Angie got a cell phone. Actually, I think it's illegal not to have one in Italy, so it's about time. We've been on her to get one for a year now, and one day two weeks ago Bruce came home from work and presented her with one.

And the masses rejoiced. But, after the first two days, she couldn't call out. Not very useful, even though the main reason we wanted her to get one is so that we could call her when she wasn't at home, which, quite frankly, is most of the time.

When we lived in the US, and I had a career and so forth, I absolutely refused to get a mobile phone. My boss was the main instigator, even wanted to pay for it. Do I want somebody calling me when I'm in the car, at lunch, on the toilet? Hell no. And given the fact that it was his wont to call me at 10:30 on Sunday nights, and 11:30 pm on Tuesdays, and equally ridiculous times, the last thing I wanted was him to have more access. I may appear to be stupid, but I assure you I am not. No mobile.

I stood firm while we were living in Istanbul. Although, to be completely honest, I was starting to weaken. My husband wanted me to get one, of course: he was working the long, long hours, and I can't stand to confined to home, all alone, for such long periods. As a result, I'd go out and do things. Explore. Hang out. And, to continue on the honesty thing, I found myself in a couple of situations where a mobile phone would have been quite welcome. Not that I ever told Elvis: he had enough to worry about, and I always hate to admit to my own stupidity.

Germany was not a good candidate for cell phone initiation. What was I supposed to do? Call Elvis at odd intervals and say "I'm bored. I thought I'd shop for food that won't fit into our two square foot fridge, what do you think?" Or, "When can we leave?"

But Italy... Italy was different. First, I really do think it's a requirement. Even 80 year old women spend hours texting their family on the tram, or gossiping about how poor Maria is really getting past it, overcooked her pasta at lunch and how can she call that a sauce. If you do not have a cell phone, the style police will hunt you down and force you to conform. And possibly criticize your hairstyle and obviously poor fashion sense. Plus, you can pay as you go, and not have to commit to a contract. Add in the fact that we wouldn't be able to get a land-line in our apartment for months, and we were shopping for cell phones within a week.

Now that we have them, of course, we wonder how we ever got along with out them.

So, today I spent way too much time trying to get Angie's phone to work. The scene was The Cafe. Yep, another Guido special to start the weekend off with a budding hangover and tempting and not-so-tempting morsels on sticks.

I called her service provider, which had to be done using her mobile and was trickier than it sounds because the network kept crapping out. Sometimes in the middle of a call. But I persisted, and finally found myself talking to a guy at Wind. He told me that they had blocked Angie's phone because they needed documents. Fine, which documents? Well, we don't need the documents themselves, but information. Information? Information. What kind of information? Information. Information... Finally, sometime after I started feeling like Patrick McGoohan but before I gave in to the urge to call him Number 2, he found an English speaker who could talk with Angie herself.

What was needed apparently, was her codice fiscale, or tax number. Which she didn't have. So she used my phone to call Bruce, who miraculously had the information at work. After repeated attempts, (including 2 five minute stints on hold) I managed to get a network connection and called customer service. Number 2 again. And he wants her passport number, as well. News to us, but much searching in the bowels of Angie's purse produced the information. Much fiddling about later, and I manage to get connected to Wind. Number 2 seemed to have vanished, and was replaced by the new Number 2, a girl. She fiddled around trying to bring up the account, apologizing profusely for making me wait.

Then she said the computer was down.

Try again later.

Right.

Meanwhile, I had been downing so much cheap spumante just to get me through the ordeal (not to mention an unpleasant interlude with one of those African guys that poked me in the boob with one of the books he was trying to peddle), that I had problems recharging my own telefonino. Couldn't seem to hit the buttons properly. Quite frankly, I'm having the same problems with this keyboard right now.

Elvis and I are off to dinner with Angie and Bruce, who should be turning up soon. Not that we have any way of knowing exactly when, as that damn telefonino of Angie's is still not working, although I eventually suceeded in getting more credit into mine.

I know that telepone companies are more or less the same throughout the world, at least in my experience. But the fact that Angie's phone can't even connect to the damn network is a bit much. I'm going to recommend that she switch to TIM or Omnitel, which to be perfectly honest will not be a hard sell after this afternoon's entertainment. I never have problems connecting to my network. And considering that Italy is awash in mobile network towers, neither should she.

But the information debacle? That's pure Italia.