Nabbed... an instruction manual
I was nabbed by the Carabinieri.
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.