The
ruins of a Roman amphitheater built in the 1st century BC are still extant today.
It was a difficult hike to the top of the hill. Sitting on the peaceful stone
steps, surrounded by balsam trees and so much history of the western world, I
was daydreaming about my Roman ancestors and their daily lives, so close to a
river that frequently overflowed its banks. The cobblestone road crossing the
Adige, archeological evidence of the magnificent quality of thousands of miles
of roads that crisscrossed the Roman Empire, held deep grooves worn into stone
by chariot wheels passing through “Verona Romana.”
The
province of Veneto is a spectacular canvass of green terraced orchards, balsam
trees, vineyards, and olive groves, interspersed with dangerous and dimly lit roads.
I closed my eyes, white-knuckled, every time Dave took sharp curves too close
to the center, unable to see oncoming traffic.
The
beat up Nissan we purchased for a song chugged along, picking up speed, never
failing us, cranking up every time. When the GMC Jimmy was totaled, the Nissan
seemed like a Godsend. Exiting our favorite pizzeria, La Tonda, one night, Dave
was hit on top of the blind hill by a speeding car. The sturdy and heavy SUV
saved his life.
Italians
love to speed, take their side in the middle of the road, park where they
please, especially on the sidewalk, drive as if their lives do not matter, and
act like children when they feel cut off in traffic. Getting on the
“autostrada” past the toll roads is like a gladiatorial game of kill or be
killed. I have never witnessed anyone being ticketed for speeding but saw
plenty of cars smashed beyond recognition on the sky is the speed limit
“autostrada.”
I
have seen Italian men and women stop in the middle of a busy intersection, get
out of their cars with fists pumping in each other’s faces, yelling obscenities
and hurling personal insults to total strangers, blocking traffic in both
directions in order to get verbal revenge. Pedestrians stop to watch such
comical and entertaining display of road rage while drivers honk impatiently in
a cacophony of noise. Many get out of their cars to witness the spectacle,
further exacerbating the traffic jam.
Riding
a Pullman bus to the airport one foggy morning, the driver got out to confront
a drunken “motorini” owner who hit the bus. The image running through my mind was
the Italian Don Quixote fighting the giant windmills. Instead of waiting for
the police that never came, the two drivers started fighting. The bus was
intact, we eventually left on our way, but the little scooter was left behind
with a twisted wheel. The “motorini” bully was not hurt; we were going way too
slow.
There
are no traffic rules for Italians, just suggestions. Following the law would be
too simple. Why wear seat belts when you can wear a t-shirt with a black line
across the chest, mimicking a seat belt, in an attempt to fool “polizia
stradale?”
Our
Spartan but expensive apartment in Santa Maria di Negrar was overlooking a
rolling vineyard with an irrigation ditch that cascaded into a serene waterfall
below our balcony. Few had a backyard – the land was too precious to waste on
frivolous pleasure – it was used to raise food instead. The owners tended to
the grapevines meticulously like a mother caring for her baby. We were
delighted to leave our large windows open all the time, shutters and all, overlooking
the green hills in the distance, and did not have to worry about flies or
mosquitoes – the vineyard was well sprayed for parasites and disease. I wanted
to meet the owners but I was afraid to enter their property – below the
imposing archway was a huge “no trespassing” sign. A German shepherd and a
hunting rifle accompanied the owner on his daily inspections of the grounds. I
watched him from afar. We were the only Americans in the small village on the
outskirts of Verona. Americans were not very welcome and we stood out like a
sore thumb - we are both tall. German tourists, who loved the Lake Garda area,
would often ask us for directions, thinking that we were German. We must have looked
like giants to the petite Italians.
I
loved the cool marble tiled floor and the large skylight on the second floor. I
took many dangerous tumbles from the second floor on the moist and slippery
marble. We could watch the stars in the absence of streetlights and outdoor
ambient light. When the sun went down, we were plunged into an inky blackness,
perfect for stargazing.
It
was strange that we had to purchase light fixtures, sinks, and other amenities
that American apartments offer. Italians rent apartments or homes for most of their
lives and are expected to provide chandeliers, kitchen cabinets, sinks, and air
conditioning. When they move, they take all these amenities with them, leaving
the apartment stripped bare with electrical wires exposed everywhere. Because
we were so far north, nights were cool. It was really hot during the day
without air conditioning but nights were pleasant.
We
never had enough power to run a microwave, a washer, and dryer at the same
time. I shorted out the entire apartment complex several times by trying to run
the dryer and make a cup of tea in the microwave at the same time. The washer
was tiny by design; I could only run very small loads, a couple of shirts and
two pairs of jeans at a time. The cycle would take at least 90 minutes to wash
and dry a load and it was very expensive. I started using the clothesline on
the balcony – the drycleaners were fantastically expensive. Our neighbors saved
on their water and electric bills by wearing the same outfits to work all week.
It seemed like a European tradition to bathe once a week, on Saturdays, and use
bidets the rest of the week. One American home filled its bidet with potpourri
to discourage its use by Italian visitors. We were told repeatedly that
Americans are too wasteful because we shower every day and change our clothes.
The
bank of smart meters would cut off power whenever we least expect it. There was
never a schedule but we knew it would be on the hottest or coldest days/nights
and it lasted for hours every time. We got used to the pitch-blackness - we
were sent back in time, keeping the farming schedule of long time ago before
electricity freed us from an agrarian lifestyle.
The
underground parking cubicle allotted for each resident was barely enough space
for an SUV, with inches to squeeze by sideways on the way out. We unloaded
groceries in the driveway and then parked the car in our concrete-walled
garage. I will never understand how Dave drove in and out of the garage without
scraping the car on both sides of the wall.
The
security system was always armed, with speakerphones and cameras for each
apartment. No visitor was buzzed in unless recognized by the apartment
dwellers. We never saw or knew the property owner - the government docked our
required bank account for rent.
To
address pollution, the government passed a novel ordinance to discourage driving
– cars with even license plates numbers could drive one week and cars with odd
license plates numbers could drive another week. Violators caught on the road
in the wrong week were fined heavily.
Northern
Italians were so glued to their cell phones, they would have had to be
surgically removed from their “cellulare.” No matter how remote a place, the
familiar “pronto” was everywhere. Service was very good but expensive. Landlines
were not dependable and worked intermittently. It was hard to get service in towns
built on mountains where lines were difficult to bury a few feet under layers
of cobblestone and rock. Roman roads, which were religiously preserved, made it
more challenging to bury fiber optic cables, power, or phone lines. Unions had
to be consulted before any projects were undertaken and a myriad of notarized
forms had to be filled and approved by the arcane bureaucracy.
Italy
is a developed country but life there is not as easy as life in the United
States. Just paying the phone bill took a good part of the day, following the
strange bureaucratic schedules at the mercy and whims of clerks who did not
care about serving customers, especially when time came for their mandated
afternoon nap. Everything closed down for 2-3 hours.
We
loved to eat in “trattorias” and truck stops where a three-course meal cost 5
Euros, was fresh, homemade, and delicious. “Ristorante” was expensive and
frequented by rich Italians and tourists. The locals would eye us with
suspicion. When speaking Italian, they accepted our presence graciously, but
eyed my husband warily since he did not know a word of Italian other than
“grazie,” thank you.
And
then, there were the Auto Grills, the familiar sight on every Italian “autostrada,”
with an array of freshly prepared pastas, sandwiches, coffee bars with café
lungo, espresso, café Americano, café macchiato, cappuccino, freshly squeezed blood
orange juice, and stinky pay toilets. For some reason, Italians have not
mastered the art of providing clean public restrooms for everyone, easily
accessible as we do in America. I found that bizarre since the Romans had
flushable commodes in their cities and knew the importance of military
port-o-potties in preventing disease. In towns, unless you found a pay
bathroom, you were in trouble, as businesses allowed the use of their facilities
only if you purchased what they sold.
When
the Nissan needed new brakes and tires, it took two weeks! We rented a Volvo S60,
which I promptly ground to a halt by filling it with gasoline instead of
Diesel. The tow-truck came to rescue me. An American would have laughed off my
stupidity but this petite and gruff Italian was all business, gesturing “mamma
mias” to heaven, calling the dumb American interesting epithets, not realizing
that I spoke Italian. It cost 300 Euros in towing fees. I rented a new car with
a traditional engine because Diesel was too expensive. I laughed off the
offensive disdain for my mistake and my predicament.
Italy
is a picturesque country of uncommon landscapes, a jewel of art, history,
cuisine, and gelato, with colorful and hospitable people full of charm, but life
is very complicated and unnecessarily hard.
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