Empty means empty

Renting an apartment is Rome is not like renting an apartment elsewhere. Or maybe it is; I only have experience of renting in Canada (easy-peasy) and London (OK, but ...). Apartments here are either furnished, which generally means an odd assortment of granny's faux antique cast-offs. (As an aside, and without wishing to denigrate my hosts, how on Earth did the myth of the innately stylish Italian ever arise? Yes, there's good stuff and well-dressed people around. But there is also kitsch of a level so hideous as to be beyond sublime, and people whose slavery to fashion is complete to the point of self-loathing.) Or they're empty, which always means no light fittings, often means no kitchen or bathroom, and in my case meant no seat on one of the toilets. Indeed, it wasn't until I actually had the keys in my hand and the leisure to look around that I discovered that there were no water heaters either, a little detail that had passed me by on the first (and only) inspection.

But for every maddening, infuriating, incomprehensible aspect of the Italian Way of Life, there is a wonderful, cockle-warming, soul-gladdening counter-example. No hot water? No problem! Giorgio, the portiere, takes me round the block to meet Hermes, the portiere of another block. Giorgio used to be an electrician. But even though the water is heated electrically, installing an immersion heater is a job for a plumber. And Hermes used to be a plumber.

Hermes takes me round another block to the plumbers' supply shop, the kind of place that in England is almost extinct, and that in Rome seems to thrive in every neighbourhood. There, he helps me negotiate a good price on the two immersion heaters I need. I pay, we shake hands, and off I go to try and to get in a day's work. That evening, two immersion heaters, in full working order.

Unfortunately the seatless toilet, on first flush, floods the floor. Hermes fixes that too, with his trusty silicone gun.