Locked In

March 16, 2025

Sometimes living in Italy is a dream. There are cafes on every corner where you can get a cappuccino and cornetto for just a couple of euros; you can hop on a train to anywhere for the day or the weekend or whatever; there is almost always a market going on somewhere; people go out on afternoon walks anytime there’s a peak of sun and it makes the town seem extra lively; the architecture is rustic; aperitivo hour is a treat; and the list goes on.

Sometimes living in Italy is a nightmare. Government documents take nearly a year to be ready, and you have to start the renewal process right away; public transport is always crammed, when it’s actually running; shops and restaurants often close whenever they feel like it; gas and electric bills are insane and hardly do anything to heat most apartments; appliances usually aren’t up to date; and you’re always on Italian time.

Though most of this week was dreamy enough, one night was a nightmare.

To set the scene: It’s Tuesday night. It’s starting to rain. Marte just got home from the gym and I just finished a night run. We start making dinner and chatting as we do, then realize it’s trash night so we each grab a bin from the kitchen to bring outside. Our door has to be unlocked from the inside with a key anytime we open it, and we both forgot our keys upstairs, so I run up to grab it then put my key in the door and give it a slight jiggle, (because our lock hasn’t worked properly since we moved in and always requires maneuvering) (our landlord has been aware of the issue for a year and a half, but why fix a lock when the whole door really should be fixed). The key breaks. Marte looks at me and I look at her. Half of my key is in my hand, the other half is stuck in the lock. We are trapped in the house.

This all happens at around 9:30. We try getting it out with tweezers and a magnet and a bobby pin etc. but nothing works. We call our landlord, who tries to call a locksmith. Online, they say they’re open. They don’t answer the call. At 9:50 he manages to get ahold of someone. They should arrive in thirty minutes.

An hour and a half later there’s a knock on the door. We can’t open it. We run to the upstairs window, just a story above the door, and Marte (who is much more proficient in Italian than I) starts talking to the two men, who are both smoking cigarettes. They ask me to throw a spare key down to them, which I thankfully had just gotten made last week after breaking another key in the door the week prior to that (I’d been lucky that time; the broken key had been fully extractible). I stuck my arm out the window and dropped it down. The key hit the man’s hands and bounced to the ground, then bounced another meter toward a sewage grate. I yelped in fear. The key bounced on the grate and landed right on the corner of it, thank God. The man had been holding his breath and let out a long exhale as he walked to the road and picked up the key. He went to the door and unlocked it from the outside.

Marte and I run downstairs as they open the door and we are immediately hit with two realizations: the smell of alcohol is on their breath, and these two men are in our house at night and are blocking the exit (these are things two young gals have to worry about, you know). The men talk with their hands, in true form, and say “Che cazzo? You didn’t need us!”. We gestured to the key, still in the lock. They sigh and say “Ok, ok.”

They realize they need to remove the whole lock. We ask how much it will be. They tell us four times the amount they’d said on the phone then shrug, “It’s a night call. Also, we only accept cash.”

Marte holds down the fort as I don a raincoat and bike to the nearest ATM. Not many people are on the street at 11:30 on a Tuesday night, especially when it’s pouring down rain. The ones that are definitely notice the girl with a rattling bike hurrying into the bank vestibule. I quickly take out the cash and send up a prayer as I exit the building, unlock my bike, and ride home.

I arrive as they are finishing up. They inform us they don’t have a lock to replace the one on our door that night, but assure us they’ll be back tomorrow to put a new one on the door, at an extra price of course. We hand them the money, set the trash bins outside, and shut our lockless door, piling chairs and boxes and a bag of empty wine bottles high to prevent any intruders from entering. I go back upstairs pour myself a little bourbon, then listen to I Hate it Here by Taylor Swift.  

The guys return the next day (at 8pm) and replace the lock for an additional cost.

At least we got a working lock and a good story out of that nightmare of a night!

In other news this week, I ran and ate a lot!