The art of selling. In Italy.

I’m home alone. And the doorbell rings. I open the door. And there’s a guy. Holding a brochure.  And my initial guess. It’s a Jehovah Witness. Even here in Sardinia. They are everywhere. But no, it’s a ‘hoover’ salesman. In Italy,  that’s the name for a vacuum cleaner. They still sell vacuums door-to-door here. Much like in America in the 1940s and 1950s. Remember them well. So I feel a pang of nostalgia when I meet Mauro Addis. Told him in Italian that I didn’t speak Italian. But he spoke some English. Learned it in London. He’s native  Sardinian. Through and through. And I thought, my gawd, just what I’m looking for. English-speaking Italians. I collect ‘em as fast as I can find ‘em. On the street. In the restaurants and stores. In the dentist office.  Under a rock. And lo and behold, at my door. A godsend.  Maybe Mauro thinks he has a sure customer. Little does he know, no way am I or my true love gonna buy a new vacuum cleaner. We have an old one. Works good. We even have an old reliable 1987 Fiat. Runs good.  We make the most of what we have. No sense in buying new when old suffices.  Anyway, I invite Mauro in. For a chat.  A half-hour later, Mauro leaves. With a promise that we’ll see each other again. Soon. Maybe so he can give me a sales pitch. For a hoover. But he should know better. Because I told him truthfully. I’m using him. Because he speaks English.  And I collect Italians who speak English. I interview them. Maybe for a book. About Italians that speak English.   It’s the easy way for me to learn about Italy and Italians without becoming a master of the Italian language.  Makes me the lazy one.  The Italians do all the work. Learning my language. For which I am eternally grateful. Welcome to my world, Mauro. Now it’s your turn to welcome me to your world. I’m ready and willing to learn. Everything to know about the art of selling a hoover. In Italy. –Jim Broede