...which makes sense when you see the way Italians drive. The unwritten rule is to tailgate the car in front of you, while driving 130 (kilometers per hour) until you can get around this person, and in heavy traffic that can take 5 minutes. If it does take longer than 2 seconds to get around the slow-poke, simply lay on the horn until they speed up (so you can keep tailgating them) or until they pull completely off the road to let you pass. PJ and I couldn't shake the habit of driving with a respectable distance between us and the car ahead, which everyone around us saw as an opportunity. During the whole 2 weeks, it became just usual to see this kinda stuff, or to witness fender benders or to see large buses full of people turn left at an intersection mere inches away from said motorists tailgating each other at 80mph, with dozens of scooters whizzing past at the same time. And Italians are so nonchalant about this as if to say 'nyah, let's go open a bottle of something.' Watching incessant road rage was better than Tivo.
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| Pre-Espresso |
I'm convinced that the culprit here is espresso. On one hand, it does perk you up several times a day, and in a city as naturally languid as Rome, it gets things done. But maybe drinking espresso and driving should be treated more like drinking alcohol and driving. Except that people there tend to not care so much about that, either. It must be a vicious cycle; an espresso in the morning to wake you up for work, by the time you get in the car, you're ready for the next caffeine injection and drive like a freak to get to your destination to remedy this problem. Or else, you're just still buzzing and people can't go fast enough to keep up with you.
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| Post-espresso |
Another thing that's fun about Italy is the constant flux between ambivalence, melodrama, and petty officialdom. The everyday Roman or Rowoman really doesn't care about their job, because they not are there to do a job for you. You are there to provide work for them, and the sooner you get your brain around that, the smoother things go. An example, PJ and I have a 10-hour layover in Rome between flights from Palermo and to Manchester, so we decide to go visit the Vatican, which we had missed the first time around (this may sound unbelievable, but I'll explain later). We go to the counter for luggage storage, and the guy checking in the bags doesn't say a work, just gives us this stare for like 5 seconds as if to say "You again? I've seen 16 travelers just. like. you. in the past half our. Well, whatever, here's your ticket."
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| Our Poor Baggage Clerk |
Then there's melodrama, which will probably come as no surprise to anyone. PJ and I always had one eye on the street waiting for those tremendous 'Boppity BOOPIE!' moments. One of the best was in Syracuse when we saw a tailgater in a BMW slam into the Fiat ahead of him. Fix It Again Tomorrow. Anyway, the fiat and the shiny B-mer pull over on a side street, so PJ and I promptly follow them just to watch the show. By the time we got to where they'd parked, a young man with curly hair and posh sunglasses was out of the BMW talking with the 50-something man, whom he's hit in the Fiat. As we walked (nonchalantly) toward them, voices were already escalating and speech was becoming more and more rapid. Both of them were talking almost on top of each other and Posh Sunglasses had his hands together as if praying, as if pleading with the older man who had taken his wrists and was bringing forth Judgement Day. It was so funny PJ and I were now no longer trying to be inconspicuous, and laughing out loud as we walked past Fifty-Something and Posh Sunglasses, who were by this point so engrossed that they didn't even notice us.
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| Market in Syracuse |
I think that Italians get up every morning, and at some point before they greet the day they must practice their best Mussolini in the mirror, just to get it right. Just in case someone breaks the rules. On our last day in Palermo, we took a city bus out to the beach in Mondello. We had figured out that you buy bus tickets from newspaper kiosks dotting the town. What we didn't quite catch onto was that the tickets must be validated by a machine on the bus, which prints the date and time, thus preventing people from trying to use the same ticket on multiple trips. So, lucky us, the ticket inspectors hop on our bus, and they walk down the aisle inspecting tickets until they get to the back of the bus where we are. Not worrying about a thing, we hand over our tickets. Now, the ticket inspectors speak zero English, and my Italian is halting at best. Still, we are obvious tourists, complete with camera and maps, which doesn't exactly scream bus ticket scammer. They proceed to tell us that, for not validating our tickets, we must pay a 110 euro fine right then and there. Must. must. must. Luckily, we have no ID on us and only about 40 euros. The older man keeps repeating himself, because, ya know, if he says this enough times, we'll eventually give and produce the cash. The younger officer is getting annoyed with my pigeon language skills and is threatening arrest. To which we finally say 'OK, arrest us.' At least I think that's what I said. The rest of the bus ride to the beach was in stoney silence, with our captors hovering over us like hawks. We finally get off in Mondello, the beautiful sand, palm trees and blue water staring us down from across the street, and it's a waiting game to see how long these guys will play. We don't have the cash they're asking for (and they won't be bribed to just go away), we have no ID, we don't really speak Italian, and it would be a challenge to find someone who speaks enough English to really communicate, so if they take us in over an obvious misunderstanding, it'd be a complete waste of time. The nicer inspector keeps on repeating that 'no, no, we must pay 110, not 40,' while the younger is now just standing around the bushes shaking his head. After about 10 or 15 minutes they finally tell us just to beat it. Which we gratefully do. Lesson learned: woe betide those who do not obey every letter of the law.
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| "No Ticket!" |
Despite all the chuckles over Italianisms, one of the things that did take me by storm was the food. Let's put it this way, Pedr and I go on holiday to Italy for 2 weeks; one of us gains weight, and one of us loses 5 pounds. Can you guess which of us is skinnier? Not me! Our first meal was really nothing remarkable, we were wandering around and hungry and went for the first touristy trattoria we saw. It was on the second night that I realized I was about to become party to an unholy love affair with Italian Food, with my husband watching us. It was magic. It was lust. It was a deep, repressed hunger the likes of which I had no idea existed. I ate as though there was no tomorrow and my heart would break if I stopped gobbling. Personal favorites were cannolis from Maria Grammatico (in Erice), Cous Cous Trapanese from Cantina Sicilia in Trapani, sword fish steaks (from everywhere), the spaghetti carbonara at a restaurant in San Lorenzo called Pommidoro, and the coniglio from the same place. Had a small brush with guilt about that one, as the hotel we stayed in the next night had the owner's pet rabbit hopping around the reception area, being cute as a button, and as I petted it's furry ears I hadn't the heart to tell it what I'd been dining on 24 hours earlier.
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| Pure Bliss |
And so, this brings us to the close of another episode. Thanks for reading & I'll post more travel scribbles soon. x
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