Trying to Get Vaccinated in Italy Is A Long Dispiriting Journey

You want it. You're willing. But it just ain't there.

Photo by Kaja Reichardt

Italians have an adage for everything.

A favorite of mine is: “Chi ha il pane non ha i denti, chi ha i denti non ha il pane,” which means, Those with bread have no teeth; those with teeth have no bread. It’s a much cleverer way of saying life sucks and then you die.

As an American in Italy, I got teeth. You can bet I got teeth. But there is no bread for me or for others of my kind. Why? We can’t get vaccinated. There are reasons for that, which I will get into, but the end result is having to make life or death decisions every time you set foot outside the house. Do I dare get my hair done? Should I accept that dinner invitation? “They probably don’t have Covid” is about as scientifically rigorous as a horoscope. Try explaining that to the ER doctor who’s minutes away from hooking you up to a ventilator.

So you pick up the dice, rattle them in your hand, and then cast them toward the winds of Fate. That’s comforting, right? Hoping you don’t get sick? You wear your mask, wash your hands, and still, the best you can do is pray that no infected person sneezes, breathes, coughs, sings, or talks to you.

Italians, taken on the aggregate, have been surprisingly willing to wear masks when required and to get vaccinated. In a country that’s half the size of Texas and with twice the population, it’s heartening to see these kinds of statistics: 60.6 million doses have been given and 42.2% of the population is fully vaccinated. Viva Italia!

Photo by Belinda Fewings

And yet, compared to the U.S.’s impressive 50% fully vaccinated rate, Italy’s stats are not as good as they could be. The reason is Italy doesn’t do coordinated federal responses; it does regional ones. Not all regions are good at this stuff. Not all regions can get their hands on a sufficient number of vaccines.

There are also plenty of us who fall through the bureaucratic cracks. I’m neither an Italian citizen nor a possessor of that most holy of holies, a tessera sanitaria, or national health card. In theory, Italy promised vaccines to everyone, regardless of national origin. But in practice, you can’t make an online or over-the-phone appointment without that card. This means foreigners who correctly purchased health insurance in their native country as a precondition of their residency here can’t get vaccinated. They have insurance, mind you; just not the right insurance.

A few Red Cross tents called “Open Day” have popped up in the major cities where, again in theory, foreigners should be able to get vaccinated, but by the time you call, there’s no vaccine left. Vaccine shortages are a real thing here in Europe, which is why it’s dismaying to read headlines crowing about Italy donating 10 million doses to poorer countries. Hey, dudes. How about making sure everyone is vaccinated in your own country first?

In Italy, it often pays to get creative in how you navigate roadblocks, such as the procurement of a life-saving vaccine. There are rules, and then there are the shifting, inchoate ways Italians side-step those rules. It’s been this way since the time of Ancient Rome. So, you starting quizzing your friends, and at least one of them will “know a guy who knows a guy.” It’s the non-Mafia equivalent of being vouched for and, in a way, it mimics Jewish mishpocha [mish-pookh-uh], where an entire family network is connected by blood and marriage. Italian mishpocha is how you get an honest plumber, a realtor who won’t fleece you, or even a date. Somebody always knows somebody who can help you.

Not this time.

Crickets.

Photo by Tim Mossholder

With sick envy, I watch news broadcasts demonstrating how easy it is to get vaccinated in the U.S. You don’t even need to show ID. You walk into a pharmacy, roll up your sleeve, get the jab, and leave. I would kill for an opportunity like that. I feel like an Ethiopian famine victim staring through a restaurant window at fat people eating filet mignon.

So, a year and a half into this ghastly pandemic, I am still unvaccinated. For me, going to the store or on a train or to the hairdresser remains a blood sport, fraught with peril. Last January, I predicted to John that, knowing Italy, it would be at least a year before I got the jab.

What do you wanna bet I’m right?

Where did you get your vaccine? Feel free to brag about it in the comments below!