Within seconds of arriving at the polling station the next morning, I realised I'd been thrown in the deep end. The station was a bar and pool hall. The man who let me in said Buongiorno and then went on in Italian. I had no idea what he was saying or what he was doing there. Another poll-watcher? Or had I come to the wrong place? When I saw the voting booth, I knew I was where I was supposed to be, but I was a little worried about who I was supposed to be. Someone from the district who not only couldn't speak Italian but had a Boston accent? The man switched to English and introduced himself as Albert. He was clearly in charge of this polling station, but I didn't dare ask how he came to be in charge. Instead I gathered my courage and went to look at the back of the voting machine to see if any votes had been registered. Fifty had. It was seven-thirty in the morning. The polls didn't open until eight.