at all.
