Qwtzes

A Progress Report…

still studying at home for the Driver’s Qwtz. Feels like I spend all my time at it but,

there’s not much else to do…

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since it finally has rained. Not an especially abundant amount yet, not a miserable amount either and, probably a very good thing too. Learning of recent deluges in California, Pakistan, Greece and Libya makes one wonder, if it will only be a matter of time before the Lunigiana is washed away into the Mediterranean Sea by an unexpected and massive micro-burst. Sorry about the oxymoron. Often unavoidable when describing an unsettling superlative. I’m not complaining though it is an odd sight to see my semi-grassy terraces look like mush. And to have muddy paw prints in the salotto. Inured to the terraces’ solid concrete appearance. Yet, three days of the H2O might just get us through to the next acquazzone, whenever that will be. Cannot count on the weather co-operating with one’s needs and/or desires. Better not to know and hope for the best. More rain due on Tuesday.

Injured my left knee being overly enthusiastic on a leg machine at the gym. I’m limping. Also, I am taking an anti-inflammation drug I probably should not be ingesting even at the recommended dosage of only twice-a-day. But, it works. And I am outfitted with a knee pad in a medicinally un-chic brown tone. Too bland to call it a colour. Naturally, il Poggiolo’s extensive network of ramps & stairs exacerbate the encumbrance of hobbling coupled with sensations of pain, especially, when trucking wood to the fireplace or, groceries from car to home. Oh, well… calling the dottoressa for an appointment to see an orthopaedic one.

And, no car. This, right after being made well aware of the presumed environmental danger my 14 year old Hyundai Galloper is coughing up on life & limb during a recent jaunt to Milan with an intermediate stop in Genoa. Dog deposit. Both cities are now aggressively signed and delineated against automobiles classed out and confined to minimal use in town as polluters straordinari. Back on Home Turf, the poor Galloper’s oil pump failed. Must have been the strain of the 80 km/h on the autostrade. Stuck with the trucks. Others can zip along at a 130 km/h. I now know this, thanks to the questions on the qwtzes. Speed limits are not posted unless they change from the standard ones of city, country to autostrada. Anyway, the SUV is really sick. I have written this many times and it warrants the repeating…

The Most Important Person in any Italian village, town, city is The Mechanic.

And that is where the Galloper is getting and washed by the rains in a parking space outside the mechanic’s capannone waiting for a new pump.

Oh! And today I know that the minimum speed limit on an autostrada is 80 km/h, unless otherwise posted. Reminds me, an appropriate aside…

Before being waved off the road by those two Carabinieri, I rarely gave notice to any of what has got to be… roughly speaking… the 11,256,271 posted road signs encountered on the highways and byways of this land I call home. Today, I actually know what they are, what they mean, for what purpose they have been planted where planted, and the consequences of their existence, such as, avoiding getting squashed by falling boulders, being rammed by a speeding commuter train or, driving off a cliff in a tight S-turn. I have not achieved enlightenment, and far from it… so, sorry to disappoint… however, driving in my 14 year old and polluting Hyundai Galloper has become a tad more entertaining and instructional in these qwtz days. Safer too.

In order to insure my dedicated qwtz study of the 278 pages of the Driver’s License manual and doing the qwtzes is not all for nought, I have developed a bit of a chip. Like ex-cigarette smokers, who have become rabidly anti-smoking, I have been transformed into an ardent proponent of obeying the Rules & Regulations of the Road. I never would have dreamt this possible before. And… EVERYONE needs to grab ahold of the same steering wheel too. No exclusions. I don’t care what their titles are either. Recently, You and I had a verbal tussle on the little highway which connects Codiponte to Civilisation. Back in 1966, it was a mule track. No kidding. We were in his 25 year old and polluting AUDI. At least it’s not a Diesel drinking SUV, like mine. Today, A Scourge of the Earth. Like any right-minded & traditional Italian couple on a Saturday morning, we were on our way to the sooper-dooper Lidl in Aulla to grocery shop…. for him, me, us. Our weekend fun. In the short space of less than a kilometer, I noticed You had broken a few crucial Rules of the Road. Excessive speed being il Numero Uno. I pointed this and the other infractions out to him. He did not appreciate it. Told me not to bother him, The Driver. I did not much care for his tone of voice nor la sua presa di posizione. I replied it was My Right as a Passenger to: A) insure my safety; B) safeguard that of the other drivers on the road; and C), if he’d change his uppity attitude, I’d worry about his, The Driver’s, safety too. Nothing doing. So, I had to clearly remind said Driver the posted speed limit… cause it’s different than the one you have to memorise… and, additionally, gestured towards the AUDI’s speedometer, to demonstrate his exceeding the speed limit by a dangerous 12 km/h. And, on a rain slicked road, no less! The cost of my dutiful attention and adherence TO THE DRIVING LAWS was to submit to You’s verbal hysterics for the rest of our journey to Aulla. 22.3 minutes of it. Could have been worse. Instead, had I been The Driver driving, naturally, I would have obeyed all of the many speed limits and other road signs, to do the trip in a pleasant and unriled 34.9 minutes. AND… we would arrive at the Lidl alive for You to shop the Bins of Chance in the middle of the grocery store. You likes to shop, browse, sift through stuff. I have to hunt down things in the Prepared Pasta Department.

Nonetheless, I am exasperated. May just forsake automobiles. I have dusted off my 30 year old non-polluting mountain bike, and if the rains hold off as predicted, I will start bicycling to the gym.

Ooops! Late Breaking News; rains are here. The bike ride will have to wait.

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In the meantime, qwtzes, qwtzes, qwtzes, until I cannot do not even just-one-more or, my eyeballs will shut down. Why do they insist on the small print? Plus, the damn tests are timed! Overtime hits when the laptop’s screen suddenly goes blank for an instant… I can’t watch the clock, so to speak, and desperately attempt to decipher a poorly written and often cryptic qwtz question in… damn-it all to Hell!!!… AN ARCHAIC VERSION OF ITALIAN!!! no one speaks, much less writes. A rather pissy message pops out of the blackness with a window, implying I am somehow inadequate AND grossly delinquent too in the time allotted. Despite this, I rattle on valiantly qwtzing, qwtzing, qwtzing, as if my future would depend up on it. And, it does.

Of late, my days begin at 8:30AM with a strong IKEA bistro glass full of caffe’… No. 12 on the Richter Scale for coffee Intensity… and knock-off a couple of qwtzes right off the bat. Done, I review the errors made… if any and by luck… refer to the appropriate page and/or pages in the 278 page Driver’s License manual to mend my errors, and then, off I proceed, ruining my eyesight, increasing my gastric juices something terrible, and suffering the insistent headaches too, with more qwtzes, qwtzes, qwtzes. No rest for the weary driver’s license candidate.

I think I average about 20 to 25 qwtzes a day. I want you all to know that I do allow myself a lunch & snack break and, if nearing exhaustion or, frustration, a nap too.

Additionally, and on a more positive note, I now can knock-off qwtzes with only 0 to 3 errors. Consecutively. YIPPEE!!! There is a special and canned noise to back-up each & every result...

0 brings on wild applause and enthusiastic bids of… congratulazioni!!!

ONLY 2 mistakes has a male voice… by the sound of it, a very heavy smoker, like many others… approving my efforts with a resounding Bravo! Bravo!! Bravo!!!… just shy of a coughing jag.

Ce l’hai fatto!!!… You’ve done it!!! Warms the heart too, if I have managed only 3 errors. If the qwtz were an official one given in some dim governmental office in messy Massa, 0 to 3 would mean I had passed the qwtz and could merrily move to the driving-a-car lessons and subsequent driving test… in messy Massa.

But, occasionally… very occasionally… I have made 4 to 6 errors!!! Lord, God, help me!!!

With 4 you get a boo-ing noise from a crowd.

With 5 comes a message from NASA of… We have a problem, Houston. I’m sure the geniuses responsible for devising the qwtzes and the manner to divulge results thinks the NASA message is hysterically funny. It is and it isn’t. Definitely irritating.

And with 6 there’s a funeral march.

After that I do not care to remember. Mortifying enough to have made 9 mistakes… which I did yesterday at 2:21PM. Yep, timed by the ticking clock… much less putting up with the sounds of a firing squad.

Getting more than 3 sends me into spirals of depression and feelings of enduring FAILURE. Reviewing the disaster post-qwtzes, the red boxes alert me to the many dangerous errors, provoking in my head the commandment of… sei bocciato!!!… spoken by an ill-dressed functionary, if the qwtz were a real one given in that dim governmental office in messy Massa. To defend my difficulties, however, let me point out, the key reasons for making errors at all are…

A) I did not understand the question. Nope. Not one little bit. Doubts like… what are they actually trying to ask here? What Rule or Regulation is being tested? Let’s not be vague or obtuse, please. Is this a trick question? To which there’s never going to be a response EXCEPT from the Little Voice in my head. When in the territory of I-don’t-know, I just wing-it, defer to The Fates, and put an X where I think it might fly right. Then, I pray. But, my prayers are sometimes not answered. Must be ‘cause I am not a Catholic, do you think?; B) I didn’t understand the archaic Italian from the epoch of Emperor & King, Carlo Quinto, say, back in 1590 AD?; and C) every now & then, I can honestly admit to you, Dear Readers, I can lack knowing the material. For instance…

What is the speed limit for un’autoveicolo… a car… weighing in at no more than 3,500 kg on a highway, which is NOT un’autostrada… the precise term is una strada extra-urbana principale, colloquially called una superstrada by normal, everyday, breathing Italians… tugging a speed boat on a trailer, similarly weighing in at no more than 3,500 kg? I now know the correct answer is 70 km/h. That Red box told me so. You now know too.

Through all of the above, I dream to fly away from this Never, Never Land of qwtzes. Another fantasy is God, Himself, will come and alight upon on the face of His august creation, Earth, and ceremoniously arrange for me to receive A Special Dispensation under His supervision for my sequestered American Driver’s License to be, instantaneously, transformed into an Italian one. A plastic card too. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?

I am not holding my breath. Instead, I will do qwtzes, qwtzes qwtzes, until I feel ready to call Baldo and tell him… Let’s go to messy Massa.

The Baldo Show...

Let me do a sketch of Baldo for you…

he is tall, thin, often breaks into a toothy grin and has a distinct and very bouncy gait. This bounciness could be attributed to any number of things. List is long, however, so let’s just put it down to the trainers he habitually sports. (Please note the above left-hand photo). Frankly, hard for me to imagine Baldo ever wearing leather-soled shoes. He might cause accidents. The gift of trainers are they do keep one light on one’s feet. A Good Thing when driving in Italy too. How else can you swerve deftly from an Alfa-Romeo driving on your side of the road and at a high rate of speed? The other parts of Baldo’s Standard Uniform are short cargo pants... in beige, light grey or, faded green and worn 24/7… a short-sleeve T-shirt, washed to the point of exhausting the printed graphics across both their front & back, and Black framed glasses, propped on his head when not in use to see or, to make an important point to some kid at the back of the classroom. 

Other details? Well… 

he rarely shaves. Damn Italian men with their morning shadow, looking dangerous, cooly unkempt, contemptuous of convention, sexy. Apparently, when Baldo hits the local barber to shear his locks… frothy in front and clear-cut on the sides, as is the fashion of his 18 year old male clientele these days… he takes razor to face. A scrubbed look for others to admire.

And, a cigarette is rarely absent. Unlit when teaching or, driving with a student…

well, that’s not quite true. He does hang out the passenger window to blow cigarette smoke away from the 18 year old with his mitts on the steering wheel at 10 & 2…

and one is definitely lit the rest of the time Baldo bounces across the face of Our Mother Earth. He’s Italian, after all. Oh! There is one exception… a cigarette substituted by his iPhone. 

You have an idea, no?

The Driving Theory Class is scheduled to commence at 10AM. Sharp, as in precise, does not exist in the Italian language. Sorry. Just the concept of being precise is iffy here.

10:05 AM, Baldo bounces into the classroom. He’s late. He’s not ready.  The classroom isn’t either. He bounces around.

The Boys & Girls are pronti and have been since 09:59:59AM. Good kids. 

The boys are seated to the far right… if slouching could be called being seated… and as far away as possible from the front of the classroom… and Baldo… as is physically possible, without extruding themselves between the iron rods of a window grating. A Black Block of NIKE. Hairy and toned from soccer short-panted legs spread wide apart… What? To air out their masculinity? Doubt they would ever dare to cross their legs. Maybe they can’t? Must have big ones, do you think? They are 18.… and their uniformly white ADIDAS trainers are propped upon the backs of the dinky chairs in the row in front of them. Nothing to write with. Nothing to write upon. Might conflict with la loro aria di disinvoltura… aire of nonchalance. The boys are ON but not by much. Or, so they seem.

The girls are ON. And, are decidedly in the minority, grouped behind me on the far left. I don’t know why. It just happened. However, I was seated first. Two or three have positioned themselves in front of me. Most have A4 notepads & click-to-retract pens. You can hear the nervous clicking during class. Fear of interrogation? Could be. NO PURSES. Jeans have pockets enough, I guess. However, their finger nails are perfection. Pink, silvery sparkles or, Dark Blue enamel, all the rage these days in the Lunigiana. The girls look primed for the hour and a half we all will be listening to Baldo. 

He does not linger for long. He bounces back out of the classroom. Voices are heard from the street. Then quiet. Baldo bounces back in and flips a switch and bounces out again. A simple job well done? A monitor above his desk…

yes, an ugly wooden assemblage, showing signs of having been either in a war or dragged out of trash pile, and capped by an incongruous plate-glass top-piece Baldo slides back ’n forth when in idle. Decorating the remaining surface of the desk are a clear acrylic pencil/pen holder for his few marker pens… only in Blue… and a prestigious assortment of pointer-sticks in bamboo, wood, plastic, metal!!! Corporal punishment appears to be legal in this country.  

The screen pops ON with menacing graphics. It settles upon a scary triangular sign. Red border on a White background and has Black silhouettes of kiddies dancing. I think they are kiddies. Munchkins, maybe? No, kiddies. Running away and fast too. Or, taking flight. That’s it! I would, if I could but, I can’t so, I don’t. In any case, an ominous vision. A preview of coming instructions? You bet. I will eventually learn it IS a WARNING children are in the area. Aren’t they always in Italy? 

Different voices are heard outside the school’s entrance. Turned to still chat with whomever, Baldo bounces in and almost collides with his desk. Stops just in time. Braces himself. Absorbing the energy of his propulsion. Time to prep for the onslaught? Noticing something’s amiss, he bounces over to the wall with the 70’s FIAT Tema sedan mounted on a White board and flips its ON button. The automotive demonstrator becomes a temporary riot of flashing Red, Yellow… OOOPS. No. I stand corrected: Amber… and White lights, until it goes into a self-imposed hibernation. Dormant until called upon, I guess. That scary triangle stares out at me. Not enough to do? So, for spite, it glares from its superior position on the monitor upon High? I sip frizzy water to revive my Spirits. Baldo sits down at his desk. He surveys the room… slowly, calmly… lips moving counting heads. We are 14. Thinking, thinking, thinking. Composing his thoughts for his first salvo of the day’s instruction. Class starts. It’s 10:13AM.

Baldo wants to talk about speed limits… i limiti di velocita’. He warns us l’argomento will be definitely… and amply… covered on The Quiz. This last word is often mentioned. Of course. It’s the reason why my butt grows tired sitting in a tiny school chair for what will be the eventual number of compulsory… by Italian Law!!!… 25 in-class lessons I must attend. Ditto for the 18 year olds. Misery loves company? Guys & Gals are trapped by our mutual obligation. So be it. The Quiz looms on our horizon like Godzilla. The Italian pronunciation stabs me like a jolt of electro-shock therapy… Qwtz! Who needs a vowel when there’s a menace about? Baldo continues, seated. 

His lectures aren’t dry rote, and Thank God! Fastest route to send us 14 into a deep, mid-morning snooze. Nope. Baldo elaborates the explanations with examples: True History, Personal Experiences, Sage Advice. Invented stories too, I suspect. Often causes him to rise and move with a couple of artful lunges… he’s quelled his natural physical exuberance for Driving Theory Class?… over to the large White writing-board to draw stick figures of roads, speed signs, maybe a building or two. No doubt, Baldo has had lots of practice. These sketches are quickly executed with a Blue ink marker. Less upsetting than Black. And Red might cause nervous break-downs. Or, hysterics, at least. I try to duplicate the drawings… for Posterity or, for studying at home. Yeah, right… but, no sooner drawn than they are immediately wiped away with a rag. Always more to sketch-out when one is dealing with the many, many, many Italian Rules & Regulations of the Road…

in walks a man. Elderly. Has to be speeding well past 100. Shuffles into the classroom a bit bent over against a non-existent gale. Mumbles about needing to renew his Driver’s License. Proceeds right up to Baldo’s desk… in the middle of the classroom. Baldo remains seated and stares at the man with a slightly bemused smirk. Says nothing. The mumbled message is repeated like a tape on a loop. Over and over and over again. The man then starts to point a finger towards the floor. The floor does not respond either. Could it? It’s wall-to-wall and nearly denuded of its original Caramel coloured tufting, rendering it permanently mute. Or, dead. Any notion… slim or otherwise… of having interrupted our Driving Theory Class has registered not upon this man. His mumbling deteriorates into noises of shock, outrage, ebbing towards protest. Like an approaching thunderstorm. But then, silence. Ran out of steam? All is stopped. No mumbling. No pointing. No listing forward. What’s next? The room is all hush. In the vacuum, Baldo stirs himself up out of his seat and shoots some… qwsteeeyonz. More electro-shock. I perk up. Baldo wants to know from the man: his mobile number, date of birth, expiration date of his Driver’s License, and age. Half wanted to raise my hand to say… 100. Didn’t. The man beat me to it. He’s 94. He looked at Baldo appalled. As if Baldo had broken A Privacy Law in the asking. Baldo looked at the man satisfied. Matters taken into control. Suddenly, spacial orientation of our shared Time-Space Continuum hit the man. He looked around at 14 quietly staring faces. Smiles, says saluti ai tutti voi, turns and leaves, listing in the direction of the school’s Exit. The End? Not yet. Baldo yells he will call the man on the day before he needs to come in again to do the paperwork. The End

The hush is shaken by giggles… from both sides of the classroom. Baldo’s motor is running but he’s not moving. Thinking? Yes, thinking, thinking, thinking… Where was I? Oh, yes. Speed limits for pulling a trailer. 

A what? Really? A trailer and speed limits together? Is it important to know? Strikes me as a special interest. There’s the Internet. Or, how about this: when someone buys a trailer, they take a day’s instruction at the local Driving School on Trailers. To get insurance. There. Done. Let the rest of us get on with passing The Quiz.

I itch with rebellion. What ridiculousness is this adventure of Getting-A-Driver’s-License-In-Italy.

I feel terribly stressed. Like the Italian Driving World is pitted against me and my simple desire to drive legally in Italy. I am a 71 year old man, who was caught by the Carabinieri after nearly 40 years of driving around hither & yon of the Italian peninsula without an Italian Driver’s License but, with a very valid American one which, you can lease a car here with it. AND, DO I LOOK LIKE A CRIMINAL? I COME FROM A GOOD FAMILY!! I HAVE TWO COLLEGE DEGREES!!! And now, I have to go to Driver’s Education School twice a week to listen to a half hour lecture about speed limits and trailers? Guaranteed, minimal concern in the general scheme of things, ie, like driving A CAR. And yet, it might be asked on a 30 question Quiz. Gosh. So the Italian State can feel it has control, has done its bloody job and has gotten more taxes out of me by burdening me and others with inconsequential information? A form of terrorism. State propagated terrorism. Out of the fracas of my hysterics comes…  You gotta know what you gotta know… to pass The Quiz. Gotta pass The Quiz. Gotta pass The Quiz. Gotta pass The Quiz. The joke is, what you gotta know will be DELETED soon after passing The Quiz. It’s why Italians are such terrible drivers.

I am resigned to know…

the other 12,000 types of Driver’s Licenses. Yes, I exaggerate. There are practically the same number as the number of fingers on my hands.

What motorcycle drivers can & cannot do… which no-one driving one ever obeys, in light of yesterday’s near collision with a helmeted teenage jerk-on-a-dirt-bike passing me and others in a curve. Bet that’s not on The Quiz. 

Identify the many types of trucks, busses, motor-homes AND AGRICULTURAL VEHICLES!!!…Oh! and horse drawn carriages!!!… and their do’s & don’t’s. I guess I should be thrilled tanks, personnel & armoured carriers are not included.

And, the 5,323 other stuff less the above 3 subjects due to appear on The Quiz the day I’ll show-up to take it.

My head grows dizzy.

Again, to reiterate… all I want is to legally drive my 14 year old, dirty, Hyundai Galloper to the Lidl once a week without being further encumbered by the Carabinieri… handsome & hot though they may be to stare at in their tight britches and slim-fit Blue short-sleeved shirts holding a help manual and a tablet.

Is it too much to ask?

Musing upon the injustice of it all… after my storm. I should point a finger at the floor…

I am of the mind… The Italian State, harborer of the Ministry of Transport, who manages the roads, driving, and the cumbersome Rules & Regulations of the Road…

in fact, a new one was just issued last Monday, the 18th of October 2023. Fancy that!…

A) holds an insane mistrust of the Italian people; or B) HATES them with a vengeance; and/or C) believe they are totally devoid of Common Sense; and D) thinks the Italians are imbeciles.

My Dad used to say… Treat people like imbeciles and they will act like one.

Apparently, The Italian State cannot allow Personal, Individual Responsibility to reign. Nope. Only numb follow-ship to the State. And yet, Liberta’ IS mentioned in the country’s constitution. Too difficult to actually instruct people on how to safely & properly drive a vehicle. Tut-tut… of little concern, I am afraid. The Game is The Quiz.

Before I desist, there is a further act of annoyance: the menace… of stripping one’s mental gears… by insisting upon the use of The Official Terminology for The Quiz. I hazard to say, this sort of linguaggio dates back to when Italy was founded in 1861. Not even revised with the re-founding of the country after a protracted civil war following WWII and the subsequent Referendum of 1946. The King of 26 days was booted off his thrown. He went bye-bye to Portugal on a twin-engine Lockheed airplane and Italy got socked with a mean & nasty bureaucracy obsessed with Officialdom’s language. So, for instance, a turn signal in common Italian jargon is freccia. Quick, fast, easy. On The Quiz it is un segnale di direzione. Ponderous plus. GIVE ME A BREAK!!!

Let us not forget this bit of Truth: the Italian People love Rules & Regulations. Yes, they really love them. Need them, in fact. It’s a game to them. They look for holes through which they can drive right in between them. You cannot have holes without the other things, ie Rules & Regulations. The Italians have been conditioned by the bureaucracy of A) through D). Naked without. Unsafe too. And, uncertainty of who’s in charge? The R & R of the Road is akin to wearing velour exercise outfits to watch Italy’s Got Talent on TV in una poltrona, sipping boiled beef broth made by the nonna living on the floor below… the grandmother living below… or, calling their mamma 30 times a day. End of Rant

Baldo continues with i limiti di velocità’…

A mobile phone rings, startling we, the assembled. It’s Baldo’s. He picks it up and studies the illuminated screen, as if there might be Prophecy, while the thing screaches with a Golden Oldie tune…

Mamma. Si-si. Ma, nooo, Mamma. Siii. Si-si, certo. Lei ha detto che non si può. Va bene. Non preoccuparti. Si-si, va bene. Si, Mamma, si. Okayeee, Mamma. Cosa? No-no. Si, si. Ciao, Mamma. Ciao-ciao-ciao. Si-si-si-si-si…

She hung up on him?

I’m worn-out. I look at the clock on my iPhone. Still more to go.  

Back to the speed limits. They are not posted. Nope. You have to know them. Mentioned previously, you are responsible for knowing, even if you don’t know you don’t know. Got that? That’s Italy. Inside out. However, if what you are supposed to know, you know, ie, the speed limits in any applicable area of city, country, planet, etc., not to fear, the Authorities do post any variations. Yippee? What a relief. Mostly at curves so, you won’t go flying off into the wild Verde-Bianco-Rosso-yonder you hadn’t expected to visit: crashing into a multi-family home, clearing out several Chinese stores fronts, off a hiiiiigh cliff.

Baldo is on the verge of explaining some subtlety of our day’s speed limit instruction…

Oh! My!! God!!! Who are these folk? A young family of three comes on through, like the place is a thorough-faire to a supermercato: a Mamma Bear, a Papa Bear and a little 3 year old Baby Bear, sucking on a ciuccio… a pacifier. A noisy entrance. Baldo stops to hug the pacifier sucker. Ends up hugging & kissing the other two. Then, the little one goes into his grasp, is put back down and runs all about the room. The young adults are massively, thickly, ornately tattooed. Now, if I had been at that tender age of 3 and my mother had thought it fit to emblazon herself with even one tattoo, much less to cover every portion of her 5’-4” body, I would have broken into a frightful BAWL to end all bawls, have wiggled FREE of her grasp and attempted to FLEE to Canada. Ciuccio in tow… for something to suck on in moments of distress. From where do parents under 25 get the money to spend hundreds and hundreds of €€€’s on such graphic and corporeal displays? They have a child!!! What about her college education? Then, head to the beach for a day of sun n‘ fun? Not cheap either. Accruing a deep, dark, enviable tan. They are Italians so, they do not burn & freckle like any Good Anglo-Saxon would. Hey! Don’t they see? Italians are classically myopic. The tan HIDES the message. KILLS the impact. Not to ignore, their legibility? After spending the equivalent of a Mercedes-Benz and on ink? Ain’t it a poison?  

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A couple of similar examples of tan & tattoos.

However, the little family reunion of Baldo’s niece… we discover by Public Announcement… her significant other of more than 9 months duration, I suppose… as I spied no rings… and child, a familial grouping ideal for a contemporary altar piece, have given me an idea to beat the qwtz! I am seriously contemplating tattooing the entire speeding section off the Italian Rules & Regulations of the Road manual.  Both arms and legs and, maybe even my White-wine nourished tummy. That ought to do it. An added plus is the Italian Driving Theory test givers will never know. Nope. Never. Ever…

a word to the wise: Italians really only look at three things: one, which I can share with you, are the shoes you have on. Please take note.

Oh, Look! Our hour and a half are up. Gosh, golly. So much fun. So much information. Where’s the bar?

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.