Last December, Italy's Puglia region (the heel of the boot) announced it was looking for agencies to handle its tourism account for 2008. The money was 7 million euros (roughly $10 million), a large ad budget for Europe. The main target markets were the U.S., U.K. and Germany.

Of all the local and international agencies that presented credentials, seven were selected for the final round: Leo Burnett, Publicis, Armando Testa, Oliviero Toscani, The Ad Store International, Ad Concord (Italian) and TeleNorba (the local Puglia TV station and media company).

Everyone always suspects that pitches in Italy end up quid pro quo: some local agency makes a deal with some local official. So I called Nicchi Vendola, the openly gay governor of Puglia -- who happens to be my cousin -- to ask if this would be a fair pitch. He didn't answer my call, but his boyfriend returned my message to tell me everything would be above board. (Italian politicians are wary of talking business on phones; because there's so much corruption, they're usually tapped.) Meanwhile, I heard the governor had sent word to the Ministry of Tourism to "play nice" because multinationals were involved.

We entered the pitch. Time passed. Finally, in mid-July, an announcement was made: TeleNorba had won! We had been eliminated on what the government called "a grave error": One of our papers was in envelope C instead of envelope B.

Our first reaction was to get a lawyer to contest our elimination. But in Italy you have to pay a tax of 4,000 euros to sue a government agency -- and, if you win, you have to wait seven years for restitution. We decided we'd go public instead. We wrote a lengthy letter to the media, which I signed. That night, the national paper, Corriere della Sera, posted it on the front page of its online edition.

Our letter did not lament the fact that we were excluded, but rather denounced the fact that it was business meets politics as usual in Italy. How could a local TV station that sells media prevail over agencies like Leo Burnett, Publicis, Oliviero Toscani and us for an international tourism account? How was it possible that, once again, "the bar downstairs" got the business? And how could the commission judging the pitch drag its feet until the middle of July for a tourism account whose money runs out in December?

I have a house in Puglia and decided to go for a visit in August. On Friday, Aug. 1, I arrived at Bari Airport. In the terminal it became apparent that plainclothes policemen were present (one even accidentally exposed his gold badge). While it crossed my mind they were there for me, I decided I was being paranoid. But as I waited for my luggage, my cell phone rang. It was the spokesperson for the governor, who just happened to wonder if I was in Puglia. He asked if I could come to the governor's office for a meeting. Apparently, my "polemic," still on the paper's home page, was an embarrassment for the administration -- especially because the governor had admitted to the media that we were related (our mothers are first cousins).



By this time, I'd received 200-plus e-mails denouncing the "Italian way" of doing business. Every Italian ad agency was crying foul and the press was having a field day.

I met with the governor, and it turned into a shouting match. I then decided that, as long as I was in Puglia, I'd hold a press conference at my house to discuss the issue. I invited the governor and minister of tourism to attend.

The conference was covered by RAI, ANSA and the local press, but the governor and minister were no shows. Later that day, however, the minister called to invite me to coffee. I accepted and on that night's news segment covering my conference, the minister goes on the air to say we'll be meeting the next day. Cheeky!

We had our coffee, exchanged some meaningless pleasantries and that, I thought, was that. But two days later I was called back to the ministry, where I was asked to help create a fall/winter tourism campaign because -- guess what? -- they didn't have an ad agency. How did that happen?

Things didn't end there. After that last meeting, unbeknownst to me -- and, I assume, the tourism minister -- the Carabinieri (Italy's paramilitary police) raided the ministry and confiscated all documents pertaining to the pitch.

In the meantime, I returned to New York, where we created several campaigns we then presented to the ministry. But Italian bureaucracy being what it is, we're still waiting to see which, if any, they'll choose.

My mother -- who thinks scores are settled in dark alleys at the end of the barrel of a gun -- lights candles for me every night.

Paul Cappelli is founder and president of The Ad Store.