Sig. Baldini... Autoscuola Fivizzanese
A God-send.
Fleeing the scene of my Carabinieri disgrace, and noted by many, I headed North turning right onto the driveway leading up to the local hospital, the site of my original intent for the day. I stopped and Google Map-ed, Autoscuola Fivizzanese. I had a general idea it was on Via Roma, a bland, almost desolate looking street climbing along a ridge from Centro Citta’ Fivizzano towards yonder peaks, the Apennines. A brief word about streets & stuff in Italy…
Back in the Olden Days… after the Fall of the Roman Empire… Italian towns were either perched on top of hills or surrounded by fortress walls. Defence tactics in Troubled Times. The Italian peninsula was ripe & easy pickings for marauding bands of Huns, Visigoths, Lombards!!! Oh! And not to forget Saracen pirates and gangs of home grown thieves canvasing the countryside for prey. Lucca is probably the most famous Italian walled city, however, there are thousands of others in Italy equally charming and/or, more so. Montagnana, for instance. You eat & drink splendidly. There are Palladian villas spread about nearby. Etc. The wall option had gates and each were traditional named for the town you would reach… preferably traveling by daylight… passing through a particular gate. All roads lead to Rome too so, 99 out of 100 times, there is a Porta Romana… Rome Gate… and the street’s name to match: Via Roma. Ecco! Fivizzano’s Via Roma is a numbing affair: straight, tree-less, with mini-sidewalks, shoddy or empty stores, and an array of architecturally anonymous apartment buildings and houses in mild pastels of salmon, Tuscan beige and rose. Smack in the middle of this urban context is Autoscuola Fivizzanese. There’s a single street sign cluing people to a Reserved Parking space for the autoscuola.
Continued on up the drive to pick up my blood work results, and then drove over to find Sig. Baldini on Via Roma, Fivizzano Massa-Carrara, Tuscany, Italy, Europe, Other. The Dogs were ready for home. They had had enough.
Found him lounging inside a small hatchback idling on the Reserved Parking spot, though half his body was dangling outside the car. Must’ve been for his cigarette smoke. The other occupant was a wispy-looking 18 year old manning the steering wheel. Hands, 10 and 2. The 2 would be 14 in Italian. Looked terrifically bored. Also, the kid was entirely of black: black hair, black framed glasses, black short-sleeved T-shirt with some unidentified black mess emblazoned at chest height… a re-evocation of Punk from 40+ years ago? Vaguely recalled lightning bolts in yellow and orange and red… and black shorts in a black FIAT. He’d gotten black down pat. Contrasted with his never-seen-sunlight parlour. Couldn’t see his shoes but, I bet’ ya they were white Adidas. Brand of choice for Italian boys under 25-er’s these days. I also would bet ya’ a good many Euro’s his mother dresses him and does so with her preferred Italian Mom uniform colour: black. For her, it would be: black floaty tunic-top over black leggings and black strappy sandals with a 10” thick sole and tiny silver sparkles glued where space and/or straps might allow. If any one thinks Civilisation is going down the tubes, it’s this dressing in black, which is doing most of the pushing. However, I didn’t need to distress myself further with the blackened neo-nato. I turned to the dangling man wearing a faded red Coca-Cola T-shirt. No surprise, actually. It was Sig. Baldini, in partenza for a 40 minute tour with the neo-nato and, more gloriously, the owner/operator of the Autoscuola Fivizzanese. He asked me if he could be a service… a rough translation from the Italian… waving a lighted Marlboro in the direction of the stencilled sign on the school’s store front window. Glass needed a good wash… and perhaps, disinfection too…
Yes, signore, if you are Sig. Baldini.
I am indeed… and who are you?
Forrest… Forrest Spears.
Piacere. You’re an American?
Yes. It’s my accent, isn’t it?
Pretty thick. Your Italian is good. What can I do for you?
I need an Italian Driver’s License… ASAP. I got nabbed by the Carabinieri a half hour ago. No Italian Driver’s License. The officer strongly suggested I come and speak with you to know what getting one would entail.
Time. Some money. That’s later, however. Patience. It isn’t going to be a quick thing to do. What have you been driving with?
An American Driver’s License.
Of course. Sorry. You live here, you have a residency permit?
Yes, for nearly 40 years. We’ve a house in Codiponte now for the last 14 years.
How old are you?
Soon to be 71.
Caspita! You don’t look it. Are you sure?
Well, I might’ve been able to prove it to you had the Carabinieri not taken my American Driver’s License.
Feeling a little naked?
A bit, but mostly, I am feeling my 71 years.
Well, I have to tell you, you’ve been lucky. OK… give me your mobile number and I’ll connect you to the school’s Whatsapp chat. You’ll start with theory… Tuesdays and Thursdays at 10AM or at 5PM. Your choice. About 20 lessons is the circuit. The practical driving lessons come after you have passed the theory test. I doubt you will need much for the driving part. I am guessing you have been behind a wheel since you were 16?
!5 with a Learner’s Permit.
How are you going to come here? You can’t drive legally now, you know?
Yes, that was made very clear by the Carabinieri. I live alone. I have to drive. I’ll run the risk. Take back roads to avoid patrols or road blocks.
Well, forget the hill roads from Codiponte to Fivizzano. The last road is closed for bridge work.
What? Where exactly?
Above Fivizzano.
Hmmm… well, I guess I’ll leave the car and walk down.
It’s going to be a long walk. And it’s hot out or, have you not noticed? You never know with you
Americans.
Oh, I’ve noticed. How long a hike?
I’d say… 3 to 4 kilometres. Maybe more.
Nothing to do but tough it out.
See you on Tuesday?
Yes, sir. At 10AM.
Look out for the Whatsapp and just follow the instructions.
Thank you, Sig. Baldini.
Folk call me, Baldo.
Thanks, Baldo.
The Dogs and I went home. N’er a Carabinieri in sight. Whew!
I licked my wounds with bastoncini di pesce… fish-sticks… for lunch. The Dogs got hotdogs… their absolute favourite treat. They do not have to be told to sit. You thinks I am poisoning them. Too many spices and salt. Bad for their digestive tracks. Weimaraners hanno digestione delicata, Forrest! I think doggies biscuits are a poison. Billed on the outside of the plastic packaging as wholesome nourishment for all types of dogs. DO NOT LOOK AT THE INGREDIENTS.
I started to worry. Road scare. Carabinieri hiding everywhere waiting… waiting to nab me… again. Arrest, Fine, Deportation. The State absconding with our homes. And… I hate change. I just want to be left alone… do my art…with the Dogs always present and You on the weekends. This is not how I imagined my Summer of 2023 would be… damn-it!
During Nap-time, the Whatsapp arrived. The notification squeals were so annoying. No Peace. 10-12 messages and alerts all afternoon. Italians love chats. They cannot not conversate. Is that even a word? They love “sochial medeeah”, Fasseboook, Teeek-Towk, etc. Reminders of these media ploys exist are rife on Italian TV, radio and websites. Often times written in English bold enough to upset your wide-screen TV’s spirito e anima.
I worked on worrying.
On the anointed First Day of Driving School, I rose early. Felt that repeated caffe’s would buck me up for attempting to be stealth in an old, beat-up Hyundai skirting detection on my nervous way to Fivizzzano by going over The Hump on a series of asphalted mountain tracks until… as previously warned by Baldo… I cannot go any further, due to bridge work. Gotta walk.
Drove and drove and drove up and across The Hump and just as I felt near to Fivizzano… excitement of nearing The Big Town?… I ran into huge cements barriers painted with red diagonal stripes cutting off any progress. Beyond them, there were some sweaty, dirty looking men labouring along side a tall jack-hammer contraption spewing oil & fumes and beating the be-Jesus out of a bridge’s pavement. Hmmm. No space even to park. Damn cement blocks! And with barely room enough to turn around too. I got out of the car to better survey the situation. The clock was running. 9:39AM. A woman passing-by stopped to asked me what I was up to? I said I was thinking of leaving my car and walking into Fivizzano. I had an appointment there. She scoffed. It’ll take you the rest of the morning to get there. And if you do park here, the vigili will ticket you. I Vigili are Municipal Police in dumpy uniforms. Large thighs and protruding tummies do not help their uniform’s look… of Authority. They point and write out tickets. You don’t need to look beautiful to do that. Or smart. Whereas the handsome Carabinieri are an advertisement for Italian Law & Order in their get-up. Go back the way you came is my advice. Suddenly a white FIAT Panda with two unshaven young men skidded to a halt, apparently, to join the conversation. Nope. One, the fat one not driving like a maniac, had a question. He waved his tablet in the air to announce this. Asked if the road just up the hill a few yards away would lead them to Fivizzano? The tablet says yes! The woman said… No, not in your FIAT. It’s a dirt track… after some houses. But, pointing to me standing next to my old, beat-up Hyundai, he might be able to. Decision made. Off sped the two, grinding the FIAT’s reverse gears as they went backwards up the hill until they could managed a reckless manoeuvre at the road where my hopes of getting to Fivizzano in time for auto school met the local road we were all on. Happily out of danger now from those two renegades in a white Panda…
FIAT Panda’s are cult cars in Italy. Not all. A few. Mostly Panda 4 x 4’s. A simple boxy vehicle yet, they do grandly scream UTILITY!!! far beyond their size and demeanour. 70’s & 80’s version. A cracker box on four off-road tires and able to tackle all sorts of roads. Not terrifically fast. Never were envisioned for autostrada’s. Who cares? I want something which can tackle dirt tracks, up, down or all around. With Dogs. And remain in one piece. I want one. Badly. Military green, please. Bloody expansive. Everyone wants one. Cost today is 10 times what they once cost new. Genius car. To start one, you have to prime the engine with an internal rod. Builds biceps. Otherwise, a no-go. FIAT still makes them. Not the same. The cult models are exemplary products of a Soviet Five-Year Plan. In fact FIAT consulted with the Soviets to build a People’s Car. Today’s look like they have taken to an all carb diet and little exercise except to take nonna e nonno to the supermercato Sabato mattina.
I consulted Google Maps. Not a particularly clear representation of any road leading from YOU ARE HERE to HERE YOU WANT TO BE. Not in Default, Satellite or Terrain modes. I remained valiant and decided to try. Can’t miss the First Day Of Driving School. Certainly not. The patchy asphalted track slid quickly down through an encroaching thicket of woods towards a small group of white-washed stuccoed houses. Late model Audi & BMW SUV’s parked in iffy spots. Foreign tags: D for Germany, NL for Holland, DK for Denmark, of all places. The track became barely wide enough for my old, beat-up Hyundai after the first group of houses. Then, the track became dirt and it introduced a chaotic array of twists and turns…. hair-pins spinning past 270 degrees… and through more woods. More clusters of shoddy vacation houses. Ditto SUV’s. Road had deep ruts, like from an ancient wash-out and then, it just stopped. No! It disappeared. Hell!!! I could go no further. Google Maps told me the road was to the right. What? Through a crawl-space between two houses? Nope. How do I get our of here? Meant 10 minutes of inching back ’n forth and back ’n forth and back ’n forth to get my old, beat-up Hyundai SUV turned around and head up the way I had just come down. Hopefully unscathed. The clock had stopped. It was 10:13AM. Class had started at 10AM.
It would have needed another 30 minutes just to make it back over The Hump and to hit the risky State Highway 63… nightmares of Carabinieri at every turn. I drove back home. Along the way, in a shady spot, I stopped and sent Baldo a Whatsapp of my no-show. Sorry. Immediately got a Tranquillo and a thumbs up. He must’ve been mid-stream with his lesson. Darn!
I nurtured my First Day of Autoscuola… a Failure… with a prosciutto cotto e formaggio grilled sandwich, potato-chips and a watered down Coca-Cola. Called You to share the morning’s adventure and took a nap. Thursday is soon to come. Fall back and punt but not on Highway 63.