living in italy: the front door

My street is narrow and paved with cobblestones dating back to who knows when. It's got a cobbler, a leather maker, a tailor, an aesthetician, a hair salon, a photographer's studio and a carpenter's workshop. Everyone knows everyone and ladies chit chat with each other from their balconies. Children play in the street and their moms yell down to them to come up because lunch is ready. (Yes, like the commercials depict.) 

When I open the front door to leave the apartment on most mornings, the men of the street (the cobbler, the photographer, the tailor and the leather maker) are all standing there, discussing the day's news and having heated political discussions. They always tip their proverbial hats to me to say, buon giorno, as I step down the tiny step from our door to the street, breathe in the air and start my day.

Well. Yesterday the story didn't go that way because the front door wouldn't open. I pushed and pushed, tried the lock with my key from the inside, kicked it, turned the knob, but no dice. My men of the street heard the commotion and yelled in, 

"What's the matter? Are you stuck?"

"Um, yes," I said, embarrassed. 

Then, they laughed. Loudly and with gusto.

I blushed from inside the door and laughed too? But not? 

"What should I do?" I asked them.

"Not go anywhere!" said the cobbler, as they all erupted into giggles.

I was starting to believe that I really wasn't going anywhere, and grabbed my phone to call the clients who were waiting for me, when I heard the carpenter interject, 

"I'll get her out. Miss? Stay there, I'm going to get my tools."

The others began to discuss the situation as fervently as they approach their regular topics of taxes, morals and neighborhood gossip. I waited and listened and remembered, "Crap! I don't even have anything in the house to eat!" 

Finally the carpenter arrived and started banging away. At this point it became a joke: How many Italian men does it take to open a front door to rescue a nice American girl? Apparently seven. 

The banging and discussions came to a screeching halt when the screws slipped out and the door came crashing down in a cloud of dust. Immediately after, applause and cheering and pats on my back. "You made it! You're out!" they said, adorably.

Just your average morning on Mariano Sante street in Barletta.

[there's our door last year. now it has a nice, fresh coat of varnish, thanks to the carpenter.]