I have to look up the Italian for recycling – raccolta differenziata – because it is the sole subject of the daily conversations I have with Sergio, the man who comes to water the plants every morning at the house where we are staying.
“Good morning, Sergio,” I say on Monday. “Why they do not take my cardboard in the night?”
Sergio explains that the grey bin is not for cardboard, but only for undifferentiated fractions. At least I think that’s what he’s saying; according to the language app I’ve been using for months, I’m only 46% fluent, down from 47% at the start of the week. And I’m still waiting for someone to ask me a question that I can answer by saying, “It’s probably a bear.” Seeing my confusion, Sergio explains again, with more gestures. Then we stare at each other for a bit.
“Fa caldo, si?” I say.
“Si,” says Sergio. “Molto caldo.”
Bottles are the biggest problem. There are nine people in the house, and the bottle bin is very small. We’ve already missed one glass collection; the next is not for a week.
On Tuesday morning Sergio brings me a complete recycling schedule, and some yellow bags for metals.
“No plastic,” he says, waving a finger. I point to the full green bin.
“Sergio, I am emotional for these many bottles,” I say. “How can they leave?”
Sergio nods and launches into a long explanation that I do not understand. My wife comes over to listen.
“I’m pretty sure he’s telling me to throw them into the sea at night,” I say.
“He’s saying there’s a recycling centre on the main road,” my wife says.
“How do you know?” I say.
“It’s obvious,” she says. Sergio smiles.
That afternoon my wife and I load two bin liners full of glass waste into the boot of the car, and drive toward the coast. We miss the recycling centre on the first pass, but on the way back we spot it behind a stand of trees. I turn off the main road, and eventually find the entrance. The recycling centre is staffed by two men, one shirtless. It’s clear that some conversational Italian must take place.
“Good evening,” I say, opening the boot. “We are guests of the near town, and we have many, many bottles. And also some cardboard.”
“Cardboard yes,” says the shirtless man, in Italian. The other man takes our cardboard and carries it over to a large stack.
“A mile of thanks,” I say. “But it’s really the bottles that is occupying me.”
“No glass,” he says, waving his hands. “Friday.”
“But we are nine persons,” I say, “and the green box is insufficiently grand.”
“Give him some money,” my wife says.
“Really?” I say.
I have a €20 note in my pocket, but I don’t know enough Italian to bribe a man to take my recycling. I look down into the open boot, searching for words.
“Maybe I have the need to drink less,” I say.
“No, no!” says the shirtless man, smiling broadly. He grabs my hand and pats my forearm affectionately, as if my alcohol problem were the most charming thing about me. Then he picks up my two bin liners of bottles and tosses them into a nearby skip.
“What did you just say?” my wife says. “What’s he saying now?” The shirtless man returns, talking excitedly, while pressing down on a large imaginary cube.
“I think he’s saying we need a bigger green bin to contain our many empty wines.”
“Where do we get one?” she says.
“I don’t know,” I say, shaking the man’s hand. “To be honest, he could also be threatening to crush our car. Let’s go.”
The next morning I rise early to see what happened to the grey bin: frazione indifferenziate. At the very least I’m hoping there will be rubbish strewn all over the road, so I can shrug at Sergio and say, “Probabilmente è un orso.”
Sergio is not there, but just inside our front gate I find a huge new bin with VETRO written on it, shining in the bright sun.
