Lance Armstrong's War

[For those interested in cycling]
[Above: Gilberto Simoni of Lampre (front left) leads the final group in the rain up the finishing climb to San Luca. Notice the faces of the other riders. His Lampre teammate Damiano Cunego can be seen gasping for air towards the back.]

Let's talk bike racing. Which brings us to "Lance Armstrong's War." This is the title of the new book by Daniel Coyle who followed Lance Armstrong for the year before his sixth Tour victory in 2004. It is a fairly interesting look at the often tumultous world he lives in. I don't know Lance, but it seems like a pretty even-handed portrait that really puts into context what he has had to put up with during the latter part of his career in general and last year in particular. He's probably not the easiest person to work for but when you look at the results, who are we to judge whethter the ends justify the means.

What I do know is that the European press are a savage lot. If the American press tend to be a bit fawning, the Euros lead the way digging through the trash for anything to bring a star athlete down, especially a foreign one at that. You can't even begin to believe the crap that you see in the papers here, not only about Lance, pick the subject. People ask me, being a cyclist, if I think that Lance dopes. I reply that I obviously do not know what is in is medicine cabinet. I'm no expert but as a cancer survivor (28 years this month), I do know this: I still think about my experiences almost every day of my life. I mean, I don't dwell on it, but how can I not see the scars in the mirror? I know that everytime I go near a hospital or a needle I start sweating. Litteraly. I'm not afraid of needles per se, they just bring back bad memories. That combined with what I know about the long-term ineffectiveness and possible deliterious side effects of drugs such as EPO, I find it hard to believe that someone that went through what he did would essentially keep undergoing 'chemo-like' treatments for the last seven years. I don't care if there's just water in that IV bag, if I don't absolutely need it, keep it away from me. I still have needle scars on my arm almsot 30 years later and I'm not keen to collect any more. That alone earns him the benefit of the doubt in my book.

Whether Lance chases the dragon, so to speak, or not is really a separate question to most of what swirls around him. What is not in doubt is that he is one of the most incredible endurance athletes of all time. and that they, the Euro press, Dick Pound (WADA doping head), Jean-Marie LeBlanc (Tour director) et al, are out to get him. I live here. Trust me on this. You can't bust someone seven years after the fact and leak the "results" to the organization that runs the Tour and the newspaper L'Equipe (all part of the same company). You can't publish books based only on heresay and inuendo (Ballester, Walsh) that wouldn't hold up on the stand for five minutes in court. I'm sure there are a lot of ex-employees out there who had their toes stepped on, but so what? If you don't like your boss that doesn't give you the right to sue their former employer for large sums, renege on contracts and then say, "Oh, by the way, I'm pretty sure I saw doping parephenalia lying around once."

Questions concerning Lance's alleged vindictiveness, whether or not, for example, he hould've chased down Filippo Simeoni at last year's Tour, I cannot answer. I probably wouldn't have done that but then again I've never had to defend the Yellow Jersey and put up with the shit that comes out of guys like Simeoni's mouth. Most of the guys in the pro peloton are not the sharpest tools in the shed and like many pro athletes live on a very fine razor's edge, as Coyle puts it. They can be a bit paranoid and know that they are one misstep from heading back to the farm or the factory. Many of them have nothing to lose. Guys like Lance are proven-in-the-lab genetic mutants. He has everything to lose and not much to gain.

It is a rolling soap opera, though. Last Sunday, I went to see the finale of the Giro dell'Emilia, a late-season, one-day race that finishes up the punishing 6km climb to the church of San Luca which overlooks Bologna. (You can read about the church in John Grisham's new book, "The Broker."). They do the hill four times with the finish at the top of the last climb. In the final break were Damiano Cunego, last year's revelation and his teammate and apparent rival, Gilberto Simoni (Bettini dropped out at the foot of the second circuit, I believe. I walked right past him standing next to his bike talking to some fans in the rain at the bottom of the hill. I thought I'd missed the race.) On the penultimate trip up the hill, someone next to us yelled, "Vai Cuego!" (Go Cunego!) Simoni looked over at this guy like he wanted to kill him. Sure enough, on the last trip up, Simoni dropped everyone like a bad habit on the 18% section and won easily. Again, Simoni is one of those guys always mouthing to the press. .

Watching them racing in the rain and cold and actually standing on the hill seeing how steep it is you think that these guys are nuts to do this for a living. Only a select few get rich at it. The press and fans swarm, the team directors lay on the horns of their cars, the police rush buy on motorcycles. You wonder how Lance did it all. And why. I went home that night and finished the book just shaking my head. I tried to connect the dots in my mind. I know what I went through (cancer). I know what it feels like to suffer on a bike. Then I try to imagine doing all of that at the highest level with everyone wanting a piece of you and trying to have a personal life. It's crazy. I can't even fathom it.

There are also colorful chapters dealing with all the people in Lance's orbit: coaches, trainers, teammates etc. Personally, I wish there had been more devoted to Greg LeMond's disparaging remarks. Armstrong seems, however, to direct most of his ire towards "trolls" such as Walsh and Ballester (authors of "L.A. Confidentiel"). To me, LeMond now looks like a washed up old athlete living in the past. Another ex-champion sniping from the sidelines with absolutely no evidence to back up what he says. Even if Lance had been caught red handed, who is LeMond to pile on? Unfortunately, my rig still bears LeMond's name. The components are two-year old Dura-Ace but the frame is now 14 years young. Small consolation that I know it is really a hand-made frame from Robert Billato built near here in Padova. I'd still chuck it in a ditch if I could aford, as Lance says, some of The Shit That Would Kill You (i.e. awesomely cool bike stuff). But, I guess I'll have to keep on pressing my nose against the bike shop window drooling over that Colnago. It's been 14 years since I had a new rig so how long could it possibly take to save up the change I find in the couch to buy Some Of The Shit That Would Kill Me? LeMond will have to do for now.

Mostly, I came away from "Lance Armstrong's War" not wondering so much about what makes Lance tick but why I was sitting there reading a book about riding instead of riding. (I've read most of that stuff before. There are some interesting tidbits but nothing earth shattering.) I mean, Lance's will is so strong that you feel lazy even reading a book about him. But then I think that's what he means when he talks about the 'obligation of the cured.' To me it means getting out their and living for those who can't instead of reading a book about whether Lance Armstrong is an asshole or not. Gotta run....'Are you ridin' or hidin'? Comment here or at jsopinski@msn.com.

Where in the world is Johnny Bravo?

Johnny Bravo is back in business with his own internet connection! It took 6 months and a 300-smacker bill at the Vigaranis (unbeknownst to us, Stef's dad pays buy the minute. Who knew you could even still do that? We've got the 24 euro per month flat rate with unlimitted access plan.) for Stef to see the light and greenlight our hook up.

Anyway, here is a look at my world. Hope it's readable. I also ride my bike to the north and east which are not shown here, but most of my life happens in this area.

Space odd-issey

[Above: Via Bel Vedere, Crespellano. I ride this hill often. It is right behind the Vigarani's house.]
Since I moved to Italy, I've noticed that my life has become subdivided into different units of space and time. First of all, there is, of course, the metric system. Something that the French invented that actually has lasted longer than the Renault Le Car.....even in America, unbeknownst to most Americans. Those of you who know me well know that I can drop a metric measurement into almost any sentence at any time....just to see if you're paying attention. I like to watch the vein on Dave Eames' forehead pulse when I do this. At any rate, the United States is the only major country in the world that does not use the metric system, Myanmar (Burma) and Liberia being the only two other exceptions the last time the survey was conducted. Even the Brits changes 10 years ago.

There's a scene in "Under the Tuscan Sun" where Diane Lane's character, Frances, is told that her new/old Tuscan property is officially measured in how long it would take two oxen to plow it. I doubt this is true but I wouldn't put it past the Italian government. Italy allegedly has more laws than any country in the world--they're just not enforced enough for anyone to pay them any mind. To be fair, Italy has made enormous strides in their legendary resistance to all things efficient (from an Anglo perspective) and customer service oriented. Apart from the long line at immigration, everything was actually as simple as pie: a few forms, a couple of I.D. mug shots, and fingerprints. I guarantee you this is not the case for those wishing to enter the United States, especially after 9/11. My "codice fiscale" (basically Social Security card) was just as easy; take a number from the electronic machine, fill out one form, see the employee when your name is called. He, in this case, took my form, tapped on the computer a minute and it was a done deal. Received my plastic card in the mail a week or two later. Same for health insurance. I went to the "Sanitaria" which is located at the hospital in Bazzano, near Crespellano. Walked up to the counter, handed over my "green card" and "codice fiscale" and a few keystrokes later I was in the system. No fuss, no muss, no money. Now I can go to any hospital any time if I'm really sick or I'm supposed to see my primary care doctor for all else. (I think I need to throw my back out--his physical therapist is, how shall I say, easy on the eyes.)

It is now officially Fall. The harvest is in. The fields have now been plowed and the overturned earth looks like a series of interlocking pans of chocolate brownie pans. As I ride by I see brownies where there was once corn or wheat. Italians race like mad on the road to make it home before dark and the mists hover over the empty fields. When I ride, time seems to stand still as others rush by in their cars, spurred on by some unseen god of time and space. I've further divided and categorized drivers into four categories: the Formula One wannabes (which includes the "centauri" psycho motorcycle drivers), the normal drivers (most people), the "vecchietti" (geezers on wheels, usually a Fiat Panda or Uno) and the farmers driving everything from "Ape," those tiny little three-wheeled vehicles that you usually see driven by golf course groundskeepers that are, strangely, street legal here to giant combines that block out the sun. Illinois residents (home of JD) will be proud of the number of good 'ole green and yellow John Deeres that I see. But that's another category, kinda like bird watching. (I've actually had one sighting of the rare Lamborghini tractor). City driving adds one more subdivision which should really be a part of the Formula One category, the notorious Italian scooters that swarm like flies in the city. They're loud, smelly and definitely not as sexy as they make them look in the movies. Stefania's Vespa is still in the shed. I would probably need a motorcycle license to drive it since it's a 125cc and thus officially a motorcycle. Don't really need it at this time.

Use of space is another thing. Italians, I've learned, abhor a vacuum. Whether it is on the road or in the grocery store line, remember to close ranks with the person in front of you or prepared to be passed. If you do not occupy that space I guarantee you someone else will, usually in less than 30 seconds. There is no polite, "Oh, no, you go ahead." There is no arguing or unpleasantries. Especially the Beemers and Mercedes drivers of the Boot. If you see one of those guys in your mirror, you're doomed. They will wedge in in front of you no matter how small the space. Here, one has to revise the idea of what it means to be a cautious driver. The real problem here is not the pyscho drivers or the geezers but the vast differences in speed in a very limited amount of space. If you are too cautious or courteous, waiting to let people in etc., that can cause accidents because people do not anticipate this behavior. The Frenchies have learned to slow down because the government has placed the high-speed AutoVelox cameras everywhere and are rigidly enforcing the rules of the road now.

This concept of the efficient (to Italians) occupation of space extends to the private sphere as well. I was at our friends' house in Bologna last weekend for a little cocktail party with 5 or 6 couples. To a person, even people I was just meeting for the first time, they moved right in to my airspace. I'm no prude, but they were so close that my natural reaction was to lean back at first.

The apartment buildings are so close in Italy that during the warm months you can hear what everyone is talking about and watching on TV. If Italians like to get in your grill when talking to you, they have also developed a face-saving system of communicating displeasure that is anything but direct. Example: this Summer when it was hot, the cats were shedding like mad. Mimi or Sasha would jump into the window and I would brush them. If a little tuft of fur detached itself I would just let it go. Unbeknownst to me, said fur would occasionally drift on the wind to our downstairs neighbor, an older widow. She, in turn, talked to her friend, the cleaning lady who cleaned the apartment facing ours. This lady told our downstairs neighbor that she indeed saw us brushing the cats from time to time. Our neighbor was not happy about this. So, the cleaning lady knows someone who knows Stefania's boss and told her about this, grumbling something about those damned pesky foreigners. Stefania's boss then told Stefania, who was mortified, with visions of losing the apartment flashing before here eyes. Point taken. Maybe it wasn't the best idea to brush the cats in the window but considering how close we are, wouldn't have just been easier to say, "Hey, you mind not brushing your cat, it's raining fur on me!" But no, in this case, word had to travel 10km out of the way before we got the message. This phenomenon has probably evolved over generations of Italians living in close quarters and not wishing to offend their neighbors by confronting them directly.

I've learned not to feel too bad about what happened. It just is. Italian Zen. Italians sometimes seem to have no common sense and will not refrain from doing something unless expressly told to do so. They will occupy that space until you say something. "You have to learn to be more agressive," Stefania always tells me. On her parents' street, a residential area, it used to be a two-way street. Used to be. Stef's mom had something to do with making it safter by turning it into a one-way street. People zipped around the blind corner making it unsafe for all of the children in the area. More to the point, these same people started parking their cars on the street--even in front of people's driveways because there was no official "passo carrabile" sign put up by the city. So, one day, Stef's mom comes home to find a car parked smack dab in front of her driveway, blocking her path. What does she do? She parks her car diagonally thereby blocking the offending car and the rest of the street. She then called the Carabinieri to come remove the offending vehicle. If there was any doubt in the police officers mind, I'm sure he could hear the honking cars through the phone of drivers who were being held up. Result: one towed car and one new one-way street. Sometimes Italians occupy the wrong space at the wrong time and learn the hard way.

In other news, Johnny Bravo, as previously noted, has his own internet connection now. Johnny also owes Stef's parents some cash. Johnny has also had the annual breaking of bike parts costing him even more cash (new set of wheels after discovering a cracked rim, new cassette freewheel, new chain, new seatpost binder bolt to keep the seat from slipping, new seat after snapping the titanium rail that holds it together). And, Johnny still has no job. Remo Capelli, the sweet old "benzinaio" (service station owner) who also has a bike shop as part of the station has seen my eyes grow as big as saucers when I look at the sweet Colnago C50 bike with full Dura-Ace and FSA carbon cranks. He's been giving me the hard sell. He forgets I have no job and that new bikes cost as much as a decent used car.

Stef's birthday is Tuesday, the 18th. Wish her well. The twins and Virginia are finally warming up to me after months of shameless bribery. Lorenzo likes soccer. Vittoria likes dolls. And Virginia is already a clothes horse.

After a week where we got 15cm of rain, it is now beautiful. About 20˚C during the day and down to 10 or 12 at night. I had rigatoni with "zucca" or pumkin and onion the other night. It's really a famous sauce here and tastes great. I've continued to ride (mechanical issues and rain notwithstanding). I rode for four hours on Tuesday; I found this awesome paved cycling trail that starts at the confluence of the Panaro and Po (biggest river in Italy) rivers. Went along the banks of the Po and the poplar groves almost to Ferrara and back (that part is not on my map. It's to the norhteast). Tomorrow I'm supposed to ride the hills to Guiglia with my brother-in-law's dad. He's a materials specialst, a kind of metalurgist, who consults for industry. He's 62, weighs 59kg dripping wet and will drop me like a stone in the mountains. I've lost 10kg but not enough to keep up with a featherweight like him. Moreover, he says aluminum, carbon fiber and titanium are for pussies. He's old school but says to buy carbon fiber if you don't like the heavier steel ride. (Remember, he's a materials specialist.)

Apart from that, I'm trying to stay out of trouble. I've sent a couple of resumes to North America to see if I get a bite. More out of curiosity than anything. Still a dead end here. I made some new contacts but I doubt much will come of it. We'll see.

Nike town

AUGUST 17, NICE, FRANCE—I piloted the Micra down departmental highways, out of the city of popes and towards the autoroute. Through the toll booth, direction: Aix-en-Provence, then Nice. While I drove, Stef had her phone out and was calling some numbers for hotels we had in Saint Tropez. No dice. We were heading into the most difficult portion of our voyage: The French Riviera with no reservations whatsoever.

I told my erstwhile co-pilot that I thought it might not be a good idea to check out the area of Saint Tropez without reservations. I was overruled and we headed off the autoroute and down a departmental highway towards the coast. Traffic was building. As we hit the coastal highway near our destination, the traffic was bumper to bumper. Stefania again tried the office de tourisme in Saint Tropez as we neared the city center itself. They said there was one room in a two-star joint back the other way. “Oh no,” I thought. “We would have to swim back upstream.” We decided to pull over near the main square of Saint Tropez. Stef went to the office to make sure there wasn’t something else. I sat in the car and listened to “Les Grandes Gueules” on the radio, which translates as something like “The Big Mouths.” Interestingly enough, they were discussing the fact that France was the number one travel destination in the world but that her hotels still ranged widely in quality and services, even with the same star rating. I laughed at what they were saying. It seemed to hit the nail right on the head.

After some minutes, Stefania trudged back to my position in the shade of a plane tree watching some men play “boules.” She confirmed that the aforementioned hotel room was the only one left in the area in our price range. We decided to check it out as it was on our way back to the autoroute, anyway.

Good thing we didn’t take the room. We pulled into the lot and Stef’s hopes for staying in Saint Tropez were dashed. It looked like a combination of the Bates Motel and your local No Tell Hotel. I practically did a donut to get out of there. Luckily the traffic going the other way, our direction of travel, wasn’t too bad.

Back on the autoroute I suggested we hit Nice, as it is a big city, very beautiful, with the added advantage that it is near the Italian border. Fair enough, she said.

We pulled off the autoroute and I followed the signs for the famous Promenade des Anglais that bordered the Baie des Anges. Nice (Nizza in Italian) is a former Greek out post named after the goddess for victory Nikaia or Nike in English. After the Greeks came the usual long laundry list of conquerors, Romans to French.

It was a beautiful late afternoon. A bank of clouds hovering over the mountains at the far end of the bay. “Do you think Lance and Sheryl are still here,” querried Stefania, referring to Lance Armstrong’s post-tour vacation to this city. “I doubt it,” I said. “He probably cruised back to the States on his Gulfstream a week or two ago.”

We cruised all the way down the long boulevard, checking out the sunbathers on the city’s famous pebbled beaches. After getting a lay of the land, I steered our sturdy Japanese steed back the other way towards the airport at the far end of the bay. I had spotted some chain hotels and reasoned that that was our best chance, if not first choice, to find a room under our present circumstances.

We pulled up in front of the Hôtel Ibis Nice Aéroport, across from the end of the runway where all the private jets are parked. Stefania went in. It’s a pretty big hotel and sure enough they had some rooms. It’s nice to stay in smaller family-owned places but on short notice in a big city with all of our stuff (my bike included) in the car, it pays to bite the bullet and go for the chain because they always have secure, underground parking. We pulled around the corner. Stef hopped out and tapped in the code for the garage. The door swung open, we entered and went down just under ground. I backed the car in. We then took the bags we needed and headed up to our room on the fourth floor. It was like your typical Hampton Inn-type room: a/c, TV, bluetooth internet connection and double-paned windows which made the room absolutely silent.

After unpacking, we changed and headed out, camera in hand. The hotel was right on the bay. We crossed the busy street and walked passed the end of the airport and a Total gas station. There, before us, was one of the most magnificent views (see photo above). I snapped a lot of photos but the one you see was the first and the best. We continued walking and walking. It is amazing people watching. People in France and Italy don’t eat until eight or nine, so we had some time to kill. Eventually, we settled on a rather touristy spot (they’re all touristy next to the bay) and settled in for a nice meal of steak-frites. It was a three-course meal for 10 euros plus drinks. Not bad for a tourist trap. It was cool. The whole terrace had these little tubes that hung from the awning and misted the patrons with cool water every five minutes. After dinner, we cruised back to the room to count our blisters and sack out.

Stefania was concerned that the clouds of Monday would move in and ruin her beloved beach day on Tuesday. Boy, was she wrong. Beeeeautiful day. We got up, headed down to the restaurant for breakfast (a paradise of bread). Then we walked down a back street where we stocked up on magazines for our day at the beach. We then crossed back over to the beach and decided that if we were going to spend one day at the beach we had to splurge and go to one of the private beaches. It’s the only way to fly. You pay 13 euros for the day and you get the awesome ‘transat’ or what we’d call a chaise longue. They also have ‘plagistes’ or cabana boys that will bring you food and drink. These aren’t cheap plastic beach chairs either but real wooden ones with nice mattresses. Plus, they have laid down carpet in between the rows or chairs so you don’t hurt your feet on the rocks. We took up a position in the first row. I ordered a couple of Cokes and we decided to jump in. The water, unlike Cassis where there is a glacial spring under the bay, is perfect. You see why they call it the Côte d’Azur. It’s really that blue. Unlike the beaches in the Adriatic, there are no breakwaters here. Just the open sea before you. If you ever do go to the beach at Nice, make sure you bring Teva sandals or reef shoes; if you don’t, you’ll regret it. The rocks kill your feet. You look up and down the beach and see people waddling in pain to and from the water.

After a short while of napping in the sun, I heard a comotion behind us. Seems like some punk American college kid and his girlfriend with daddy’s credit cards was making a scene. Of course, this cretin couldn’t speak French and was having a hard time understanding the cabana boy who was trying to explain to him that no outside food or beverages were allowed on private beaches, as the sign at the entrance said. The stupid college kid was screaming that he wanted his money back and that he could drink what he wanted, where he wanted etc. etc. and that he didn’t understand the sign (typical) so how was he supposed to know.

Moron. I wish the college punk would have tried to push the ‘plagiste’ or taken a swing at him. That would have been an interesting call home to daddy from a French jail. When I went to school in France, the first week there, they would always bring some paper pusher from the embassy over to read us the riot act. Really unobvious things like, ‘No, you’re not at home anymore and the stuff that daddy and mommy used to get you out of at the University of X doesn’t apply here. If you get arrested for any crime you are subject to French laws and there is nothing we (the American government) can do about it. If you’re lucky, they’ll deport you and you will forfeit your tuition and fees. If you’re not lucky, depending on the crime, give your new cellmate Pierre, my best.’ Guess this ‘cool dude’ didn’t get the memo. It makes you proud to be an American when you see things like that happen.

That nice day brought our trip to Nice, and France to a close. That night we dined in and then the next morning headed out for a nice 5-hour drive back to Bologna.

Road rage in Roussillon

AUGUST 14, AVIGNON, FRANCE— The day after my adventure to the top of the world, in Provence at least, and back dawned sunny and bright. After having a bit of a lie in, as the Brits say, Stef and I headed down the main drag in Avignon, back to the little grocery store that was under a ‘boulangerie’ or bakery to resupply for the days journeys. Supermarkets in Europe look pretty much like they do in the States; if someone conked you on the head and you woke up in a French supermarché, you wouldn’t have any trouble finding what you need. Perhaps you just couldn’t read the specials. The neat thing about such stores on the Continent is that when you are in dense, historic, city centers, you find them in the oddest places. But people gotta eat.

We performed the usual mid-air refueling operation: “Red Leader, Red Leader, break right and get the baguette. I’m breaking left to pick up the ‘jambon.’ We’ll rendezvous on the fruit aisle.” While in the store, we ran into the charming owner of our hotel. She was pulling the little grocery caddy on wheels that marked her as a resident. We opted for the plastic bags. Don’t forget: at supermarkets in Europe, you pay for the bags that you use and put a 1-euro deposit down on the grocery carts; they are all tethered together in front of the store with little chains that plug into a little coin box on the cart. You place your coin in the slot, move the lever and it releases it from the herd of other carts. When you return, you plug your cart back in to the others and your money is returned. Moral of the story: Always keep reusable IKEA shopping bags and 1-euro coins in your car.

Exiting from the store, we took our wares and headed outside of the city walls to pick up the Micra which was parked in an underground parking garage near the train station. Our destination: the medieval towns of Gordes and Roussillon.

Gordes is a charming medieval town, another of the most beautiful villages in France as the sign says, that sits perched on a hill. The French are super organized nowadays. As you approach the edge of town, you pass a couple of three-star hotels and then come to a ‘Parking Payant’ or private parking lot. There is a teenage attendant seated next to his comic book reading punk little brother. You have no choice but to pay the man. He hands you a ticket for your dash as you complete the transaction. We pull into the lot, drive past the Gendarme station and into the overflow lot in back. It’s mid-day on a Sunday and the lot is already teeming with tourists. I maneuver the Micra into a spot in between two French cars. (I must say that I haven’t seen too many Americans this year. Most tourists are French, followed by other Europeans, the Dutch most notably.) We break out the picnic materials. I slice the baguette with a makeshift knife and build the ham and cheese sandwiches. Stefania cracks open the Orangina soda. I hand her her sandwich and we get our snack on.

After lunch, we hike about a kilometer to the entrance of the village. Again, no cars are allowed except for residents and delivery vans. The streets are abuzz with tourists going in and out of the immaculate stores. Stef and I split up. I walk around staring at the contrails in the blue sky as Stefania heads for the first shoe store she can find. Up and down, up and down. The medieval folk just had to build their cities on hills, didn’t they. My dogs are barking from all of the walking we’ve been doing and yesterday’s ride. We hook up again. I snap some nice pics. We finish our visit and head back to the car.

Next stop, Roussillon. On our way we take a perilous side trip down a narrow road to see an abbey in a field of Provençal lavender that has now gone brown. We park and check out the abbey but they want to jack us for like, 10 euros a pop to see the inside. I veto that idea and return to the gardens to snap a few pics before we resume our journey toward Roussillon.

The trip is beautiful. Up and down winding country roads. Picturesque villages. A few burned areas where forest fires have raged recently. It’s too bad that the lavender has already been harvested. After another half hour of driving we arrive in the hill-top village of Roussillon. It is of note because of the sandstone cliffs upon which it sits. They are of an amazing red, terracotta color. The buildings of the village are painted to match the color of the surrounding cliffs. The sky is a deep blue.

Parking is the same routine. Up the hill and into a sea of campers, station wagons and mini vans. Don’t forget to take your parking ticket with you in France if you get it out of one of those machines when you enter. When you leave, you go to another machine, stick your ticket in the slot, and pay the amount due. The machine then spits your ticket back out with an electronic code that a third machine reads at the ‘sortie’ or exit which allows the barrier to rise out of your way. If you leave it in the car, you have to hoof it back to the car, get the ticket, hoof it back to the machine, pay and then return to your car again. If you parked 10 levels below in some massive parking garage and the machine is on the ground floor, you are in deep doodoo.

The village itself was typical of what we had seen of late: beautiful, organized around tourism and immaculately clean. France and Provence is almost too clean now. Italy still has that little feeling of controlled chaos. The French are a bit more low key.

We stopped for a beer at a sidewalk café and watched the owner’s dog go in and out of the front door. He was like the maître d’ for dogs. Each tourist that came by with a dog, he would run out and sniff the newcomer as if he were taking canine reservations. The cats just sit in the sun in window boxes, laconically observing the proceedings with typical Gallic detachment.

We zipped back towards Avignon but not before I almost got us killed at a T intersection. I paused, wondering if I should go right or left. Stef said something to me as I kind of eased my nose into the road. Just then, a car comes flashing by from the right. I turn hard into the left lane and let him go by, passing me on the right. I think we both had to change our drawers after that close call. Probably the French car, too. I’m sure he was weaving a tapestry of profanity as he continued on.

Then, just our luck, we pulled up behind the guy I had almost cut off at a long traffic light.I watch in slow motion as the driver’s side door opens and out steps a squat man in his late forties. He walks slowly toward my door. I imagine this scene in the U.S. as said driver pulls a 9mm out and riddles my car with lead. I could see the headlines: “American shot in France in road rage incident.”

In reality, I rolled down my window as he approached. He said evenly, “Vous savez, c’est comme ça que des accidents arrivent. Il faut faire attention.” (You know, that’s how accidents happen.You have to pay attention (when you drive).) I said, “I know, I know. It’s my fault. Please excuse me,” making sure to use the formal/polite “vous” form of you. He said that it was okay, wished us a good day and got in his car and drove off. That, to me, is the perfect example of the French penchant for directness that Americans sometimes confuse for rudeness. A French person will (another sweeping generalization) tend not to hesitate to tell you if you have done something that they perceive as objectionable. The same scene in the U.S. would probably tend to have unfolded in a more passive-agressive manner: an obscene gesture followed by a squealing of tires as the offended person sped away. Or, they would have done nothing. The Frenchman was very cordial and simply expressed his displeasure at what had happened. Obviously, speaking the language helps. If I were a tourist who didn’t understand his culture or what he said, I could have interpreted his gesture in a much different manner. More on that when we get to Nice.

The next morning, we packed loaded up the car, bid adieu to our kind hosts and headed back down the autoroute towards the French Riviera.

The Giant of Provence

AUGUST 13, AVIGNON, FRANCE—Today was the day I ventured to the moon and back. A day that will live in infamy. The day I performed my sacred duty as a cyclist. I attempted to conquer what is arguably the toughest climb in all of cycling. The feared Giant of Provence. The Mont Ventoux.

This bald giant (so named because of the treeless, lunar-like landscape at the summit that is its trademark) rises 1,912 meters (6,300 feet) over the Rhône Valley, approximately an hour’s drive north of Avignon. It forms an almost perfect cone that shoots straigh tup into the deep blue sky of Provence and dominates the vineyards of the Châteauneuf du Pape that lay below. Its forested slopes were used to construct ships for the Royal Navy in the 16th century and were replanted starting in 1860. The summit is baren and covered with a carpet of rocks. Nothing grows there because of the Mistral winds, from which the mountain takes its name (vent means wind in French), that blow year-round, sometimes in excess of 230 km/h.

Cycling News editor John Stevenson has described the mountain as neither the highest nor the steepest climb in the Tour rotation, but definitely the most feared. It is relentless and has even killed. British racer Tom Simpson died on this climb during the 1967 Tour de France. He had described it as "a great mountain stuck in the middle of nowhere and bleached white by the sun. It is like another world up there among the bare rocks and the glaring sun. The white rocks reflect the heat and the dust rises clinging to your arms, legs and face." Lance Armstrong has referred to it as “that bastard” and has never won here, missing in the 2000 and 2003 editions of the Tour. He lost to Marco Pantani and Richard Virenque respectively. This past June, Armstrong came in fourth during a stage of the Dauphiné Libéré race.

This morning started out with another crystal blue sky. After another walking excursion inside the walls of the ancient city center of Avignon, I returned back to our charming hotel at about noon, after stocking up on water and some granola bars for my ride. I rested as Stefania went to check out the Fondation Angladon museum that houses a private collection of masterworks by artists such as Degas, Modigliani, Cézanne, Van Gogh, just to name a few. She returned at about two and we set out in the famed Micra, bike in the back, to the north towards the small town of Carpentras. After cutting through the center of town, we turned right onto the departmental highway D974 towards the Mont Ventoux, which is clearly signaled.

There are three different routes that one can ride to the summit. All are approximately the same level of difficulty. I chose the southern route (Versant Sud) that starts in the village of Bédoin because it is the most difficult and the one that is usually ridden in the Tour de France. Once we got outside of the town of Carpentras, the terrain becomes rolling. Sun-drenched vineyards line both sides of the road. The sky was still crystal blue with a few whisps of white clouds hovering over the summit of the Ventoux. My palms began to sweat as I contemplated what lay ahead. Spotting a side road that led to a winery, I figured that it would be a good place to change and put my bike back together. Furthermore, I wanted to get in some kilometers before the real climbing began.

I pulled over under a big tree. Stefania held the bike frame while I reattached the wheels, seat, handlebars etc. I pumped the tires to their maximum (8 bar or 110 psi) and really lubed the chain well (I didn’t want any extra friction on this climb). Like Superman, I ducked behind the car and changed into my cycling garb in between passing cars. Once prepared, I gave Stef instructions to go on ahead a few kilometers and wait for me. We would repeat this process over and over again up the mountain. That way, I didn’t have to carry any extra gear.

Turning right onto the D974, I placed my right hand around the brake hood/shift lever and clicked through the gears until I found one that felt comfortable. I just had my rig tuned up and a new cassette with lower gears put on in back ( a 12-27 for you cyclists out there). That is to say, that is as low as they go for Shimano Dura-Ace (It’s actually an Ultegra cassette, though). But more on the gearing later. The road ahead was definitely not flat. I had about 10km to go to get to Bédoin at the base of the mountain. I would say that the road was at a steady 2-to-3-percent grade. I was rolling a 39x19 for most of the way into town, the theory being that I didn’t want to use my granny gears to soon. I needed to work up a good sweat and get as warmed up as possible before the real fun began.

As I passed a traffic circle on the outskirts of Bédoin, four Gendarmes were setting up a speed trap. The road then jogged left and into the prevailing north wind. The air temperature was 32˚C but not too humid. I pedaled straight for about 500 meters before the road took a sharp right bend and kicked up into the town of Bédoin itself. Back into the wind and through the heavily-shaded streets lined with tourists sitting in sidewalk cafés. As I passed by, they probably were glad that they were sipping a cold beer as they knew that I was headed into the belly of the beast.

The grade had already kicked up to 5 percent as I headed back to the right and out of town. As I looked around I noticed a few empty fields, a couple of houses and some vineyards full of ripening grapes. Stefania was stopped up ahead and was taking pictures of my suffering. I still had the wind at my back and thought that if it stays like this I might be able to handle it. Right as I reached the car, I looked left and noticed the sign saying: Mont Ventoux 18 km. “Great, I thought.”

I was on my 23 sprocket. My speed was down to 18.9 km/h. I hadn’t wanted to click down to the 27 yet, my last gear, but it was awefully tempting. Two more bends in the road made the decision quite easy. Yup, there goes the 27 and I’m only four km into a 21 km climb. Boy, this is going to be fun.

The road was now at a steady 7 percent grade, I was on my last gear with a long way to go. As I entered the pine forest or Perraches, the real climb began. Signs began to appear saying, “10% prochain (next) 2km.” My heart rate monitor read 183 out of a possible 198. I was already in the red zone, panting as I pulled mightily on the bars. The road was a wall that shot straight up into a green, piney hell where there would be another switchback and then more of the same.

For those familiar with cycling in the Kansas City area, think of the hill known as Mt. Baldwin just outside of Baldwin, Kan.Think long and hard about the grade of that hill. Then you will have some idea of what the Ventoux is like. Except that at home, Mt. Baldwin ends after less than 1 km. The Ventoux goes on and on for 20. After the initial run out of Bédoin, there are no false flats or places to rest until a short 100-meter section, 6 km from the top. The average grade throught the forest is 9-10 percent. We’re not talking about how cyclists exagerate and say that the hill they just climbed was 10 percent when it was really more like 5. This is certifiable, USDA, grade-A, prime-cut climbing. I can’t begin to explain how hard it is. I can’t even conceive of how the pros race up this mountain.

So, I’ll cut to the chase and say that I didn’t make it to the top. I tapped out about halfway up, 9 km into the 20 km climb. I had actually started climbing when I left the car and had done 18 km in one hour and seven minutes with a 900-meter gain in elevation. Not bad for having only done 5 hills all summer, but not nearly good enough to make it to the top. I knew I probably couldn’t make it before setting out but wanted to try and see what it was like; I might not get the chance again.

Suffice it to say that I had to swallow my pride and get into the broom wagon. I just didn’t have the right gears or the right training to do the job right. So I cracked a cold one and drove the rest of the way to the summit. There was a Dutch guy that had passed me in the forest earlier who was still motoring ahead. I offered him some water but he waved me off. He looked like he was in a trance.

We drove through the barren moonscape to the summit, stopping to take some photos at the Tom Simpson memorial. The wind was howling and the temperature had dropped to 15˚C. There’s a small gift shop next to the telecommunications antennas. I bought some postcards and a couple cold beverages. Then I raced to the car to get out of the wind and down half of a sandwich before riding the brakes in the car all of the way down.

I wouldn’t say that this was the hardest day I ever had on a bike but that’s just because at my advanced age I have almost 20 years of experience riding and enough horse sense to know that you don’t mess around with the Giant of Provence. At any rate, it was just a simple question of physics. I just didn’t have the horsepower to propel my big box butt up a 10-percent grade with the gears I brought and extend the suffering any longer. Gravity bats last.

A TECHNICAL NOTE FOR THOSE INTERESTED IN RIDING THE CLIMBS OF THE TOUR: Spend the 500 bucks and get the triple chainring set up. I know we were all racers once or thought we were, but the simple fact of the matter is that you ain’t getting to the top without one unless you are in top racing shape and at your ideal climbing weight. I would offer this gearing caveat: 39x24 for pros. 39x27 for Cat 1s and 2s, compact drivetrain (34x30) for good 3s, 4s and masters and a triple for everyone else. And don’t skimp on the training. That’s the problem for us flatlanders. There are hills around, but how do you train for climbs that are 10 km or longer. It can be very dangerous attempting some of these Hors Catégorie Tour climbs if you’re not in top shape and the weather conspires against you. Just ask the 60 year-old dude who died last week while riding up the Ventoux.

By the way, I finally met up with that Dutch guy at the top; he is a racer, who looks lean and mean with a cool mustache (think Ned Overend) and he really worked hard to push a 34x27 to the top. These 50-something French dudes that were talking with us told me that they were going to try it tomorrow on a 39x26. They were a few kilos lighter than me to be sure, but who do they think they were kidding. No way, no how.

Avignon or bust

AVIGNON 12 AUGUST—Before heading out of Aubagne, we had one last stop to make, the medieval village of Castellet, about 14 km outside of Gémenos. It is another charming little bourg that is rated one of the most beautiful villages of France, perched on a hillside near the sea. Most of these small villages make their living entirely from tourism. Cats lounged in windows. Dogs walked in and out of their owners’ stores. Tourists milled about in throngs. Most of the tourists I’ve seen are French. Not too many Americans this year. France is the number one tourist destination in the world and they seem to know it in Provence. Everything is set up and organized waiting for the masses to descend. We obliged them of course, paying for parking and buying a few things on our tour up and down the steep streets.

After the visit to Castellet, we took the Autoroute past the famed Mont Ste. Victoire, the mountain made famous by the impressionists, and did a nice day trip to the university town of Aix-en-Provence, birthplace of Paul Cézanne and Emile Zola (pronounce ‘Aix’ like ‘ex’. One often sees ‘Aix’ or ‘Ax’ in town names in France that were once the site of Roman thermal baths.). We parked in a nice underground parking facility and set out first to see the market that takes up all of the main boulevard of the town, the plane tree-lined Cours Mirabeau.Stefania bought some gifts as I took pictures. We made a giant loop through all of the picturesque squares of the town. Every corner you turned there seemed to be another small church or market that was just wrapping up. As traffic is limited in most city centers, the foot traffic of locals and tourists alike was quite intense. We were beat and decided to head back to the hotel. Stef hit the pool while I went for another ride. The terrain here is very deceiving. You think the road is descending when it is actually going up. The mountains slant one way, the fields below another and then the road again in another direction. I couldn’t figure out why I was pedaling so hard. I stopped twice to look at my chain. Then when I turned around I saw why. I had been climbing the whole time. My senses were completely baffled.

That night we decided to try the pizzeria next door to the hotel and found it quite good. Again, if you’re in France or Italy, you have to change your concept of time and service. People never eat before 8 or 9 p.m. If you’re like my dad and want to eat at 6:30 sharp, most restaurants are still closed. Expect to be seated and have to wait long periods between each service interval: menus, water, entrées etc. It’s just the way things are done here.

On Friday, we paid up at the hotel and hit the road for the long journey up to the city of popes, Avignon in the Vaucluse . It took a couple of hours to get there. We had made reservations at a very quaint two-star hotel owned by two transplanted Parisians where our friends had stayed this past spring. It is inside the ramparts of the old city, right off Rue de la République. We unloaded the car and then were able to park it nearby in an underdground parking garage that has a deal with the hotel. Each room at the hotel has a particular theme. Ours was Marocco. It was on the top floor and quite spacious with a couch and a table and a bathroom/shower in the room.

After unpacking, we went down and talked to the owners. This is again where speaking the language helps. They pulled out a map and told us in detail to see this or don’t see that and to eat here because all of the tourists eat here etc. You really get the royal treatment. The first thing we hit was the magnificent Palais des Papes, constructed for Benoît XII beginning in 1336. The palace is built on a hill next to the park of the Rocher des Doms. From there you can see the famous Pont d’Avignon, the bridge that extends only halfway across the Rhône river. We then wandered through the streets and ended up having dinner near the Porte du Rhône on the Place Crillon.
Tomorrow, Saturday, was going to be the real test, my attempt to climb the Ventoux.

Put on your walking shoes

AUGUST 10, AUBAGNE, FRANCE—We are really on a role here. Another fine, clear morning in the south of France. After the incredible meal of the night before, we put on our walking shoes, headed over to Alain’s and Josianne’s house and prepared for a day of sight seeing in Marseille.

Stefanina had never been to Marseille, so she was in for a treat. France’s second largest city has been a crossroads for all of the civilizations of the Mediterranean basin for over 2,600 years. Alain-Philippe, Stef and I all got into the Renault Mégane hatchback and began the journey through light morning traffic towards the center of Marseille. We took the tunnel that let us out near the Vieux Port. We drove up to the top of the hill overlooking the port and found a nice spot next to the medieval abbey of Saint-Victor. After a look inside, we then walked down the hill and around the Vieux Port on to the Quai des Belges where we began a brief walking tour of the center of the city. We concluded the morning portion of our tour with a stop at the Guess store off of the Rue Paradis to see Stefania’s friend, Sébastien, the owner. Sébastien showed us around and talked a little shop with Stefania before inviting us to the Novotel that overlooks Marseille for a buffet lunch. On his tab, of course. We spent about two hours sitting on the terrace in the sun eating good food and enjoying the view of the fort Saint-Jean next to the Baie de Marseille before parting company.

Alain-Philippe then directed us back to where the car was parked. Nearby is a château that overlooks the harbor built for Napoléon III’s wife, though she never lived there. We snapped a few pics before mounting up again to go take the sinuous, narrow road up to “La Bonne Mère” or the cathedral of Notre-Dame-de-la-Garde, the church that protects the city. It is quite a drive. On the way one passes an American Sherman tank that was left where it stands as the Allies liberated Marseille in 1944. The citizens of the city repaint the tank every year. Notre-Dame-de-la-Garde offers one of the best views of the city. One can see off in the direction of Cassis to the southeast, the hills to the north of the city and the old harbor.

After the tour of the cathedral, it was back in the car to drive along the Canebière, the road that runs along the sea between the Parc Borély and the municipal beaches. Along this route we stopped for a quick jaunt down stairs in between two buildings to a tiny little protected harbor that you wouldn’t know was there unless someone pointed it out to you. It is called the Vallon des Auffes. We snapped a few photos then hurried back to the car. From there it was on down the road to Les Goudes, where the Calanques begin. The Calanques are the famous limestone cliffs between Marseille and Cassis. They are a protected natural habitat. Some can only be reached by boat and they are quite stunning in their natural beauty. When you reach the end of the road at Les Goudes, you have to turn around.
We went home the long way, over the Col de la Gineste and back to where we started in Gémenos.

After a dip in the pool and some photo ops with the girls, Alain-Philippe, Stef and I decided to go over to a nice restaurant in Gémenos to eat. We bought him dinner for his kindness in showing us around; he must of led that tour a thousand times for various friends and family members. From there we parted ways as Alain-Philippe had to begin his preparations for his trip home to the States.

On Tuesday, the weather was still grand and the Stefster was dying to go to the beach, so we drove over to the small port of Cassis nestled between the cliffs of the Cap Canaille and the Gardiole. It’s about 25 km southeast of Marseille. There is a small picturesque harbor from where boat tours of the Calanques leave and a small beach. It is absolutely crawling with tourists so we parked the car outside of the city and took the free shuttle bus into town. Before hitting the beach with my latest bicycling magazines we went on a boat ride and visited some of the Calanques.

After a day at the beach, we decided not to wait in line for the shuttle bus and hoofed it back to the car, some 5 km away and over some very steep hills. Had to walk off the previous night’s dinner anyway. Once back at the hotel we decided to go out to dinner at the Vallon des Auffes. But first we took a slight detour and headed to the east of Cassis to drive the Route des Crêtes, a dangerous, winding road that snakes along the cliffs overlooking the sea near the town of La Ciotat. After this adventure it was off to Marseille where I made it back to the hidden little harbor without looking at a map, I must say. Great dinner with a very colorful waiter with a heavy Marseillais accent. Stef slurped down the oysters while I had a delicious grilled poisson de Loup.

On Wednesday, we drove into Aubagne to do some shopping. Then it was back to the hotel. I put my bike together to go for a ride while Stef took the car and drove to Marseille to meet with some of her Guess colleagues again. I hadn’t been feeling that hot, nothing serious, just a little crud, but decided to go climb the massif de la Ste. Beaume, another of the large limestone mountains surrounding Gémenos. I’ve never climbed small mountains like this before. It is about a 10 km climb with an average grade of 8 percent. I didn’t have any power that day, still suffering the effects of the virus I had. But, I attacked the mountain anyway. I got about a third of the way up when a rain storm moved in and I heard thunder. Saved by the bell. I immediately turned around and rode the brakes all the way back down. By the time I exited the park and rode back through the center of the village it was raining pretty well. I decided to call it a day and went back to the hotel. I showered up and waited for the Stef to come back saving my strength for later in the week when I planned to try the famed Mont Ventoux.

On the road again

AUGUST 09, AUBAGNE, FRANCE—I’m at home again. Or at least, what I consider my second home. France. Stefania and I left Italy last Saturday (Aug. 6) for ten days in the south of France. This is the payoff for some of the other indignities suffered in my other posts.

We left bright and late on Saturday afternoon, about 4 p.m. We had dropped the cats off at a pensione or kennel for cats and dogs on Thursday. We had to look around but found a place on a farm near Bologna. They are very well organized. There is a separate air conditioned building that houses the cats. There are large, double-sized cages. We took their litter box, scratching post and favorite blankets for their stay. I’m sure they weren’t happy but c’est la vie. Our goal was to make it to San Remo, near the French border before it got too dark.

Driving the Autostrada is always fun, but especially so when everyone is racing to get to the beach first. We started from Modena, drove on to Parma, still in Emilia-Romagna, and then headed towards La Spezzia whic is just south of Genova. From there we went along the coast past Cinque Terre and on to San Remo. We found a dingy little two-star hotel to bunk in for the night. Worked fine for me.

The next morning, Sunday, we headed out after a hearty breakfast through the city of flowers, San Remo. It is the city of flowers because of its world renowned flower markets. There are greenhouses dotting all of the hills that rise up over the bay. From San Remo, it was a short jog up to Ventimiglia and the Italy-France border. Since there are no longer any border controls because of the EU, we wound through some over passes, through a toll booth, paid, went through a tunnel and were in France. The ‘Welcome to France’ sign was there and everything. I immediately dialed in a French radio station and started checking out the talk radio. It was about soccer, of course.

Sunday’s goal was to make it to our target destination, Marseille. Actually, Aubagne, a small town just outside of Marseille, near where my friends’ parents live at the foot of the Ste. Beaume in Gémenos. On our way, we dropped another 40 bucks for a load of diesel and pulled off the road to check out Nice. European cities are pretty well signed now. With no map in hand, I easily followed the arrows to the Promenade des Anglais, the famous boulevard that runs alongside the Baie des Anges and the famous pebbled beaches. One trip up and back was enough to tell us that we should move on rather than trying to hit the lottery by finding a parking place. So I pointed the dusty little Micra back to the Autoroute and cruised on towards Marseille. (Speaking of cruising, there is no such thing as cruise control on cars in Europe. There’s just too much traffic. Remember when driving on the Autostrade/Autoroutes: Slow cars and trucks stay in the right lane. Cars going about the speed limit (130 km/h) drive in the middle. Passing and psychos in BMWs and Mercedes are reserved for the left lane. Motorcycles drive wherever they want. People drive a bit more slowly and respectfully in France. It helps that France now has over 1,000 hidden radars with high-speed cameras in place along their road system. And man, those gas taxes sure do pay off (70% of the priceof Euro gas is taxes)—you can eat off the Autoroutes in France. Side roads are hit and miss as you would expect.

Another couple of hours in the saddle brought us to the turn off for Aubagne. This town is famous as the birthplace of the famed French novelist and playwrite Marcel Pagnol. He wrote Jean de Florette among other works. We had left the number of our hotel back at home so we parked in the center of town. Displaying my trademark cool confidence (that has gone missing in Italy), I strode into the first bar I saw and asked the bartender if she had a phone book handy. She said it was over by the bigscreen TV. We walked over and promptly found the number and address of the hotel, called and asked directions. This is when cell phones really come in handy. Good luck finding a pay phone that works in France; they are quickly disappearing.

Stefania navigated as I steered our venerable piece of Japanese steel through a few of the ubiquitous traffic circles and on to a departmental highway that headed towards Pont de l’Etoile. This little spot in the road is halfway in between Aubagne and Gémenos. Our little two-star hotel with pool was named, you guessed it, Hôtel de l’Etoile. Nothing special. AC, a room with a view of the Garlaban (one of the famous hills in the area), bathroom and TV. I might add that three-star hotels would better meet with the expectations of most Americans who are traveling abroad for the first time. But you’re going to pay for it. At least 100 euros a night depending on your location. I like to travel franchise free when possible and like the charming family-run atmosphere of the two-star inns, which can indeed be hit and miss. If you speak the language, the owners tell you all of the good stuff to do and see.

After checking in, we unloaded and then I told Stef that I wanted to call my friend Alain-Philippe’s parents’ house. He is a professor at the University of Rhode Island and was in town for the weekend before heading back home to the U.S. with his two young daughters in tow. Of course, the numbers I had to call didn’t work. Now I was worried. My only thought was to drive to Gémenos and look for their house. I had visited their house 11 years ago and figured this would be the only way to get a hold of them. I knew that there phone was unlisted so we set out to do it the hard way.

We headed out in the car. It was bright and sunny and late afternoon. The road starts to pitch up outside of our hotel as we head in the direction of the Ste. Beaume mountain. We took a spin around the village center then I started trying to orient where I remember there house being in relation to the surrounding hills. I drove slowly past a street called Rue de la République and thought that that sounded familiar. I cruised slowly down the street like I was casing some houses for a break in. I asked Stefania to get out and read the mailbox of one house. Nope. On the next one we hit the jackpot. I jumped out of the car and rang the bell. Alain, Alain-Philippe’s father answered. I cried out that it was me and he promptley opened the electric gate. Both he and his wife, Josianne, came bounding out to greet us. I apologized for ringing without calling first and explained our predicament. I then introduced Stefania whom they had never met before.

Alain waved off our apologies with characteristic Marseillais hospitality and invited us out by the pool for a drink. He said that Alain-Philippe and the girls, Eva, 4 and Chloë, 8, would be back shortly. We all had a couple of cold ones and reminisced about old times and what we had been up to since I had last seen them in Kansas City a couple of years ago. Stefania speaks some French too and worked hard to keep up. I thought my French would be really rusty but being in familiar surroundings and with familiar faces had me right back in the thick of things. A couple of Italian words popped out every now and again but by the end of the night I was back up to speed. That’s the big difference between my French and Italian: I have studied French language, litterature and history for 25 years. I have never really formally studied Italian. When I sometimes get frustrated with my Italian I just try and remember how many years it took me to master French and the incredible base that I had built up. I liken it to playing piano at a high level. If you work for years and years playing scales and learning music theory and mastering a broad repertoire you will never really lose it. Even if you put it aside for a while, when you start back again, those old reflexes come back remarkably fast.

In no time, Alain-Philippe was back with the girls. Chloë looks like her dad while Eva takes after her mom. Josianne had dinner on the table as if she had been expecting us all along. There was tapanade (an olive paste), baguette, spicey grilled sausage, quiche and french fries. We ate until we almost burst. It was getting late after dinner so we said goodnight and promised to be back the next morning at 10 to have a guided tour of Marseille from Alain-Philippe.

25 years later

CRESPELLANO 02 AUGUST—It was 25 years ago today, at 10:25 a.m. on Aug. 2, 1980, that 40 pounds of high explosives left in a bathroom at the Bologna train station exploded. 85 people were killed and more than 200 wounded. The story of the "stragge" (masacre) in Bologna is a long and complicated one that involves politicians, judges, intelligence services, anarchists and gangsters to name just a few of the characters. It is a story that has so marked Bologna that on each anniversary of the attack when politicians from Rome come to make the requisite speeches, they are heckled by an irate crowd. Today was no different. Vicepresidente del Consiglio Giulio Tremonti, sent on behalf of premier Berlusconi, had to endure the indignant whistles and hoots from the crowd gathered in the Piazza delle Medaglie d'Oro. For you see, no one has ever been brought to justice for this crime.

The events that culminated in the bombing of the Bologna train station really go back more than 60 years, to the dawn of World War II and Italy's tenative, first steps as a republic.

Prior to the beginning of World War II, Benito Mussolini's fascists were in firm control of the Penninsula. Il Duce had practically done away with the Mafia, jailing many of its top leaders. Witnessing Hitler's agressive moves in the rest of Continental Europe, a rather shaky alliance was struck between the two leaders.

The United States entered the war on Dec. 7, 1941. War was declared on Italy and Germany shortly thereafter. In New York, one of the top bosses of the infamous "Murder Inc.," Charles 'Lucky' Luciano, had been languishing in jail since 1936 on prostitution and racketeering charges. However, with the burning in 1942 of the Normandie, an oceanliner that was being converted into a troop ship, the Office of Naval Intelligence (ONI) felt compelled to call on the man who still had a large influence in controlling the New York docks to help prevent further acts of sabotage. (The fire was later determined to have been caused by an accident.)

In 1943, as the Allies were preparing for the invasion of Sicily, Naval Intelligence again sought the help of Luciano. On condition of his release, 'Lucky' Luciano agreed to help Allied intelligence services desperate for information, to help convince the Sicilian Mafia to aid with the invasion of the island. This set the stage for continued U.S. involvement in Italian affairs after the war and started a chain reaction of forces that would culminate in the tragedy of the train station attack in 1980.

It was now 1947. The Nazis had been defeated. What remained of their criminal network was on the run or had melted back into society. The West had turned its attention to the growing threat of the global spread of communism. Italy would mark one of the key battlegrounds of the rivalry between the two new superpowers, the United States and Soviet Russia. The Truman administration was concerned about the elections in Italy scheduled for April 18, 1948. The Italian Communist Party (PCI) and the Socialist Party (PSI) had merged to form one party. These two parties had dominated interim constitutional elections and increased their total share of the electorate by approximately 10 percent since 1946. This further shift to the left had policy makers in Washington increasingly worried.

Former allies were now adversaries. The Itlaian communists had been the staunchest rivals of the Nazis and the fascists and had helped greatly in the liberation of Italy. Mussolini had persecuted them relentlessly. Now, like the Mob, they were on the wrong side again. The American government threw its weight behind defeating the rising fortunes of the left in the 1948 elections. Most notably by rejecting Italian premier Alcide de Gasperi's plea for economic aid for his starving country (He promptly returned to Italy and disolved his cabinet, kicking out any leftists and the U.S. promptly opened the spiggots, cancelling Italy's $1 billion debt and restoring crucial aid), the creation of the Office of Policy Coordination to overtly and covertly conduct military and political operations and the State Department's announcment that, "If the Communists win...there would be no further question of assistance from the United States." All of these actions, mostly overt and well-publicized, helped assure that the left was defeated in the elections.

The elections of 1948, in my opinion, were really the beginning of what would later be called the "strategy of tension" between opposing political forces in Italy. Leftists were seen as being anarachists and communists, taking their orders from Moscow, while the right wing-establishment was seen by many as being riddled with, among other things, fascists, monarchists and collaborators of the Nazis. Whatever the case, this is a tendency that is still strong in Italy today. Dozens of governments have been formed and fallen since the beginning of the First Republic due to various quarells between factions, corruption scandals and assassinations. Endemic mistrust is part of the fabric of civil life in Italy.

The "strategy of tension" itself refers specifically to the period from the Piazza Fontana bombing in Milan in 1969, in which 16 people were killed, to the Italicus train bombing in 1974, in which 12 people died. During that time that were at least 4 coup d'état attempts. The "strategy of tension" refers to the ongoing crusade of right wing-extremist groups to create tension and fear in order to destabilize the elected government. Remember that at this time, Italy was surrounded by dictatorships in Spain and Turkey. Although the Christian Democrats won the elections of 1948, which brought in the era of the "rinascimento" or renaissance in Italian industry and living standards, the left and its strong labor movement was never really defeated, neither was reform brought to many of Italy's institutions. The "strategy of tension" was part of an overall period known as "the years of lead" (Gli anni di piombo) which began with the Piazza Fontana bombing, included the assassinations of prime minister Aldo Moro in 1978 and senator Paolo Ruffilli in 1986.

In the specific case of the Bologna train station bombing of 1980, the Nuclei Armati Rivoluzionari (NAR), a right-wing terrorist group, officially claimed responsibility. There have been two trials, one in Bologna and one in Milan as well as many blue-ribbon commissions on this and other incidents. The first trial produced convictions for a cover-up led by four Neo-Fascists and ex-military officers. The second trial produced life sentences for three Neo-Fascists which were later overturned on appeal. No one knows why the bombing was carried out in the first place— the years of the "strategy of tension" of the early Seventies when Italy's government was in a state of emergency were long over.

And that is why people whistle at politicians 25 years after the fact. It is symbolic of the fact that in Italy justice comes slowly or never at all. Politics is serious business here. An observer of Italian politics once said that just as politicians get serious about getting things done, the bombs always start to go off. Let's hope he's wrong and that those days are over.

Thanks to historian William Blum for some of the historical information contained in this post.

For an interesting interview with a CIA agent who participated in the campaign to influence the 1948 elections go to:
http://edition.cnn.com/SPECIALS/cold.war/episodes/03/interviews/wyatt/

The hay is in the barn

CRESPELLANO JULY 24—The hay is in the barn, the corn is looking good and the flowers are in bloom. The 'fruttivendole' (road-side produce stands) are out in force. Instead of dodging cars stopped along the side of the road for Ladies of the Night, I've been careening around huge combines, tractors and other farm implements that have been working like mad to get the harvest in or avoiding cars stopping abruptly to buy 'duroni' (a kind of cherry) or watermelon. My favorite field is the onion field near San Felice su Panaro. I love the fragrant odor of the onions waiting to be picked up when I ride by on my bike. I'm really curious to see how they harvest the pears. For most things, including potatoes, they use machines. They must pick the pears by hand. This will be quite labor intensive as there are many pear orchards in the area.

The weather has been tolerable. I guess you just get used to not having air conditioning after a while. At any rate, the humidity is usually lower here than at home even though the temperatures have been in the low thirties during the day and cool off nicely to about 18 or 19 degrees at night. When we are here in Crespellano, we have to battle the mosquitoes. Most houses don't have screens, another thing I've wanted to buy. However, they're not so bad in Crevalcore.

Seemingly everynight here in the summer there are 'sagra' (folk festivals) or just regular town festivals or fairs. Last month was the week-long Festa dell'Unita' hosted by all of the left-wing parties in Emilia-Romagna. You buy a ticket and there are all of these outdoor eating areas where you can get traditional cuisine prepared by the local church ladies. This past week in Crevalcore, there was the Fiera or fair. This worked much in the same way; there were bands, vendors and places to get traditional food. They make quite a ruckus until after midnight. So we came here to sleep. In Italy, you have to get used to the density of cities and villages. Most of the houses and apartments are spaced very closely together. In Crevalcore, the facing building is less than two car widths away. No one has AC so you can here everything. The TV at night, kids screaming, dogs barking and the old ladies calling to each other in the morning.

Italy is one of the oldest countries in the world in the sense that it has one of the oldest populations and lowest birth rates. It never ceases to amaze me how many older, retired, gentleman farmers with their porkpie hats go buy on their way to the caffè. Everyone walks to the store or takes a bike to the bar. There is much traffic, too. The population is going down but people are richer so they have more cars per family. Remember that when I speak of Italy's recession and competitivity issues it is still one of the eight richest countries in the world. So everything is relative.

I've still been on the lookout for jobs. It's not a good situation, especially in the summer. Everyone is gone. I keep busy, looking and doingg translation work for friends at the Bologna Chamber of Commerce. I've really been riding a lot. About 13 hours a week now. I take four-hour rides into the Lombardy region, then come home, clean up the house, cook dinner, read and watch bad TV. Stefania is gone a lot, travelling all over Europe. She's going to Germany tomorrow.

I'm sure people are on edge in England concerning the terror attacks. But people here don't seem too concerned even though Italy is allegedly next on the list. Like most people, if I want to go into the center of town, you either sweat your ass off walking 10km or you park and take the bus. No choice. I took Stef to the airport the day of the London bombings and didn't notice any increased security except for a truckload of Itlaian soldiers smoking cigarettes in the parking lot. There is a long history of suffering attacks and invasions at the hands of friends and foes alike in Europe so I think most people take the increased threat level in stride. There isn't the 24-hour a day fear-inducing media coverage like at home. After the London bombings they covered it, to be sure, but only during the regularly scheduled broadcasts. I do feel sorry for all of the Muslims here. If something does happen, I'm sure people will tend to paint with a broad brush and be a bit more hostile towards immigrants. The only people that are ever likely to give me any trouble are know-it-alls who have never been anywhere and don't speak any foreign languages. But those people are in every country. I've never had any trouble so far. Half the people on my block are immigrants and get up early and work hard. I'm not too worried. When it's your time, it's your time. If I were in London I might not take the train but other than that I have a greater chance getting hit on my bike than stressing about terrorism.

It's almost August which means vacation time. Stefania and I might go to the South of France where we have friends. She needs a break; she's exhausted. I need a break from my break. I keep saying that I'm not on vacation because a vacation implies that you have a job to back to. Right now, we have to find 'pensione' for the cats. After August, I'll have to sit down and evaluate the situation again and see how much longer I can take being unemployed.

Of accents and other things

CRESPELLANO JULY 18—Sorry haven't written for a bit. I've been busy running back and forth between Crevalcore and Crespellano. Stefania's parents are still at the beach. Franco took a day off from sailing and came home for a day last week to go to the dentist, other than that, we don't see her parents much. Moreover, there's no room at the inn, so to speak. They have had one of the 'bimbi' (kids or grandkids in this case) everyday for the whole summer. Virginia is allegedly putting on quite a little belly with 'nonna' (grandma) filling her full of 'pappa' (baby talk for pasta).

Just an interesting (to me) aside on the Italian language. It is basically pronounced as written once you learn that 'ch' makes the 'k' sound, that 'gli' is pronounced like '-illi-' in the English word 'million' and that double consonants must be voiced. Take these three words for example: 'papa' (pope); 'pappa' (baby talk for pasta); 'papà' (dad). To a native English speaker they might look like they are pronounced in the same manner. But, in fact, there are three separate pronunciations. The first one is easiest; just pronounce it like it looks. On the second, you must remember to hit the double 'Ps' (like we say 'bus stop' in English, with two distinct 'Ss'). The third has an accent which means to give that syllable emphasis ('pa-PA'). Accents in Italian either denote stress or are 'diacritical' which is fancy talk for saying that they are there to differentiate two words that are written and pronounced alike but have different meanings. 'Sì' with an accent means 'yes.' 'Si' without the accent means 'itself' or 'one's self.' Thus, 'nono' (one 'N') means 'ninth' and 'nonno,' two 'Ns' means grandpa. The funniest example that helps you remember how important it is to distinguish double consonants is the word 'penne' and 'pene'—one means a kind of pasta and the other means something that boys have and girls don't. I'll let you figure out which is which. So, pay attention the next time you order that kind of pasta in a restaurant and have a real Italian waiter. If he chuckles, you picked the wrong one...might want to stick with the pizza. People will most likely understand what you mean from the context but it's still funny. After you've had that happen to you a couple of times, you'll definitely have more compassion for the immigrant struggling to pronounce a word correctly who's holding up the line at the store. Stefania always laughed at me until I mastered my own personal Calvary, the word 'bagagliaio,' which means trunk, as in where you put your bags in the car. Try it out: 'bag-ahl-yeye-oh' with the 'gli' pronounced as noted above.

Summer has also had me exploring the reasons for the terrible, to me, phenomenon of dubbing TV shows and movies. I mention this again for we are in the dog days of summer. In Italy, this is REALLY the off season. So there are even more old crappy American movies and TV series than usual that have been dubbed into Italian. We went to the movies the other day and turned around and walked out. We were at the Meridiano, a new multiplex near Bologna. There were eight movies and all of them were American. I didn't come here to watch dubbed American movies, so we left.

Apparently, dubbing has its roots deep in the history of early-Twentieth century Italy. With the advent of radio (thanks to Signor Marconi, from Bologna) and talking pictures around 1930, Italy had certain dilemmas. First of all, at that time, most Italians didn't speak Italian. Italy was mostly an agricultural nation. Most people were uneducated and spoke there native regional dialect, which in most cases is not mutually intelligible to someone from the neighboring region. (Remember, modern Italian is basically the arbitrary selection of the Florentine dialect of Tuscany as the model for the modern tongue.) Furthermore, early sound technology was not good, which complicated the making of talkies. Finally, Benito Mussolini and his fascist party ruled the Penninsula. He might have made the trains run on time and he was also instrumental in the development of the RAI (Italian radio and eventually TV). Il Duce was determined that Italians would speak one language. This made sense, practically speaking. If a movie was made in the Roman dialect, other people would have no chance to understand the movie. By dubbing the movie into modern Italian, one could have actors from all over Italy make the movie and then have professional voice-over actors loop in the dialogue in the studio. This had the added benefit of making it easier to avoid the problems created by inferior microphones used at the time.

As the years passed, more and more Italians went to school where they learned "correct" Italian and were able to buy radios and go to movies. Two things happened. The regional dialects began to die out as a sort of 'pseudo'-standard Italian accent emerged. That is to say. a certain, accepted accent was used in movies, on the radio and on TV, that hadn't really existed before. This is much like the famed BBC received pronunciation (RP) that grew with the development of modern communication technology in the United Kingdom. To us and Brits alike, it sounds kind of haughty and artificial. Much is the same in Italy; most people really don't talk that way. In recent years, in England and in Italy alike, one has been able to hear more and more industry professionals speak with their regional accents. I watch the BBC quite often and am amazed at the diversity of the staff and the accents that one hears.

Italian movies and TV shows, however, still by and large dub most things with people who speak a little too perfectly. In the early days of Sophia Loren's career, she was thought to have too strong of a Neopolitan accent so another actress would loop in her dialogue in the studio. For many decades. one voice-over artist would follow the career of Hollywood stars and dub all of their movies. One actor would exclusively be the Italian voice for John Wayne or Gary Cooper etc. This is no longer the case. It's very expensive to dub films whether they are home-grown or foreign. There are a whole host of studios in Rome who are in competition with one another and only dub films and TV shows. Therefore, it is no longer possible for one actor to only do the voice of, say, Nicholas Cage.

Over time, Italians, who are quite good at dubbing, got used to this phenomenon and pay it no mind. I'd say that three-fourths of the material on TV here is foreign. Just imagine if this were the case in the U.S. and there was no dubbing. That would be a heck of a lot of reading subtitles, especially for children and older people!

B is for bee, S is for stranger, C is for crescentina

23 JUNE CRESPELLAN0-I'm beginning to think that someone or something doesn't want me in this country. First of all, the weather is hot. Well over 30 degrees celsius. Humidity isn't as bad as at home but then again, I have no cold beverages or air conditioning. I've gotta fever, and the cure is..........

Well, I'm finally 'in regola' or within the boundaries of the rules of this society that seems to have even more rules than my own. Stefania had to ask for a 'permesso' or permission to take a half day off of work so that she could accompany me downtwon to pick up my 'permesso di soggiorno' or long-stay permit. The permit that is equal to our proverbial 'green card' which is really pink and not green. This gives me persmission to stay in Italy for two years with all of the basic rights of an Italian citizen apart from voting.

I need to finish establishing residency by getting the 'codice fiscale' (think social security number) and then the 'tessera medicale' or national medical card which allows me to see the doctor free of charge. And no, my Rush Limbaugh loving friends, this is not some monolithic communist health system. Even the communists aren't communists anymore. It is basically a single-payer system like in Canada. You can choose your doctor or hospital. Yes, if you need to have a mole removed, for example, you might have to wait a couple weeks. But then, most people don't realize that doctors in the U.S. are on a 30-60 day scheduling system unless you get lucky or are sick. In Italy, they still come to your house, too. They also come to your paycheck. The cost of work here is phenomenal. If you take home 2.000 euros a month, your employer is paying out 5.000. You pay your premium to Uncle Luigi who in turn pays the doctors. I guess it's really free only if you're unemployed. Just think of Medicaid or Medicare only better.

I could've used a trip to the doctor after going to "pick up the card." First of all, the day we picked it up, June 21, was like, the hottest day of the year so far. We had to go after noon and so had the AC turned allllllll the way down to 18 degrees celsius in the Micra. As low as it would go. Heading across the valley the haze had settled like a thermal blanket over the surrounding hills. The corn and wheat were standing at attention as the giant irrigation sprinklers shot long columns of water into the fields. We passed a field of sunflowers; thousands of them. We took the 25 km drive down the Strada Provinciale 568 towards the Ipercoop at Borgo Panigale, an area of Bologna. Being the expert navigator that I now am, I directed Stef to park in the covered lot. From there, we got two bus tickets out of the machine at the busstop in front of the store and waited for the good ole number 13 bus. Remember, you can't drive into the center without a residence permit.

The bus came and became more crowded as we snaked our way past the Porta San Felice and on to the Via Ugo Bassi, rumbling across the large paving stones. This was an older bus and had no air conditioning. The new ones have computer screens, AC and the busstops have electronic signs that tell you when they will arrive.

We got off in front of the McDonald's. Sorry dad, still no breakfast at Mickey D's. There is, however, a new Mac store right next door. Anyway, the heat was radiating off the closely spaced buildings. People crowded together in the shade of the porticoes. We took a hard right at the Bancomat down the street from Mickey D's and headed for Piazza Roosevelt and the main police station near the Piazza Maggiore.

When we arrived, a long line was already forming. The office is on a narrow street behind the main police station. There is a crowd barrier that runs about 20 feet in each direction from the entrance to the immigration office. People of every nationality were lining up for the three o'clock opening of the door. One lone policeman stood guard. There was a family of Romanians or Albanians, Arabic was being spoken, a lady with a crossword puzzle book in Portuguese, Africans, you name it.

Then the real fun began. Luckily we were in the shade. As the time drew closer to three, people started to surge forward. The lone cop wised up and called for a more assertive assistant. He puffed on a Marlboro as he eyed the crowd. 'Sucks to be them,' he probably thought.

At three the employees dragged in and the door opened. Then the real, real fun began. By now there were over 500 people. We were stretched to each corner on either side of the door about 5 deep with people trying to sneak in from the center. This brought the swift hand of justice from the new cop. He told everyone to back off and keep the street clear. He would select three or four people from each side to go in. Everyone else in line. This didn't stop people from trying to push through the center of line.

This guy from India, about half my size kept trying to elbow past me. My hockey traing took over and I kept the 'net' clear by keeping my hip in front of his and my elbow above his arm so that each time he tried to sneak by his throat would run into my arm. I told him to calm down but I don't know if he spoke Italian.

After two hours in line, the policeman picked us and we went inside. There were five bank teller-style windows. I went right up to window two as the Albanians were grouped around the first window with some sob story. I handed the lady my passport and claim slip. She disapeared for a moment and came back with my 'permesso.'

That was it. I was disappointed. I thought it would be som high tech card with a magnetic strip. However, it was just a computer printout with my picture stapled to it and about 50 stamps on it. Italians love stamps. I was now official and tried to hide my relief as we walked past the other poor suckers in line. Now it was off to Feltrinelli bookstore and a long, winding trip through a maze of streets back to the 13 bus.

The preceding weekend was spent out with friends at a neat bar with an outdoor patio and little grass hut gazeebos. I had a Corona, no lime and listened to a DJ play bad music. Sunday was spent at my friend Roberta's house where her parents made crescentina by hand. Crescentina is dough that is cranked through a pasta machine, cut and then deep fried in liquified lard. It makes puffy little pastries about 3-inches long. We had two enormous bowls filled with them. Then you can put mortadella, prosciutto, squacarone cheese, mozzarella, jam or anything on them. We tried them all! Then we sliced up a watermellon and sat there outside like Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn spitting out the seeds.

The next day was spent by me putting in another 3-and-a-half-hour ride to try to rid myself of the crescentina bloat. Right as I passed the little bridge at Finale Emilia, the one where I almost got hit by a car, I saw a flash out of the corner of my eye. I was on a very narrow road with someone behind me and in front of me. This 'flash' hit me right on the left side of my nose. I thought it was just another errant bug. A bug it was. A European honey bee! The last thing he saw was my big schnozz. I must have been close to the hive because he came at me ass first. There was a split second delay before the searing pain set in. But I couldn't move my hands or bike. I had to hold my line so as not to be hit by a car. Profanities streamed from my mouth in four languages as sweat rolled across the wound. And you all know how thin the skin on your cheek next to your nose is. It felt as if someone had stuck a hot poker under my cheek. Man, did it smart. It took all of my experience on the bike not to flinch and swerve into traffic or the irrigation ditch on my right. I dug my nails into the handlebars and waited until I was in the clear. It felt like a hornet sting. I reached up and flicked at the sore with my left pinkie. Lucky me. I won a prize. A nice honey bee stinger and what was left of its entrails on the other end. Bees leave the stingers and die. Wasps (vespas) don't. Last thing he ever did and boy did I pay for it. Fortunately, I've had more than one run in with bees and wasps, (my personal record is being stung three times in a row by a hornet) so I wasn't worried about an allergic reaction. I just kept squirting my face with water and the pain calmed after a few minutes. By the time I got home the pain was gone and there was hardly a mark. Another reason I'm starting to think someone doesn't like me around here.

The next reason is my ongoing cross cultural battle with the seemingly never ending suspiciousness of Italians. We've touched on the 'vechiette' or little old ladies peering at you from behind curtains. We've witnessed the flier I put up for my missing cat with my name and number and Stefania's name and number. I got zero hits. Stef said it was because they saw my name. Italians don't like to deal with strangers, she said. Now, I really believe her. First, I got attacked by a bee because I passed to close to his house and today I had two incidences of Italians' inability to deal with outsiders. Again, this phenomenon of 'campanilismo' or provincialism, loyalty to one's town belltower. Actually, it was one run in today.

I was crossing the train tracks near our house to go pick up our car at Stef's work about 1 kilometer away. They've been working all summer on the tracks and have set up a 'deviazione' or detour which makes this short trip into a long and winding one if you take the car. People can cross the tracks, cars can't. Anyway, this fellow gets out of his car and asks me how to get to the Coop grocery store. My store. The one that is 500m from my front door. The one I go to almost every day.
He said that the signs said to come over to the far side of the tracks, where we were talking. I said, no, it's a mistake. He'd have to go all the way back around past the cemetery and go around the corner. He said he didn't think so. I said yes, you do. By then he noticed that I didn't look Italian and had an accent. He asked me, "Tu sei straniere?" (Are you a foreigner?) I responded that yes I was American as a matter of fact. "Oh," he responded, "maybe I should go ask that gentleman over there," as he went scurrying off. I through up my hands and thought, "you still got to go the long way."

Immigration, especially 'clandestini' or what we'd call illegal immigrants are in the headlines every day here. My example demonstrates that Italians just do not have the cultural history of dealing with outsiders. They don't know what to do. In America, we haven't always treated immigrants well and illegals are still a hot topic. However, we at least accept and are used to to the concept of people who look different, talk different etc. I suppose that the man's reaction would've been the same if he noted that the person he asked directions from had an accent from Naples. He just wouldn't accept information from an outsider, probably. I should count myself lucky. If I had been of African, Arab or Asian ethnicity, he wouldn't have asked at all. Not out of overt racism but because these peoples' ethnicities would have indicated to him that they weren't Italian even if they had been born in Crevalcore.

At any rate, it doesn't make you feel good when people don't trust you or what you say because of how you look or talk. Later in the day, a truck driver stopped me on my bike. I was on my way from Sant'Agata back to Crevalcore. He wanted to know where San Felice su Panaro was. This is a tiny village on the Panaro over 45 minutes by bike to the north of Crevalcore. I knew the answer but just said, "Non lo so" (I don't know). He said, "Niente?" (not at all). I said 'yup' and turned away from his quizzical stare to continue on. He knew that the village was in the area and probably couldn't believe a cyclist wouldn't know the answer since we tend to know all the back roads and villages. Thus his look. For me, it wasn't worth the trouble. I knew that by the time I got done telling him where it was (okay, continue on through Crevalcore past the cemetery and on to Caselle about 15 km north. Then go through Caselle around the corner and continue on the small farmers' road that runs under the dike along the Panaro River. Keep going for 10 km and you'll see the sign. It's to the left.) he would detect that I wasn't from these parts and would ignore what I told him anyway. I guess our motto in America is 'never accept candy from strangers' and in Italy it is 'never accept instructions from an outsider.'

I think outsider is the key word. 'Straniere' means stranger or foreigner. But the concept that seems to be hard for Italians to accept is the notion of trusting someone from outside the family or the area. This is reflected in the mafia movies where to be in the mob you've got to be Italian. This is true. One branch of the mob is called "La cosa nostra," or "our thing." It's our thing not yours, not for outsiders. During the high periods of Italian emigration during the early parts of the last century, whole villages would up and move to America or other countries.

Now, don't think Italians aren't hospitable. We can't paint with too broad a brush here. If Americans tend to be superficially nice, Italians tend to be superficially suspicious of those they don't know. The phenomenon that I'm speaking of here is more subtle. It's the 'talking dog' syndrome when one is trying to fit in and integrate more fully into a society. 'Oh, wow. You speak Italian really well.' In my position, this is akin to saying, 'Oh wow. a dog that can talk.' Yeah, but you're still a dog. That is to say, when you're just visiting on vacation everything is fine and dandy. It's when you really try to live somewhere that these little annoyances come up. Once you get to know your neighbors and colleagues they are the warmest people in the world and will always go the extra mile for you. It's just these initial, impersonal encounters that can sting a bit at times