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.

Nabbed... an instruction manual

I was nabbed by the Carabinieri. 

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The Dogs were with me. 

It was a bright, sunny and oddly mild morning in late July. I was on my way to the hospital in Fivizzano to pick up my blood work results from the previous week. I am at the age now when I am often at the hospital in Fivizzano for one thing or another. All the Staff knows me. Many come from or, live in the village of Codiponte where I call home too… with the Dogs, and You-know-who on the weekends. I am, despite my earnest efforts to work on my accent speaking Italian… alter, might be a good verb here… glaringly American. Crowds automatically accumulate around me. The Italians are fascinated by us Americans. What’s not to like? Well, perhaps A Bad Question these days. Or, I suspect the Italians are afraid of missing something imported from America or, yet unheard of and possibly useful from the same source. Courting me might give them the jump on their fellow citizens. Chissa? There are also rumours circulating I am related to Britney Spears, poor twisted thing. I wonder who spread that? The Carabinieri based Casola in Lunigiana, Codiponte’s administrative Mother… a mini-capital… often drool and certainly touch pack to ask how Breeetneeey is and will she ever come to Italy? Couldn’t say, boys. Not any time soon. She’s busy with her divorce. You might like the video on YouTube. Involves lingerie. Apparently, the two man squadron of Carabinieri… from Fivizzano… who flagged me down with la paletta rossa at an intersection of an innocuous side street just before the big curvy bridge, had not been informed of my supposed illustrious connection. Little shared communications between Le Forze della Protezione Civile? Seems so.

I was a lone duck.

Before I go on, let me mention a few pertinent aspects, which may serve in reading this blog post…

1) Any encounter with Authority in Italy is always… ALWAYS catastrophic. The Good News is there are degrees of catastrophe. Did you know this? I didn’t when I first came to live in Italy almost 40 years ago. Regardless of the degree of disaster, it’s best to: a) GO WITH THE FLOW; b) DO NOT CONTEST ANYTHING; and c) DIVULGE AS LITTLE INFORMATION AS YOU POSSIBLY CAN!!! These procedures are far & wide easier for the Italians to manage than for an American encumbered with two Weimaraners or, other foreign persons about… with or without accompanying animals, boy-friends, other. Starts in pre-school, to be terrorised by interrogations conducted by la maestra, who’s interested in hearing only The Right Answer. Continues on until the little tykes grow up to a full height adult Italian… males generally at 6’ (182cm) and females around 5’4”(164cm). No more totally squat Italian people… as they attempt to extricate themselves of years & years attending university. Bad enough high school… or, liceo… lasts 5 interminable years. Each generation of Italians are thus well versed in staying mum.

I might add...  

a sociopathic sideline to the above is, a sort of Italian Mental Reasoning, if you will: a) you may not personally know the person interrogating you, etc.; b) you can only hypothesise what he/she/it will do with the info you have mistakenly blurted out; and c) as a consequence, your life may suddenly be forced to make a hard left turn. All can be conveniently condensed into the following Universal Italian Declaration… YOU CAN’T TRUST ANYONE BUT FAMILY. Take note.

There will be further ones shortly. Be patient… A Virtue. Hang on… another yet, Lesser Virtue because, it requires physical & emotional skills not often available. And, be alert. End of the Virtues.

I stopped my 14 year old Petroleum Blue Hyundai Galloper SUV as instructed.

The Dogs went ape-shit. 

I have been working on this unfortunate canine behaviour through the auspices of a Dog Trainer, a Dog Whisperer, thanks to YouTube… un sussurratore di cani… since suspended from my service. The cause? 40+C degree heat raging in my adopted land. Would it make any difference if I were to write 40C = 104F? Appointments were scheduled at 7AM, in the frigging morning. Only time temps were tolerable. Bright, sunny and oddly mild days of late June were sideswiped by successive African Heat Waves and given names of Greek mythical characters. That combo’s a mystery, I know. What was that fellow’s name who carried dead folk across the River Styx?  For instance. The necessitated early hour meant I had to arise at 5AM, give or take some, in order to have time to resurrect Body & Spirit with several cups of Intenso Caffe N.8, and to elevate those of the Dogs with an early breakfast of croquettes & canned dog-food. Yum-yum. They were more than delighted. Afterwards they usually run into the garden for a few minutes to attend to their bio-needs followed by retireing to their respective sofas for a rest. Enormous surprise on Wednesdays & Fridays for my dear Creatures around 6AM… Let’s go! That’s the official statement. 

Would you like to know the unofficial? I am happy to tell. You-know-who is totally ignorant. Mum’s the word…

I got fed up being told I was doing it/all/everything WRONG. And as the pendulum swings, practically nil right. The Whisperer’s admonitions espoused while I was being instructed to do silly little exercises involving doggie biscuits, such as, tossing them onto the scrubby turf of a bug-infested field abutting an autostrada became too much. All of it. There’s more…

The Trainer’s body-language and tense tone of voice conveyed a creeping sense he thought I was a total idiot and completely inept at handling a dog, much less two. His instruction was conducted with one-dog-at-a-time. Maybe for convenience sake… his, certainly not mine… since, my life is attached to two-dogs-at-a-time. I fantasised suggesting a meeting in Downtown Metropolitan Sarzana, a hip Italian town, so I could hand him the leashes of my two Dogs and see him try to trot around the main piazza tossing doggie biscuits hither & yon. To inspire and educate? No, to bait and control, more like. 

The Dogs and I are now adjourned indefinitely in the interior cool of Il Poggiolo as heat-wave after heatwave sear steadily, continually… outside. 

Inside the cool & dark… it’s manual air-conditioning, it works wonderfully and it costs nothing, folks!… I discovered an Italian woman… un sussurratrice di cani. Fountains of curly hair on top of an anorak and a dog on leash… via Instagram. I bought her program. What SOLD me? 1) She spoke only of what to do, not the myriad of what-not-to-do’s; and, the basis of her Dog Training Philosophy to successfully change the behaviour of an errant dog/s comes is to do it in small doses. Start with leash work in a protected area and slowly graduate to ever larger spaces until, when enough progress has been shown… mostly to understand why my pockets are packed with doggie biscuits… and go out into the great big world outside. Simple.  We’re working on it.

However, the woman loves to talk. Talk, talk, talk, talk, talk. What Italian doesn’t? The Italian language was designed for conversation, though it initially was built as a written one. Dante. But I don’t have all day. Nor the inclination for 24/7. Emails arrive every day. With videos. Offers to upgrade or buy dog stuff. I may bag it and resort to white wine and leisurely strolls with the Dogs in il Poggiolo’s 25,000 square feet of garden. Dogs are thrilled when they hear me call… Let’s go into the giarden. 

And before I forget… these Dog Whisperers must be in the pockets of the doggie biscuit manufacturers, liberally dispensing their edible products anywhere and as often as possible. 

Meanwhile, the Carabinieri hosting me at the intersection which I now fear to tread near illegally…

The Dogs elected to watch once they got it I wasn’t going anywhere else soon.

I had to ask permission to get out of my SUV. It was given and, immediately, I was on a one-to-one with the older of the two Agents in Service. The Carabinieri Command are rigorous in maintaining a buddy system, usually pairing a more mature Agent… squeezed into his Dark Blue britches & Black boots & short sleeve Blue cotton shirt decked with various patches… with another and much younger gay porno gorgeous hunk Agent… who’s also squeezed into his Dark Blue britches & Black boots & short sleeve Blue cotton shirt decked with various patches… but, Bless The Lord… fills the uniform out splendidly. Italian men. Nice legs. Soccer.  Beautiful skin. Olive oil.

At this point now, we must proceed with the real meat-ball & spaghetti of being stopped by the Carabinieri at a un posto di blocco. However, a couple of informational pointers…

A) Extreme politeness is essential. Italian Formal Form. Lei. The Carabinieri do not want you, nor do you want them to be your best buddy. Si, signori… No, signori. Stop. Good Luck with their English… Mayee eyee hav yeur documentz, pleeez?

B) There are no discussions. Etched in marble,  this one.

C) The Conducting Agent asks the questions, you reply.  Do not dally.

And the first question was to convey into the hands of the more mature Conducting Agent the car’s documents and mine. BEWARE: you may never see these ever again. This applied to my State of North Carolina Driver’s License. Confiscated. I got a receipt. Lucky me. The confiscation was probably supposed to be a catastrophic act on the Agent’s part. Hardly. Once back home, I got on my laptop, surfed to the NC Driver’s License website… Department of Motor Vehicles, actually… and promptly ordered a replacement. I had stated Stolen… in Italy. 10 days later, the new license showed up at the local & scuzzy bar of Codiponte… Le Poste Italiane are furiously reluctant to deliver mail to my address. It’s easy to get to. The mostly female couriers make a pit stop at the bar, dumped the mail, down a caffe and hit the road back to HQ… and this after my dear & aged Mother had dutifully driven to the local US Post Office to mail the darn thing … to Italy.

You may know this… the Italians have a genius gesture to celebrate a victory of this sort and is far more demonstrative than that vulgar English single-finger thing. While musing upon the laptop’s screen of… 

Your North Carolina Driver’s License has been successfully ordered. It will arrive in a few days. Thank you for visiting the North Carolina Department of Motor Vehicles website. Have a blessed day.

What?

I instinctively raised my right arm and simultaneously crooked it in the general direction of Fivizzano and slapped my left hand into the right arm’s bend. BAM!!! Message sent. Fat lot it will do me though. I am still illegal. Cannot drive legally in Italy anymore with a North Carolina Driver’s License. Fine. Feels good anyway. I’ll live dangerously. You have to as a foreign resident… in Italy. I hope & pray to the Mother Virgin Mary I won’t get stopped at another Carabinieri road block.

The car’s docs come in a dog-eared and sun-bleached green plastic pouch… must be the age and not the sun… full of every insurance receipt from the car’s birth, ditto for the tag’s renewal and the vehicle’s matriculation booklet and a stained instruction manual visually hinting it has never, ever been look at.  I certainly haven’t.

The more mature Conducting Agent seemed satisfied and returned to the open hatch of his FIAT/JEEP patrol car where the gay porno gorgeous hunk Agent was busy fooling with stuff. Paper. Booklets. Tablets. 

The real fun was underway, yet, it must be confirmed…

D) All Italians love documents. The fancier the better. Functionaries of the Italian State in particular, ie Carabinieri, judges, toll-booth jockeys. Must drive them wild these new-fangled plastic credit card sized driver’s licenses, health cards and Permessi di Soggiorno… a residency permit. 

Like a game show, I waited the results of the investigation into my documents. This is THE REAL GAME OF ITALY. The objective is to see if what one doc says, balances out with the info of the others. Didn’t take long to know…

I had been caught.

I was driving a legally registered car in Italy. Tag and tax and insurance, all up to date. Good boy. However, punching into their tablets my full name, the agents discovered my Permesso di Soggiorno was unlimited and issued many, many years ago. Doing the Math with the help of a Carabinieri HELP manual, The Regulation said I should have already been driving around Italy with an Italian Driver’s License. I wasn’t. Ah, hah!!!

The more mature Conducting Agent strolled over to where I was standing attempting to maintain my Weimaraner’s cool demeanour. He assumed his VOICE OF AUTHORITY. 

We have ascertained that YOU HAVE DONE WRONG. You are in conflict with Italian Law.

Why have you been driving without an Italian Driver’s License? THE LAW SAYS YOU MUST HAVE AN ITALIAN DRIVER’S LICENSE BY THE END OF THE FIRST YEAR OF YOUR RESIDENCY.

I feigned ignorance. Lame I know but, you must remember…better to be brief.

I have to stop here. I will be brief. In Italy… the responsibility to know stuff… any stuff… all stuff, no matter legal, cultural, Catholic, and even perhaps what a Kardashian wore to Wembley… is YOUR TOTAL RESPONSIBILITY. The Italian State will try to do its best but, it’s a lot of stuff. Are we to take pity on them? Anyway, the onus is on YOU. Another note.

So, now forward again… this part of the adventure brings us to a crucial legal point which separates us Anglo-Saxons, British Empire, American Declaration of Independence, etc. from the Italian State which, for thousands of years, has been repeatedly pillaged and raped and conquered by successive foreign groups, from marauding Huns to one of the most influential and equally devastating, Napoleon. His Little Italian Adventure in the early 1800’s brought a new notion of Law to the Italian peninsula. Basically, Nappy wanted to subject the Italian Peoples with his NEW! NEW!! NEW!!! AND MODERN TOO!!!! Code of Law… the Napoleonic Code. Yippee? What a meglomaniac. His self-named Code is in two parts… as I have understood it: 

1) Every Italian law, thanks again to Napoleon, is minutely written to include any AND all possibilities of infraction, so there is NO QUESTION that when you are declared guilty by un giudice, you are. This fits well with the Italian’s instinctive fear of being fregati… ripped off, tricked, the shame of fraud, etc. But then, and since we are talking about Italians, they read all the fine print,… one of the few peoples in the world to do so… seeking any void in the ponderous laws, which would let them get away with murder and/or, infractions of the road.

2) However, and I probably should have put this as Numero 1…  YOU ARE GUILTY UNTIL YOU PROVE YOURSELF INNOCENT. Please note: YOU must prove YOURSELF innocent. Good Luck. Again, the Italian State stacks the cards against it own citizens. And, Americans can sue their government. Italians cannot.

All of the above is illogical to me. Maybe to many of you too. The obvious… to me and any other Anglo-Saxons about… ridiculousness of this point-of-view irritates. It’s not fair. And, furthermore, it creates a shitload of problems because, any accusation has the weight of condemnation. How about that?

Wheres… WHEREAS Anglo-Saxon Law is based on precedence. Our laws can often be pretty darn specific…. purposes of graft, probably, to protect those illustrious creeps over in the United States Congress… but, for instance, Thou shall not commit murder can be replied with… It depends… and there you are. Can be a mess though. Enough.

Suming-up... no way getting around it. I was nailed. 

The next 20 minutes of my ever shortening life was spent nodding to the dictates from the VOICE OF AUTHORITY. He had soften up a bit once he knew he had me. OK. And, I actually did not find this encounter unpleasant since…

I was lucky. The two Agents could have arrested me and socked me with up to a €30,000 fine. I got one for €100. I paid it immediately to get a discount. Nice, no?

I was amused the two Agents had to study the Carabinieri Self-help Manual… both the paper and tablet ones. Thought it rather endearing. I mean, what Italian can really fathom the country’s interminable Rules & Regulations AND its legalese? Another blog post perhaps. 

And, the two Agents were polite to me. I was calm, polite and well behaved too.  We found ground to put up with each other. Plus, I was impeccably dressed with really cool Premiata trainers never seen before by either Agent. Of course, I had bought them in the same place as my Driver’s License. Ha!

Thus, I was given a bit of kindly advice by the more mature Conducting Agent to head subito… forthwith…  to the local driving school in Fivizzano and talk with its owner, Sig. Baldini, about what will be in-store for me to procure an Italian Driver’s License, and before heading home temporarily protected by a slip of paper issued by said Italian State Official, the more mature Agent, allowing me to this one deviation. After that, I must walk.