Back to class...

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Studying at home is lonesome. And, there are so many important distractions…

The Dogs. Distribution of Treats, being let out, being let back in, being let out again, desiring a massage of their Inner-Thai… don’t ask… or, head scratch, devoted attention, in general. Invariably, I loose my train of thought. What does the blue sign with 30 encased in a circle mean? Damn.

Someone would Whatsapp me. Then another and another. Like they just woke up and felt the need to catch up. Really? You would alternate Whatsapp-ing with actually calling me. Several times in the arch of a day of study. Oddly wanting to chat. Never does when working at the hospital. But absolutely wanted to, while on a two week R&R holiday to his family’s apartment… with an uninterrupted mozzafiato view of the Mediterranean Sea… above the crusty shoals of Alghero in Sardinia. I’m not a chatter. Oh! Found out what that sign means in between You’s telephone calls: minimum speed limit permitted. Now, if someone will only tell me what it means when a tightly uniformed policeman with the White helmet has his right arm raised to the Heavens, I’d be more than just pleased. I already know that it does imply that the Pope is in the neighbourhood. Sturm und drang.

Did loads of laundry because… Hark!… the sun’s out. We have had an unexpected and relatively lengthy onslaught of rainy weather of late. Past 10 to 12 days. Couple of major storms too. Garden is watered until, at least, the New Year.

Doing daily qwtzes and consulting the manual when WRONG… and putting aside feelings of annoyance and abandonment… still left me with questions needing personal clarification. I needed Baldo. I missed him too. Calling would not do. On the rare occasion I’d risk a call, I always had the knack of catching Baldo in the midst of a folk-filled bar. His voice lost with the surrounding noise pollution… in Italian.

Out-of-the-blue, Baldo called me! Kindly asked how I was doing, and then, quickly followed by asking me if I was having any problems with certi argomenti sui qwtz studying at home. Yes! Precedence at intersections. Practically got an Italian version of… Well, son. Come on in. I’ll do Precedence for ya’. A voice of Help. Terrific. I said… Yes! I’m on my way.

Am I? Doubts seeped in. Can I do this… this quest to survive not only the prep but, also pass the both the theory and driving tests… weighty enough… yet, there’s extra tonnage…

I think the Stars and the Heavens have it in for me. I might have mentioned this before. I’d be surprised if I haven’t. Here’s an updated summary:

1) nabbed by the Carabinieri, the reason for this episodic blog rant…

2) broke a tooth on a piece of bread crust at breakfast on Ferragosto. I found it not ONLY uncomfortable… having to always chew on the left side of my mouth… and upsetting to periodically spit out hard pieces of a broken tooth and filling… but also, morally and ethically unjust. Could not find an available dentist within a 50 kilometre radius of Codiponte. Had to wait two weeks for the nice Dott/Dentist in Fivizzano to get back from his Ferragosto vacation, like all the rest of his professional clan, to see to it. Promptly got socked with his estimate of €2,500 for a new tooth. ONE NO ONE WILL EVER SEE. And, especially me. Has to be made of titanium at that hefty price. Would crowd share be an option?

3a) suffered repeatedly from Heat Stroke during the two months of our now habitual Summer Climate Crisis heatwaves, searing temps above 100F degrees. And while I am at it… I sweat when physically over-heated. I REALLY sweated through all of July & August. Thus, it was absolutely guaranteed to have manifested major out-breaks of heat rashes in several zones in my Lower Sectors. I doubt I need to furnish any further details,. Correct?

3b) my blood pressure practiced its Up & Downs in the above same period. Felt my head would explode, lingering headaches in my frontal lobe… haven’t a clue as to what that controls but, I was more than my usual nervous…. plus panting, general malaise, irritability, shortness of temper, etc. Took the entire two Summer months and some extra days too in order to find the proper medicines and dosage, collaborating with my kind Dottoressa. Had to follow-up with apologies to all my Nearest & Dearest & Others.

3c) managed to scrape the top of my bare head on the cornice of the low pass-through which connects the Loggia to Casa Grande’s Yellow-Green Kitchen. You know Yellow attracts bugs? Darn thing would not heal. Bled all over three sets of pillow-cases and a few duvet covers too. The stains resembled Rorschach Tests of a certifiably insane person. Perhaps I was. I have seen my kind Dottoressa with another set of visits since, obtaining an appointment with a dermatologist without driving to Grossetto or Cremona…. both viaggi would have entailed entire days of travel to ‘n fro and in a car I am not supposed to be driving… smacked of being an impossibility. The last cream prescribed by my kind Dottoressa may have, finally, done the trick. Dare I say… It’s healed? No scabs. Sorry.

3d) Made the classic long-past-65 mistake of over-doing it at the gym. In particular, on the machine… or, is it an apparatus?… to do Leg Extensions. I suspect a lethal dose of too much weight coupled with too much enthusiasm shot the proper functioning of my left knee. By evening, I could feel the pain and with NO GAIN. Well, any gain experienced would be that enjoyed by the pharmaceutical companies, who manufacture the anti-inflammation drugs I have been popping morning and night since.

4) I quit drinking wine. Have had only two teeny-weeny glasses of White wine in the last month… to be polite at someone’s house for dinner… I swear it! Have slimmed down. I can slip on an L in a T-shirt. A near miracle. But, damn-it, the tummy remains, though reduced in square footage. Going to the gym was supposed to give the protruding element a kick in the right direction. Back to my kind Dottoressa, etc. Not to the gym for awhile.

and, finally…

4) my 14 year old Hyundai Galloper SUV is living through mechanical ill-health. It is heartbreaking. I love the car. One afternoon, it wouldn’t start. And, it wouldn’t start… and, it wouldn’t start. Had to call for help from our Mechanic: from the parking lot of the Carrefour super-market down in Gragnola, from underneath the Medieval Bridge below il Poggiolo where I park the SUV and, at the Water Kiosk next to Codiponte’s cemetery, a convenient stone’s throw away from our Mechanic’s garage. It’s behind the church. More convenience. On a spiritual plane. Our Mechanic initially believed the problem was with the state of the oil pump. Leaked a lot of oil. Took a week… WITH NO VEHICULAR SUBSTITUTE!!!… to get the contraption repaired and re-installed. Picked up the SUV one morning and, the following, drove off to the Lidl in Aulla to grocery shop. A critical need. For Dogs and Man. Wouldn’t start after I had bought out the store. Called You first. He suggested everything but, to call & disturb Our Mechanic and on a Sunday morning… a rainy Sunday morning. I called our Mechanic. He answered the call and came to the rescue and worked to get the Galloper running so, I could drive it back to the garage in Codiponte for further investigations and eventual repairs. At the Lidl, he had found a couple of wires within the guts of the oil pump which were frayed, etc. Thought that was definitely one of the tasks on the To-do List for the oil pump repair guy. Seems not. The Mechanic thought so too. He was pissed off. At one point in his travails… underneath a plastic raincoat draped over his head working under the SUV’s hood and in a downpour… he politely asked me if he could swear a bit. I said… Why, of course. Certainly. He let out a series of blasphemies in rapid fire starting with Porco cane!!!. The others consistently containing the word Porco are too…? Too…? Too ugly to print. On the Monday after the Sunday, got the word to come and get the Galloper… Tutto a posto. All set. Used the car a couple of times with no trouble starting it at all. Not a whiff. Then, I let the thing rest until yesterday, another Saturday, when I needed to head to an appointment in Fivizzano. It wouldn’t start. Then, it did. Drove immediately to tell Our Mechanic of the return to the recent problem. In the meantime, his son… manning the garage, told me his Dad had skipped town with his Mom in tow for some R&R in Egypt. Not any place I would care to be in at this moment in our ongoing Time-Space Continuum. His son took matters in hand. The Galloper started right up so, the recommendation was to bring it back in on Monday. Drove to Casola to pull money out of the ATM before driving on to Fivizzano. Flush with cash, got in the Galloper, turned the key, and it wouldn’t start. And, it wouldn’t start and it wouldn’t start, etc. Called the Mechanic’s son, who was not keen on coming up to rescue me but, he did anyway.. Tried his best. The rains had held off. Nothing worked. Drove me back to Codiponte, handed me the keys to his Mom’s FIAT 500 and off I headed to Fivizzano. Came back to Codiponte later and discovered a message from the Mechanic’s son that he had the car towed to the garage and to come by this coming Monday, when an electrical specialist will be delving into what is now thought to be an electrical issue. With all this water about too. What a Joy!

Onwards I trudge though my burdens are great.

I was late for class. Or, thought I was. Managed to avoid any Carabinieri, parked the FIAT 500 right on Via Roma and hiked up the street to the Auto Scuola. Baldo was outside smoking the umpteenth cigarette while canvasing the street in both directions. Gave me a smile when he saw me. I excused myself for being late. Gave the rains and afternoon traffic as excuses. Valid ones, I might add. He said I wasn’t. Well then, why are you outside? Waiting for you, Mr Forrest. Come on in! Then he said, patting me on my shoulder… I have good news and some more good news. Oh? You can take the theory test on the 15th of November and, if you pass, I can guarantee you’ll have an Italian Driver’s License before New Year’s! Golly. So soon?




Sig. Baldini... Autoscuola Fivizzanese

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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.