I call the internet company to get wifi installed. I get a woman in Italian. Posso parlare inglese? I ask in fumbling Italian. Si she answers, indicating that yes I can speak English. Except, no, she doesn't understand any of it. We arrive at a shared understanding that I want wifi, and she gradually takes my address. Terrified that this is going to be a very long and arduous process with great risk of miscommunication, I ask again if I can speak to someone in English. Si. Due minuti. She disappears.

Two minutes later, a man picks up the phone speaking English with a suave Italian accent. His name is Antonio. He graciously guides me through the questions for an internet installation. When I spell my name, he confirms every letter with an Italian place name. T like Torino? L like Livorno? E like Empoli?

After taking all of my details, Antonio hesitates before explaining the next step. He seems unsure that I'll understand. I'm going to give you a number, okay? He explains: he will give me a number to write down. I will hang up and call that number. A machine will answer. I will press one. I will be put on hold. Then the phone will disconnect. Okay?

Italy is a country of faith. Faith in god. And faith that if you hang up and call another number and press one and disconnect and then wait, eventually you will get a wifi installation. And so I did — hang up, call, press one, disconnect, and then wait in silence for eight minutes. Until my phone rang. It's me, said Antonio.

In seven to ten days, I should have my wifi installed. Now I just have to wait for a call from a technician.