I went to the post office the other day with a letter to mail to the USA. After waiting a lifetime before a single person who was paying his bills at the postal products window (he was supposed to be at the bancoposta window, bastardo!), I approached the bespectacled matron. My letter was half way under the bulletproof glass when she said, "The machine is broken." (NB: everything is a macchina in Naples: the car, the stroller, the coffee maker, the camera and, evidently, the machine that spits out stickers with appropriate postage). So, I asked her, "Well, how about a stamp? How much is it to send a letter to the United States." And she answered, "MA CHE NE SO IO" (Well, how should I know?). How should she know? HOW SHOULD SHE KNOW? SHE WORKS IN THE FUCKING POST OFFICE, THAT'S HOW SHE SHOULD KNOW!