No more laps to do...

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Have not had the heart to write what will be the last of the Driver’s License blog series post though I had thought a lot about it. Nostalgia had seeped in. Then the interruption of the holidays. Now’s the time…

I did it. I have an Italian Driver's License. 

I feel pretty much the same. Well, I am 10 lbs. lighter. Gave up White wine in November.

After the day-after-Christmas, Santo Stefano… Boxing Day for any English about… I drove to Fivizzano… semi-illegally… to pay Baldo the last installment for schooling me in the arts of driving a car in Italy. Semi-illegally because, my Galloper SUV is considered by the gli Uffici di Motorizzazione Civile… the Italian Department of Motor Vehicles… to be way too big & powerful an automobile for a neopatentato to drive. To be in regola… legal… a FIAT 500 would be ideal. And, for the next three years too. This is silly. As a legally licensed driver… though carrying an American Driver’s L:cense… I was a neopatentato back in 1968. 56 years ago. Many years of driving. Chevrolets to FIATS. At one point, there was even a truck. Until I can plead my case for an exemption from such nonsense before some Italian authority or other, imagine me expressing il mio dispiacere… my displeasure… with the Grand Italian Gesture… in the general direction of Rome, the seat of the Italian State and its hapless departments… by taking the palm of my left hand and slamming it into the crux of my up-raised and slightly bent my right arm. Do note: this gesture is from the horse & buggy days. Hard to pull it off when one’s mitts are 9 & 3 on the steering wheel of a motorized vehicle.

Showed up at l’AutoScuola Fivizzanese and ably maneuvered my Galloper SUV into a parallel parking space right at its front door. I could see Baldo was inside fooling around with his iPhone. Got his toothy smile. He quickly asked if I had "been driving a lot". Had never stopped, was my candid reply. We laughed. Then, we went on to exchange a few words about our respective Christmases… 

Baldo’s… he has a 4 year old son, named Leo. I met him once. I drove him to his pre-school at the beginning of one of my 30 minute lessons. Like his Dad, quite a character. Not afraid to chat-up an adult. Told me he’s got a girl-friend but, she’s difficult. Doesn’t do what he tells her to do. Italian mating. He made an impression. So, I was curious and asked Baldo, if Leo was happy with Babbo Natale’s visit this year? Not really, he said. The kid knew the disguised villager dressed in a Red Santa-suit was a fake. Leo informed his Dad that Babbo Natale only travels at Midnight and does not make public appearances at 4 in the afternoon for a Christmas party. Bored, the 4 year old trotted-off to mess with his PlayStation.

Mine… was watching our 5 nieces scream and holler and cavort around the Christmas tree in one of two LRs in our Genoese loft with the umpteen thousands of gifts You had lavished upon them… vintage hand-bags, years-gone-by designer dresses from Fendi & Armani & Alberta Ferretti, cocktails dresses too, and off-beat items of decor discovered hiding underneath tables at You’s favourite flea-market emporium near Genoa’s stadium. Like what twenty-something would ever want a pair of woven paglia lamp bases? Surprise! The recipient was ecstatic.

The visit ended with our respective plans for New Year’s Eve 2023, what with the Weather Colonel’s forecast for grey weather, rain & fog.

Not sure when I will see Baldo again. In bidding Baldo a Good-bye, I told him I no longer know what to do with myself in the morning, now that I am free from scurrying in my Galloper SUV to Fivizzano via back roads in time for my usual 9:30AM driving lesson. Said the Dogs give my funny looks like… Aren’t you needed elsewhere? Oh, but, get this…

as a principiante driver, I was well within The Law to traverse the highways & by-ways in my neck of the woods in my Galloper SUV… well, so long as I had a licensed adult driver with me as a chaperone. A role, I felt I could adequately furnished for myself, in light of those 56 years. God Bless, my tactic was never contested in an unexpected encounter with the Carabinieri. I am an Italian licensed driver now yet, I cannot legally drive the Galloper SUV. NO POLITE COMMENTS AVAILABLE.

Gave Baldo a hug, got into my Galloper SUV and semi-illegally drove back to Codiponte.

I was at a loss. I missed those lessons.

They were well beyond just learning how to parallel park a White Peuguooot all’italiana. Always the same streets, always the same maneuvers in the same spots… when the citizens of Fivizzano thought to co-operate by not taking up all the parking spaces, so I could nail parallel parking… rather, those 30 minutes were more often filled with variety, stories of local color, histories told by Baldo with much appreciation and charm and love…

heading past La Piazza Liberta’, Baldo saw an old tree on the left at the entrance to Fivizzano’s new & spiffy civic parking lot… nothing is more satisfying than a new layer of Black asphalt and painted White lines after so many years of dodging pot-holes and buckled pavements… and just before the town’s singular traffic light. He was reminded of its story…

the tree… today a massive plane tree… was planted hundreds of years ago. Maybe even a thousand years ago. Now it has several leafy companions making a shady alley to the junction with three bars.  Each one positioned to the passage of the Sun: morning for one, mid-day for another and late afternoon for the last. Where in the World does such an arrangement exist? The morning one is my favourite. Friendly folk… flirty, if the tall guy is in attendance though he remains consistently immune to my smiles. Why do I even try?… and it opens at 4:30AM. Good Lord! Who’s up at 4:30AM, besides You heading to the hospital for a 7:00AM Roll Call? A good cappuccino can be had too and is often offered by Baldo, who holds court inside to chat and outside to smoke a cigarette before every driving appointment.    

When the city began to pave its streets… after The Great Earthquake of ‘22… the workmen discovered the same tree’s roots had reached all the way to the parapets of Fivizzano, a quarter of a mile away. Baldo made sure I had absorb this fact. Satisfied, he went on…

The name Fivizzano actually derives from the Italian name for a fig tree… un fico… planted eons ago in the town’s center, near what is today La Piazza Medicea… famous for its Baroque fountain. Watch out: NO PARKING! As the local folk often do in these parts, the word fico slid into Fivo, then Fivi and onto to finish with Fivizzano. That ending, -zzano implies importance, its position in the realm of things. A bit of home grown history. Oh, and hear this…

just in case… I also learned that Italian Driving Examiners do not like to see one shift gears in mid-maneuver. Before or after, but not during. Two hands must always be at 10 and… OOOPS!… 9 and 3. 

Continuing on through the traffic light, we both noticed a tall young man wearing a heavy khaki colored duffel-coat, a grey wool knit hat pulled down low over his brow, his gaze straight ahead, walking a quietly composed German Shepherd. Got his story while doing two-point inversions… 

he lost his parents when very young. A tragic car accident. The poor child retreated into a near total muteness. Closed down. Raised by elderly grandparents, who naturally had their own grief & problems to contend with, and thus, did not offer much help. His isolation was confirmed. The young man grew up unable to care for himself, to learn a skill, much less hold down a job. He is singularly & solitarily devoted to walking his dog. Day in and day out. And on the same streets as Baldo and I drive on for my lessons.

Circling around and then descending down via Roma from the intersection at the three corner bars, Baldo let out a… Don’t hit that man! What? He’s on a sidewalk, Baldo! Just don’t hit him. He’s my uncle. Really? Yeah, mean as shit. This uncle was tall, somewhat portly and had a clipped manner of walking. His history was one of ticket giving. Used to be Fivizzano’s lone traffic warden. Energetically dispensed pieces of paper off a pad for every & all infractions. Mostly for persnickety violations. Baldo’s Dad was handed a ticket when the uncle noticed the Dad’s car’s back wheels were beyond the White lines of a parking space. Apparently, ended in a public quarrel. Never spoke afterwards. Baldo too had been a victim of the man’s traffic infractions largesse.

Many, many other histories to tell... Baldo even pointed out the apartment house where he grew up… but, onwards & upwards with my quest for an Italian Driver’s License…

The Driving Test was originally scheduled for the morning of December 22nd. Wonderful. Right before Christmas… in Genoa. Baldo had promised me an Italian Driver’s License before Capodanno… New Year’s. Possibility of getting it in early then? And, how so, if I don’t pass the Driving Test? Baldo said nothing more about it. The week of the test, I asked if the appointment stood. Nope. Afternoon now. Shit. During Nap Time? The Examiner, who was on duty for the Theory Test back in November, would also be the one to check my driving skills in a White Peuguooot. Baldo added that when the Examiner comes all the way to Fivizzano… right there, a great convenience, and I should be forever beholden to him for it… he likes to eat a good local pranzo, chat, drink White wine before traveling around with a couple of 18 year olds and a 71 year old ex-pat American. However, the new appointment time allowed me one last lesson in the morning of the 22nd to further refine the key maneuvers. I was told to be at the AutoScuola at 3:00PM. If I must, I will.

Nervous, I was at my preferred Corner Bar at 2:45PM. No Cute Guy. Saw one of those 18 year olds on the docket for the day’s Driving Test sitting on the little piazza messing around with his iPhone. At 2:58PM, I walked up the short distance to the AutoScuola. No White Peuguooot. Sunbathed across the street at the gate to the Casa Funebre… Funeral Home. 3:10PM… 3:22PM… 3:26PM… still no White Peuguooot. Another 18 year old joined the first at the door to the AutoScuola. 3:41PM… 3:46PM… 3:52PM… and suddenly, the White Peuguooot barreled noisily up via Roma, did a maniacally risky two-point inversion and, dodging on-coming cars, slammed-dunked the car into a poorly executed… but typical Italian stunt to avoid the art of Parallel Parking… parking in the school’s space at the feet of the two stunned 18 year olds. Out popped Baldo’s teenage daughter. Tight jeans, straight Red hair flying, her piumino jacket flapping. The two 18 year olds perked up. The daughter hollered through the wake of her arrival that Baldo was on his way. And off she skipped down the street and into the setting Sun.

Baldo bounced up via Roma at 4:03PM. Soon followed by the Examiner in his sleek blue Alfa-Romeo. He pulled the same stunt as Baldo’s daughter. Baldo hopped inside the White Peuguooot to correct the error of his daughter’s ways… ignoring the Examiner’s car’s iffy position. Probably for political purposes, and rightly so. I, as student, was about to be examined by said gentleman. No sense ruining the mood after a long & delicious lunch. Baldo indicated for me to take his place inside the Peuguooot and to be ready for the Driving Test. I followed orders. Somehow, and quite suddenly, we were four people inside: me, Baldo to my right, the Examiner in the back behind Baldo and Baldo’s daughter behind me. She needed a ride to work. OK.! Hop in. More the merrier. Baldo gave me the sign to drive off.

You know, there’s a rather valid reason for not conducting Driving Tests in the late afternoon, especially after 4:00PM in an Italian town, village, city. Stores re-open after la pausa pranzo at 4:00PM. People sprout from every direction. Mostly women. I had a Hell-of-a-time dealing with fuseau & pumino clad semi-wide signoras electing to go shopping and walking in the street rather than using any side-walk. The Examiner complained. I had to stay stuck until I could drive on the right side of the street without eliminating any semi-wide female pedestrians. Men have the Good Sense to delegate such tasks. Once liberated, I was asked to make a left turn…. thankfully down a quite street… followed by the request to perform a Parallel Parking maneuver. Discreetly done, I must say. This was quickly followed by the request to do a two-point inversion to then head back to via Roma. I made a left turn at the Stop. What transpired was a skeptical interrogation & comments made by the Examiner regarding a few details about me: had I lied about my age ‘cause I do not look like a 71 year old? Guessed I was really 55… What was it like to be born in Denver, Colorado USA? No different than being born in Des Moines, Iowa. He missed the joke.… Where do I live but, Baldo replied to this query… Codiponte! Where’s that?… and once done, we were at Fivizzano’s traffic light. I was asked to make a right turn and, lo’ & behold, we were at the intersection of the 3 corner bars. Dropped off the daughter, so she could head to the store where she worked. I was asked to make another right turn and to stop outside the AutoScuola. There commenced a little ceremony…

Baldo officiated… said I was an exemplary student, having taken seriously the challenge to do all that was necessary to successfully obtain an Italian Driver’s License… that I was a person of exceptional quality & gentility… and I was esteemed by one (Baldo) and all (about 14 fellow students)… and so, having already explained these important details to Signore Angelo, the Examiner present… Sono felice di dart questa… and Baldo handed me an already prepared Patente Italiana in una busta di plastica.

Done. And, apparently, pre-ordained. No argument there. I had actually been forewarned… una patente prima di Capodanno. Great!

So, I am left with closing by giving Thanks where Thanks is deserved…

The two Carabinieri agents for not arresting me, sequestering my Galloper SUV and socking me with a heavy fine. Instead, they kindly directed me to Baldo and from that point, I was on my way…

Lexotan… a universally recognized Italian miracle of tranquillizing drops…  to see me avoid becoming a complete & total nervous wreck for such adventures as taking the Theory Test in messy Massa…

our dear sweet & generous Codiponte friends… she and her daughter both attended the AutoScuola Fivizzanese. And with her husband, the couple nourished my body with glorious dinners and my spirit with how to do it. Fell into two IMPORTANT messages: do quizzes until you cannot do another qwtz and just follow what Baldo tells you to do when behind the wheel of the darn Peuguooot. And, it worked… 

My German friends… who remained steadfast through it all. They ain’t shoddy either in the Nourishment & Moral Support Categories and despite the fact that I had given up White wine…

And finally… Big Thanks to my family of You… Prince of My Heart… and all my incredible nieces and their respective & equally fantastic boy-friends/fiancees… who all had charted the same Driver’s License waters and had never ceased with their encouragement, understanding and support.

Thank you.

The End

 

Nearly the Last lap...

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Appointment with Driving License Destiny is in 12 days from today.

I had thought during the solid month between the Theory Test of last November 15th and the Driving Test on the 22nd of December, I would drive with Baldo twice a week. That should be sufficient. I know how to safely drive a car. From that perspective, I felt I could manage the Driving Test Challenge with a return to the exact same schedule when attending Theory Classes from the time I was nabbed by the Carabinieri back in July until I embarked upon Theory Test Super-Study Over-drive in the middle of last October. As you all know, that paid off. Aced it! So, Tuesday and Thursdays at 10:00AM.

Yeah, 30 minutes circling around Fivizzano. I hated it. Really hated it…

I don’t take instruction well… at all. Tell me what I am supposed to do… The Objective… LET ME DO IT, DAMN-IT!!!… The Execution… and then, you can criticize the heck out of whatever I did…. The Evaluation. I politely asked Baldo for this to be our procedure and I got an immediate…Non ci penso neanche, amico. No way, man. Kind of hurt my feelings. Offended. I do not take offense well… at all. Does this make me out to be an obnoxious person? I wanted to defend, to preserve my way of driving a car which I have done successfully for the last 53 years and with only so much as a fender bender or, two in that time. Surely that will do?

Instead, I was introduced to Baldo’s methods. He’s a foot on, hands waving, head shaking sort of instructor. Does not explain things either. WHAT IS HE DOING? Baldo would not allow me to independently drive the car. A weird sensation too, as I would gently push the accelerator to begin a maneuver and suddenly, I’d feel the car slow down or, even stop. Baldo did not like what I was doing and had depressed either his clutch, his brake or, both. No need for an highly animated lecture on how WRONG my attempt had demonstrated. Got that during his stealth manipulation of the crappy car’s pedals. This is demoralizing. What I wanted to avoid. Was forced to stick with demoralization. The Objective of Italian Driving Instruction has nothing to do with safely driving a car. Again, I know how to safely drive a car. Nope. It was audibly apparent, I did not know how to drive a car Baldo’s Way since… His Objective, the Winning Ticket here… is to get me to pass the Driver’s Test on the 22nd of December. The Examiner wants to see you drive a car as he/she/it/they want you to do it. I am thick headed. Comes from my Scottish roots, I have been told. On the third lesson, I went into Battle Mode. I was going to DEFEND how I drive. I CAN DO THIS! Sinatra’s Anthem, My Way. Drove right past obnoxious towards full-tilt annoying… for Baldo… I am sure. Truly, this was going to end badly. Nevertheless, the man would not leave me alone. As I wrote, thick headed. So, as the pendulum swings, I swung against his every and constant indication, criticism, repetition, etc. while making left and right turns, parallel parking, backing up, reversals, inversions, even just sitting at a traffic light. It was exhausting. Nothing I did met expectations. And, of course, not. I was intolerable. As we tootled towards the AutoScuola, Baldo cut short the lesson by 5 minutes, he braked the car and proceeded into an animated, spit-spewing hissy-fit, the gist of which was… If you insist on driving like you just did today, YOU WILL NOT PASS THE DRIVING TEST!!! He hollered the infamous word… BOCCIATO!!! Finished, he got out of the car, shut the door, and went into his office, probably to smoke a cigarette or, two. I extracted myself from the car… Thank God without instruction from Baldo… and was almost flattened unto a premature Death by an old man barreling up Via Roma in a noisy 1980’s White FIAT Panda 4X4. If you have time to honk, you have time to swerve, is always My Philosophy. I mumbled an ardent hope the geezer would run into a nearby lamp post and cut short his old man life. I also wished him the handy use of his Panda as a convenient coffin. The Fivizzano Cemetery is at the end of Via Roma. Can’t beat that, can you, now? My demise was probably A Suitable End to a horrible driving experience… and all of my own doing too. In hindsight. Inside the safety of my Hyundai Galloper SUV, I immediately called You. Hark! He answered on the first ring. He quietly listened to me tell My Story and then, in his reply, used his I am appalled at me tone of voice. I hate it when he takes to the Opposition. I drove home, caressed and hugged My Two Adoring Dogs, who were ABSOLUTELY THRILLED TO HAVE ME HOME ONCE AGAIN, unlike the Rest of the World, it seemed. Promptly crashed off the wagon of NO WINE by consuming an entire bottle of a chilly Vermentino, while watching Red, White and Royal Blue…

a cleverly done LGBTQ+ movie… Boy, have the Times since changed from my day: Gay was the standard cap-phrase… a story about the son of an American president falling in love with an English HRH Prince. Cute, heart-warming, and often truthful confection on Amazon Prime. And yet, it is also ruthlessly crushing in its media induced poor self-esteem, as one movie critic wrote, by watching Two impossibly beautiful men oogle each other for an hour and a half. And the two protagonists are just that: breathlessly beautiful and masculine. And, in addition to their extreme beauty, they can play the piano, sing, dance and wear tightly tailored suits to perfection too. Fuck.

I went to bed. The dogs followed.

Letting emotions, notions and other sensations settle, I decided for the next lesson, I’d take 10 drops of Lexotan… a miracle tranquillizing drug, the Italian Prozac. I normally only do 5…coupled with the uncharacteristic desire of… I’m going to be pleasant, amenable and attempt to have fun. I want to pass this fucking Driving Test!!! Yes, it was the drug. I arrived. Baldo was smoked out. We spent 30 minuti simpatici insieme. I properly executed all necessary maneuvers, with little assistance on the part of Baldo and for my part, all done with a smile and an easy manner.

Onwards.

Practise makes perfect?

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Ahhh, embarking upon the last phase of Getting An Italian Driver’s License: the Practical Driving Lessons…

again, to repeat for the umpteenth time, the objective of obtaining an Italian Driver’s License is to pass the test. Whatever. That’s the game. The now relegated to Past History Driving Theory Test, passed on the 15th of November, and the Practical Driving Test is in my immediate future and scheduled for the 22nd of December, the Friday before Christmas!!! Lovely. Oh! But, Land’s o’goshen! The Driving Test Examiner comes to the AutoScuola Fivizzanese rather than for me to go to him/her at that mess called Massa.

My first Driving Lesson with Baldo was last Tuesday, the 21st of November. Just tell me the facts, sir. Just shy of a week from my much-acclaimed Victory in acing the Driving Theory Test with 0 errors!!! on the Wednesday before. Yes, I may be over-doing it in mentioning this stunninig fact so often. Excuse me. I am not often so thrilled.

The Driving Lessons lasts ONLY 30 minutes. You have to book the appointment the day before via a Whatsapp chat… which I hate. Cannot tell you how many times I… AND THE DOGS TOO!!!… have been rudely awakened at 11 o’clock at night because, some 18 year found his/her ON Button, when there wasn’t anything interesting on TV or, on any other device, suddenly remembers the need to book. Our Collective Bed-time is 9:00PM. Like boarding a B-777 for a flight across the Atlantic ast CDG Airport and the interminable Boarding Process 45 minutes before Departure Time, it takes the Man and two Dogs several hard earned minutes of negotiation to get Croesus not to scombussolare… upset… the bedding to the single bed, what with that usurper, The Anthea-person, occupying a Prime Position near to me up by the pillows.

Yes, the Driving Lessons are ONLY thirty minutes. Hardly enough time to fiddle with the mirrors. And, the first five of those minutes are devoted to Baldo finishing his cigarette and chatting-up some passerby before we squeeze ourselves into his AutoScuola’s White Peooogeot. A crappy car. No wonder too! What with the ebb & flow of countless 18 years grabbing its steering wheel at 10 and 2…. Ooops! Sorry. In Italy it’s 9 and 3. Don’t forget! The thumbs to the Heavens. Also, be not surprised to learn there is a Crucifix dangling above the dash-board of the automobile’s Black faux-leather interior. Shhh… it’s against the Law. But there you have it; Italy, again. But hark! The first annoying thing I discover is the Driver’s Seat does not go back far enough for my not-so-out-of-the-ordinarily-long American legs. Once the manoeuvre’s accomplished… done with the accompaniment of unintelligible grumps & groans, on my part… my knees end up parallel to the top of the the steering column. The first time, I looked at Baldo and he looked at me. I shrugged and he shrugged. And off we drove.

Now, I had learned from a previous unsolicited criticism from Baldo after he had witnessed my departure from a parallel parking space next to the entrance to the AutoScuola Fivizzanese to head home to the Love of My Animals…

I had gone to say Ciao! post-test Victory and to pick up my Foglio Rosa Patente B, a temporary Driver’s License… or, a Learner’s Permit, if you will… allowing me to drive legally any vehicle covered by the B License… even a farm tractor!!!… yet, mandatorily accompanied by a person, who has less than 65 years of age and has had a Driver’s License for more than 10 years. I am skipping those details. No one handy’s around who fits that bill. So, I am still driving illegally until I have a real Italian Driver’s License, promised to me by Baldo for before New Year’s. At which time, I will have to buy an Italian pip-squeak FIAT to drive for a year to be fully in accordance with the Italian Driving Laws for newly patented drivers. Yep, the Italian State doesn’t trust its newly licensed citizens to manage a car beyond a certain level of cylinders in the beginning of their careers as drivers. Might help if it changed the process entirely and focused on actually teaching folk to drive rather than to just pass the damn tests. But, I digress…

anyway… I did not IMMEDIATELY look to my left before preforming the other elements of the Entering Traffic Manoeuvre: after looking left, to look right, then, to use the turn signal, keeping it clicking with the forced submission of what is supposed to be the gentle touch of a right hand, while ones’ paws are at 9 and 15 to collectively twist the steering wheel in the desired direction to ease the car into the traffic flow. I HAD MADE A BIG NO-NO!!! A VERY BIG NO-NO!!! Baldo explained that practically anything I do with a car examiner entails first looking left. DON’T LOOK AT THE MIRRORS!!! Not until you’re underway. What? Sorry, there’s no other way to put this… I can’t fucking see to my left! The door & window struts interrupt the view. Doesn’t matter. Italian Automobile Protocol imposes looking first to one’s left as an absolute must. So, the rest of the lesson is for us guys to drive around Fivizzano for 20. minutes…. 5 already spent… and 5 more devoted to The Wrap-up… cigarette lit: You drive all right but, you need to pay attention to what I say about where, when and how to do things. Right. Look left. Yes!

A weird sensation came over me after Baldo’s Wrap-up, as to what these Driving Lessons were all about quietly began to infiltrated my thought processes. All we ever did with the subsequent lessons was to drive around on the same streets of Downtown Metropolitan Fivizzano. Never in the same order but ALWAYS in the same direction. It dawned on me at a Thanksgiving dinner…

an American friend, a sculptor, and married to one of my oldest friends, since I came to live in Italy, and who had also worked for me as an accessories designer during my long ago other life as a Fayeshion Designer, invited me to join them at a Thanksgiving dinner hosted by an Italian woman, the owner of a splendid country hotel near Pietrasanta. Think low, softly beige, stone farm-houses gorgeously renovated for paying guests, spoiling them with grassy lawns, olive trees, vineyards, patios and loggias and an Olympic sized swimming with cabanas plus communal sitting & dining rooms where meals produced by two chefs to keep everyone well fed. In the season. Oh! And there are horses and pigs and ducks and rabbits too. Now, I’ve been to other parties with my friends and they were encounters with bean sprout & almond salads and pasta with tofu & UFO veggies,, etc. Not this shindig! The turkey was succulent and beyond tasty. I had two large helpings. Normally, I avoid the turkey. The eclectic group of guests… all artists, mostly sculptors, which is no surprise being so close to Pietrasanta… had each brought a Thanksgiving dinner contribution which, were exactly what you would’ve wanted for such a dinner, and yet, the 20 odd dishes were made with interesting twists in flavours and presentation. Minimum of second helpings of all that too.

A few of the guests I knew and the start of the evening was… What have you been up to lately? Well, I was nabbed by the Carabinieri back in July… so, I have had no Life… what-so-ever… but to go to Driving School, study and with hopes to pass the tests and get an Italian Driver’s License before I die. Oh! For me too. Gosh! A shared experience…

a warm French woman, a sculptress, sitting across from me dove in with Her Story:

she was driving near Pietrasanta… Marble Sculpture Art Central… an Italian tagged car with a French Driver’s License and packing a Permesso di Soggiorno in Italia… the residency permit… of less than 10 years, when she was stopped by the Carabinieri. Merde! The agents did not like how her documents lined up. This is one of those essentially Italian notions which…. hopefully… most of the World does not worry about, ie, opting to check ONLY one doc is entirely sufficient and adding a… You may go now. What happened? No… Si puo andare ora. The Carabinieri sequestered her car and towed it off and took her to Carabinieri HQ under arrest. The next couple of hours were fraught. Well, until a different agent appeared upon the scene, and who was originally French. Quelle chance! He took pity. And, did what everyone should do… come to the rescue of a fellow citoyenne. He disappeared. Came back a while later. Said she was free to go and in her vehicle too because… the overly scripted Italian Law said she would have ONLY committed una grave atto contro la Legge Italiane, worthy to be arrested, had she held a Permesso di Soggiorn for more than 10 years. Nope. 8 years & 7 months. SAVED!!! Well, until she was sucked into the vortex of getting an Italian Driver’s License. Another story but, no time for that…

up piped a Swiss-American friend sitting next to me… another sculptress… who followed with Her Story:

the same, a duplicate, a Carabinieri carbon-copy! Baring a couple of details. Driving in Pietrasanta with an American Driver’s license in an Italian tagged FIAT van and carrying a Permesso di Soggiorno in Italia, when, lo’ and behold, there were the Carabinieri stationed at a gas station’s parking lot for a doc check. Van towed away to a lonely existence in a lot somewhere. The sculptress arrested and taken to HQ. They threatened throwing the Italian Law books at her… which I thought they already had by arresting her. Capista! The Carabinieri were thwarted by the same less than 10 year codicil. SAVED TOO!!! Well, until she was sucked into the vortex of getting an Italian Driver’s License which, she FLUNKED three times. You didn’t go to Driving School? Study the manual? Do qwtzes ad infinitum? Fret & storm the unfairness of it all? No, I did none of that except for the last. Oh! So hard to avoid stress. I know. I’m an expert at Fret & Storm. On her third attempt, she made two errors too many but, the examiners were tired of seeing her failing test after test. So, they let her pass, and get this… as a BONUS… they dispensed with the Driving Test too! Must’ve been really exhausted from looking at her face. NOW SHE WAS SAVED!!!

And my American friend… the inviter… added his tale to tell:

He was good. A year after gaining his Pemesso di Soggiono in Italia, following the Letter of the Law, he thought, I can do this Driving License thing WITHOUT going to Driving School… how could it be that difficult?… I’ll do it by myself. So, he read the Rules & Regulations Manual off the Internet, studied it and then took the test. Failed it. Had to wait a month before taking it again. And he Failed it again. Hmmm? Guess I better go to Driving School. Learned it’s not about learning the rules of driving or driving the damn car in Italy but, passing the tests. He Failed a third time. However… and what luck fellow readers… the examiners let him pass with too many errors too. My American friend thinks it was probably with the complicity of the Driving School owner. Once again, there you have it; Italy. Boy, the Times have certainly changed since then. No complicity. Just fear coupled with infinite studying.

Hearing this last story, it gelled for me. Totally. Unequivocally. Completely. Baldo was merely instructing me to memorise what, when and how to drive the streets of Fivizzano to…. ta-dah!!!… pass the frigging Driving Test on the 22nd of December. Got it. Let’s go do it!


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?




Qwtzes

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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…

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.

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.