The Autostrada is long

CREVALCORE May 24—Stefania’s been traveling again which has left me the time to do some more exploring on my bike. I know all of the small roads around here even better than she does now. I’ve taken advantage of some of the better weather to ride all the way from here to her parents’ house. I’ve also ridden to Modena and to Cento, keeping most of my routes between the three auto factories: Ferrari in Maranello, Maserati in Modena and Lamborghini in Cento.

For all of you gear heads out there, apparently they test drive all of the Lamborghini prototypes and new cars on the roads between here in Crevalcore and the factory which is actually between where I live and Cento. There is a small cemetery around the corner from our pad where Stefania always sees the test driver with the hood up on a sweet new ride in the parking lot; it’s kind of their unofficial pit stop. A yellow one went blasting by me the other day when I was riding home.

The traffic is actually not to bad here as far as cycling goes. I haven’t got lost but in my explorations I’ve taken some roads that turned out to be poor choices and have had to double back but then that’s how you find the best roads. I define the best roads first by the amount of traffic and second by their scenic value. However, even when I’ve gotten on some really busy roads, where trucks couldn’t pass because I was riding off to the side, I haven’t ever heard one horn honk or seen an obscene gesture. People here really respect cyclists. It’s a second religion. I mean there are cyclists everywhere. When was the last time you saw octogenarians on bikes? Moreover, I find the quality of roads to be much better in Italy than in the U.S. It’s not a really fair comparison for Italy is one of the richest countries in the world and can focus its substantial resources on the area the size of one of our smaller states. Again, you pay for it at the pump and the toll booth. I haven’t been to France for a while but understand that theirs are even better.

The Giro d’Italia has been going well for Paolo Salvoldelli who is on Lance’s Discovery Channel team. I watch it almost every day and you get to become really close, seemingly, to the three commentators who are on the air for several hours every afternoon for three weeks. Ivan Basso, the Italian who gave Lance a run for his money in the Tour last year, was in the leader’s jersey but faltered when he succombed to a stomach virus. He’s still in the race but gave up a half hour to the leaders. It’s really cool to watch the Giro, then dress up and go out and ride the same roads or at least roads that look the same. When the Giro passed by Ravenna the other day, Lance actually made a surprise appearance at the team’s hotel to offer encouragement before going home to Spain to resume training.

This past weekend I picked up Stefania from her business trip to Dublin on Friday. We headed over to our second base camp in Crespellano to spend the night as her parents were at their seaside apartment. We stopped at a pizzeria in the countryside for a pizza or two; mine wasn’t too good. it was my fault since I ordered mine with sausage on top and it was a bit heavy. It was nice to sleep over in Crespellano as they have the Internet and good cable TV. The Stefster fell asleep with the remote in her paw as I worked on the computer.

On Saturday it was back to Crevalcore to do the weekly grocery shopping, unload it and head off to meet Stef’s parents at Cesenatico where we were to spend the night and the next day at the beach.

It takes almost two hours to get their with all of the traffic on the autostrada. We got off the highway around Cesena, filled up the car then took some smaller highways to get to Cesenatico. Right near this seaside town is a mega huge mall that looks just like one at 119th and Metcalf. It comes equipped with the giant parking lagoon and everything. It’s the only complex that really looks like a giant, skanky American mall that I’ve seen. By contrast, the autostrada has very smooth roads, electronic signs and almost no visual pollution i.e. billboards every 50 yards. The only rest stops are Autogrill; they are the company that bought the rights to have restaurants on the super highway. There is no exit every two miles where you can get off and go to a McDonald’s etc. If you miss your exit you’ll be driving for a while until the next place you can get off. The signage on the autostrade are really clear, those around towns can sometimes be confusing because of all of the roundabouts. But the aforementioned lack of places to pull off every couple miles creates some interesting scenery along the roads at night during the beach season. Because of all of the bottlenecked traffic you’ll drive by whole families pulled over to the side of the road, lined up like bowling pins answering nature’s call. In fact, the other night we drove under a bridge embankment on our way back and saw three teenaged boys watering the concrete. A truck driver in the right lane (we where in the center lane) noticed this too and laid on his big air horn as he passed them hoping that they would startle and spray each other in the triangulation of crossfire. I about drove off the road laughing. Serves them right for taking such a risk. I mean there was an Autogrill not more than a half mile from where they had stopped. But when you gotta go, you gotta go.

At any rate, Cesenatico is a beautiful little town on the Adriatic Sea with a canal designed by Leonardo Da Vinci and a skyline dominated by one tall, crumbling apartment building. It has apparently been condemned but the residents refuse to leave, complaining that they’ll lose their investment. Hate to tell them that they already have if it’s been condemned. The town is laid out on your basic American-style grid with plane trees lining the roads and roundabouts at select intervals to break up the monotony. People are walking and riding bikes everywhere, eating ice cream and having a good ole time. People come here every weekend all summer long. Retirees, like Stef’s parents, often spend the whole summer.

We actually met her parents at their friends’ house to get the keys to the apartment. We then parked in her dad’s spot and went into the building, your basic apartment building about 500 metres from the beach with balconies sticking out the side as if it were some kind of concrete beehive. Nothing spectacular. The rooms are small; just a bedroom and living/kitchen area plus balcony that faces the sea. It’s perfect for two people but a little small for four. But who needs a lot of extra space when you spend most days outside.

Just down the street from their apartment are some beachfront hotels then a road that runs parallel to the beach. On the other side of this road are located all of the beach clubs. Ours is called Bagno Nero. There is a little clubhouse, bar and restaurant and an area out front where you can play ping pong and fuseball. Out back is the beach and permanently imbedded polls in which you place umbrellas that you rent with the chaises longues. The sand is white but not as white as that on the west coast of Florida. The water was a bit chilly still and completely placid. There are piled rocks a few hundred metres out that act as breakwaters (”scogli”). Adamo is the septuagenarian beach boy with permanent dark tan, indoor-outdoor shades, gold chains and dyed jet-black hair. He is quite ebullient and always gesturing and speaking in a loud Romagnolo accent.

This weekend I had the great fortune to be in Cesenatico when they were holding the Marco Pantani (he’s from Cesenatico) Memorial Nove Coli bike race. 10,000 people showed up for the various categories. The longest version was the Pro-1-2 category 200 km event that went all through Romagna and finished along the beach in front of our club. The winner came buzzing by with full police escort, completing the course in less than 5 hours. Adamo told me he came in third in the Tour de France a few years ago but now was 37 and retired. Man you should’ve seen the thousands and thousands of sweet rigs that day. I was like a kid in a candy store. I felt really out of shape, too. I’ve been doing about 40 km a day so I’ve got to work back up before I can handle a big ride like that.

Saturday night, Stef and I went out and walked around. It was a beautiful evening. We found this restaurant along the canal and decided to give it a try. I had the risotto marinara (in Italy ‘marinara’ means having to do with seafood) and Stef the fried mixed platter of seafood. If you go to these seaside towns you’d better like seafood because that’s about all they have. After polishing some more grisini (breadsticks) and sparkling wine off we went people watching along the canal. For a night cap we picked up an ice cream cone at a place across the street from where Marco Pantani’s mom’s restaurant used to be.

Sunday brought watching the bike race, reading the Time magazine Stef got for me in Ireland on the beach and playing tennis (me against Stef and her dad) on the red clay courts of the local tennis club. From there it was into the shower and out on the road. We stopped in Cesena at this little roadside piadina booth to grab dinner for the ride home. Piadina is a fried flat bread kind of like a tortilla but puffier. It’s a specialty of Romagna and you can’t get it in the States because it doesn’t conserve well; it’s fresh. You can get anything inside it. I had melted cheese and mortadella (and a can of Coke, a real treat. Coke is different here and some would say better because they use real cane sugar as genetically modified corn syrup products are banned in the EU. I don’t know if it’s better but it tasted damn good--even in a can with no ice!)

History with a capital H

CREVALCORE MAY 19— “When a dog takes over control....” Or so goes the refrain from the theme song of my new favorite program, “Commissario Rex.” This is an Austro/German import about a police homicide detective, his K-9 Rex and his attractive female partner. The show is dubbed into Italian from the German but curiously the theme song is sung in English. I usually watch it while I’m eating lunch. Today I can just squeeze it in before the Giro d’Italia comes back on for the finish of the first mountain stage at 2:50 p.m.

While we’re waiting let me give you a little historical background on the country and region in which I live: The history books tell us that Italy, in fact, has no single cultural identity. The combination of its geography (i.e. mountains), which we have discussed in earlier posts, and its turbulent political past has ensured that the residents of the Peninsula have been able to retain, to a greater extent than many of their neighbors, a more culturally diverse landscape. We Americans tend to accept as the norm the stereotypical jovial, gesturing individual in front of a large platter of spaghetti and meatballs doused in red sauce. In general, our perceptions of Itlay have been molded by the Italian-American experience and those foisted upon us by the mafia-glorifying films of Hollywood.
The reality is that Italy is a diverse patchwork of former isolated city states that have only been linked by a common language since the advent of mass communications.

Unofficially, Italy is divided into the rich, industrial north and the poorer, agricultural Mezzogiorno (south). Officially, Italy is divided into 21 regions and each of which is divided into provinces. Emilia-Romagna, my region, is divided into four: the provinces of Piacenza and Parma; Reggio Emilia and Modena; Bologna and Ferrara; Romagna. Each province is further subdivided in relation to what we might call county seats. Crevalcore, my “commune” or city, is under the provincial seat of Bologna (eventhough it’s closer to Modena) and it is, in turn, over the neighboring smaller towns which are called “frazioni” or “borgate.” The nearby little village of Caselle is under the Commune di Crevalcore. It is a “frazione” of Crevalcore.

This unofficial division still forms a substantial barrier in Italian politics and has given rise to parties such as the Northern League which is in favor of separating from the economically depressed south. Milan, in the north, is seen as the efficient economic motor of the Peninsula. (Actually, Bologna is the richest city per capita in Italy and capital of the richest region.) By contrast, the Mezzogiorno is seen as unorganized and at times chaotic. People in the north often feel that the southerners are dragging them down. Some of these claims are not without merit; I read the other day that some parts of Sicily have unemployment rates as high as 13 percent.Be that as it may, all of Italy is now in Dutch with the EU for running a deficit of more than 3 percent of “PIL” or Prodotto Interno Lordo (GDP). The headline in today’s paper reads: “Deficit, pronto il cartellino giallo della Ue” (EU readies yellow card on deficit).Serious Italian newspapers even manage to work in soccer references in serious economic stories.

There’s always plenty of blame to go around. Just as the economic crisis stories hit it just so happens that one of Berlusconi’s right hand men, Foreign Minister Giancarlo Fini, from Bologna, had his photo splashed across tabloids with an attractive female minister who is part of the prime minister’s governing coalition. Wonder who’s behind that smear campaign? But it wouldn’t be Italy without “un gran casino” (a big mess) going on. History shows us that, prior to the 19th century, Italy was only united once, under the Romans. And we know what happened to them during the fifth century C.E.; they overplayed their hand and lost all of their chips to Germanic invaders. I’ll spare you the thesis and boil Italy’s long history down to one sentence: The Etruscans were the first major civilizing tribe on the peninsula followed by Rome, from Republic to the Empire, then invasions by Goths and Lombards, the rise of nation states such as Venice, Genova and Pisa, then the late Middle Ages brought us the Papal States, Holy Roman Empire and the Angevin Kningdom of Naples, on whose heels followed the Republic of Florence and Aragonese possessions of the Renaissance, the Spanish possessions of the Counter Reformation, 50 years of peace during the 18th century, topped off with the Risorgimento culminating with the unification of Italy in 1870. Whew.

Emilia-Romagna is the bread basket of central Italy. In the winter, winds rush down from the Dolomites in the north and collide with warmer Mediterranean air on the “pianura”(plain) of the Po River. This trapped air causes a blanket of impenetrable fog in the cold months that is responsible for many traffic accidents. The current borders of the region were drawn in 1947. If all of this sounds confusing, it is just as difficult for native Italians to understand. As the Giro d’Italia passed through the other day, stopping in Ravenna, the commentators were presenting the usual cultural fare for the “gentili telespettatori” at home. They couldn’t make up their mind where Emilia ended and Romagna began. A call from the mayor of Ravenna ended the discussion. I won’t go into detail, but Romagna is basically situated in a triangle between Ravenna, Imola and Rimini.

The ancient Via Emilia (sometimes spelled Aemilia) built in 187 B.C.E., bisects the region which is basically rectangular in shape. In ancient times it linked the town of Rimini on the Adriatic coast with the Roman garrison town of Piacenza in the northwest corner. Other major towns along this road include Cesena, Faenza, Imola (where the Grand Prix of San Marino Formula One race is held), Bologna, Modena, Reggio Emilia, Parma, and Fidenza. The Etruscans (from whom the region of Tuscany, just to the south, takes its name) ruled from their capital of Felsina, later named Bologna.

Rome’s fall brought much political upheaval as the focus of the region moved from Bologna to Ravenna under control of the Byzantine Empire. In the Middle Ages, great noble families took center stage and exercised great power. There were the d’Este in Ferrara, Bentivoglio in Bologna and Farnese in Parma to name just a few. If soccer rivalries seem a bit out of hand these days, one must remember that many of these cities were at war with each other during the Middle Ages. Bologna regularly clashed with Modena when their interests went against each other. This spirit of “campanilismo” or provincialism is still present today.

As I experience every day, language is one of the most powerful forces of cultural identity. Most in Italy over the age of 60 spoke a language other than Italian at home as children. Nowdays, people in Modena, for example, speak with a slightly different accent than those who live in Bologna. The Modenese dialect of yore was a bit different than that of Bologna but mutually intelligible. It’s hard for an American to believe that cities just 40 km apart spoke different languages. When I say different languages I mean that they are not mutually intelligeble to a speaker of modern Italian. (The linguist’s joke about the difference between a dialect and a language is that a language is a dialect with an army applies here.) Bolognese has nasal vowels like French and the soft ‘s’ characteristic of the Castillian Spanish spoken in Spain. In modern Italian to say ‘I don’t understand anything’ is: “Non capisco niente.” In Bolognese it is: “An capesz brisza.” Tortellini is pronounced ‘tortalang.’ Stefania’s parents spoke only Bolognese at home as children and only learned Italian at school.

Modern Italian was basically an arbitrary choice made by those in power during the unification of Italy to establish the Tuscan dialect of Florence, always popular among the cultural elite of the Penninsula because of the importance of its capital city, as the official language. Italians, always slow to change, didn’t cede their languages easily and the Italian government, unlike that of France in the 19th century, did not take as drastic measures to impose ‘standard Italian’ on its citizens. Radio and TV could only do what the government couldn’t. At any rate, the dialects are now dying. In ten years there will be very few native speakers of any regional dialects left. That is to say, all of the people in their 70s and 80s who I hear talking in dialect will no longer be around. It is such a treasure to walk by and see all of the little old men with their broad-brimmed hats sitting in cafes playing cards and arguing in dialect. Their female contemporaries are never to be seen in the little cafes but I certainly hear them congregating in front of each others’ first floor windows. They always seem to be suspicious of everyone and everything, are quite formal, often addressing acquaintances as “signora” and quick to show flashes of indignant anger when brushed rudely by a youngster on the bus. Stefania’s mom addressed her mother-in-law with the formal “Lei” (’you’ equal to the ‘thou’ that disapeared from English several hundred years ago) until the day that the latter passed away.

Aside from their dialects, the residents of Emilia-Romagna are proud of their famous sons (Verdi, Marconi, Cassini, Fellini), their hills, plains and deltas, their food (lasagna, Parma Ham, Mortadella, tortellini, tortelloni, spaghetti al ragu’, Balsamic vinegar), industry (Ferrari, Maserati, Lamborghini, Ducati, Malaguti), architecture, universities (Bologna’s is the oldest in Europe and dates to 1088) and so on and so forth.

No K.C. strip or Manny’s burritos or cold beverages around here but I think I can handle the other fringe benefits in their stead for a bit longer. Gotta go, the roads are calling me.....

Florence or bust

MAY 16 CRESPELLANO—Another early morning spent chasing the cats out of our room. The Mimi is insane. She gets up at five and doesn’t stop for two hours. We finally just kicked her out and locked the door. Sasha was allowed to stay. I just hoped she didn’t have to take a whiz because I know where she would be aiming.

After coffee and the obligatory baling of the cat hair floating about an inch over the floor in our apartment, I suggested we take a drive down to Florence for the afternoon. Some hemming and hawing later, Stefania agreed and we loaded up the Micra with a bottle of water, my camera and my computer bag to carry it in. The boss wanted to drive so we head out through the hazy late morning sun towards the Autostrada A1 (Interstate highway). I had managed to avoid this pleasure so far, but not today. This is actually a beautiful drive on a beautifully manicured highway that cuts throught the Apennines. There are incredible vistas with Italian cypresses dotting the hills as the trellised elevated highway snakes throgh valleys and villages. There are also many ‘gallerie’ (tunnels) that one must navigate. These are really scary, especially when Stef is driving. Yikes!

It seemed like half of Germany decided to go on vacation. There were more German cars than Italian ones. The motorcyclists on the Autostrad are absolutely insane; they will weave through traffic at 150 km/h in gallerie. One mistake and that’s the end of you. Stefania is an okay driver but gets nervous with the combination of motorcyslists and slow grannies chugging along in their ancient Fiat Pandas. The Autostrada from Bologna to Firenze (Florence) takes about an hour and costs ten bucks in tolls. All of the Autostrade are toll roads.

Traffic wasn’t too bad apart from the Teutonic invasion. We pulled in to Florence with the clouds and a few drops of rain. Johnny the Sherpa loaded up and we parked the car not too far from the Arno River and just outside the Porte of the center city. A short hike brought us to the edge of the river where we got our bearings and hung a left towards the Ponte Vecchio, the famous covered bridge that is home to many a fine jewler.

There was a sea of tourists. Lots of Americans. In fact the first Americans I had seen in a month. It’s weird to hear American English after so much time. We fought our way through the crowds like salmon going up the Columbia River. I wanted to get to the other side and take some pics and also look at the apartment we stayed in after we got married in 1998.

The apartment was still there but we were hungry so we sidled up to a caffe’ and ordered a couple of sandwiches and a beer. Prices are outrageous in tourist areas so we kept it pretty basic. It is just amazing the amount of small streets and shops that go off in every direction. Every corner brings some new revelation. All of the side streets are lined with small clothes boutiques and artisans’ ateliers. Leather and ceramics are big specialties in Florence. Looking back across the Ponte Vecchio the landscape is dominated by the top dome of the Duomo. We snaked our way through a maze of streets with Stefania of course stopping in every shop along the way. Nothing new there—you see just as many dejected-looking men sitting in stores holding their wives’ purses as you do at home.

This called for in-flight refueling so we stopped by Vivoli, the most famous gelateria (ice cream store) in Florence for a little chocolate ice cream. After the pit stop, we split up and met back at the Duomo which looks as big as the Superdome. We couldn’t find each other so we had to use our phones to navigate the huge crowds. It was getting late so we decided to head on back to Bologna. But first we stopped at an ‘edicola’ (newspaper stand) off the Piazza della Repubblica where I found an International Herald Tribune; my first news in English since my arrival apart from a few minutes on the web.

We got back to the car and luckily had not gotten a ticket. The trip back on the Autostrada was quite peaceful. It was dusk and a front was moving through shrouding the hilltops in a dense blanket of fog and bringing an intermitent chilly rain. The Micra is cool because it is a smart car that has sensors that detect how much rain is on the windshield and turns the wipers on and off accordingly.
Luck was with us and the traffic was light. I drove at about 110 km/h even though the limit is 150 because the road is very winding and because of the inclement conditions. Plus, when you’re paying about 5 bucks at the pump you lift the foot off the gas a bit more.

Home was still there and the cats had mercifully not had a party in our absence. I settled in for a nice pasta dinner and my Herald Tribune with the Sasha on my lap. We used drive to Lawrence or Parkville on the weekends, now we go to Florence or Verona. Not bad after a week at home by myself. Membership has its advantages (and disadvantages but lets keep it positive here).

Get right with the law

MAY 15 CRESPELLANO—Last Wednesday it was time to get right with the law and visit our dear friends at the Servizio Immigrazione at the Questura del Comune di Bologna (Bologna Municipal Police Station.) The day dawned dreary and cool. Not a good omen. Moreover, the felines had gotten up at the crack of dawn, as is their custom, and started tearing apart the house. So much for a good night’s sleep. I had to get up early to take Stef to work so I could keep the car. A quick jaunt over to her firm, Focus, and it was back to hit the shower then the road.

I lucked out on my drive over to Crespellano—the new Coldplay was on the radio in between the morning buzz crap that seems to be on the radio everywhere in the world. Radio, unlike TV, seems to be pretty much like home, just without the right wing nuts and sports radio jockeys on the AM dial. I’m still waiting for the left wing nuts to hit the airwaves in the States; if Al Franken is the best we’ve got, we’re really hurting in terms of balance. He would be pretty centrist in Europe. Anyway, I drove the normal route (it’s becoming more automatic now) to meet Stefania’s dad at their house; he was coming to along in case there were any problems. Stefania had some important meetings that she couldn’t miss.

Franco was waiting and we immediately headed out towards Bologna on the Bazzanese, the county highway that goes into Bologna. We actually jogged over to the Via Emilia before cutting in towards town so we could arrive at an area called Borgo Panigale to leave the car in an Ipercoop parking lot as not residents can’t drive inside the Porte in the center of town. Borgo Panigale is the district where the airport is located and the Ducati factory is headquartered. From there we could take the 13 bus to Via Ugo Bassi and get off near the two towers.

The bus starts off not to crowded but gets all the more so as it continues into town. I’ve learned not to sit down for there are always many older folks who ride the bus and need the seat more than I. A gypsy girl playing an accordion got on at one stop and played all the way down the aisle collecting spare change from passengers. People are surprising patient with all of the immigrants here that are at every major road intersection. The Pakistanis seem to have cornered the market on cleaning windshields while the gypsies work the buses. One never sees people of Arab or North African descent begging; they seem tobe a very proud and hardworking group of people who have gotten a bad rap because of all the bad things going on in the world. The women, often wearing the Tchador, keep a very tight rein on their children who seem very well behaved. There is also a large group of sub-Saharan Africans here, too. Two Senagalese were sitting behind me one day talking Wolof. How do I know this? Because they sprinkle French phrases in their speech. For example, I think that there musn’t be a system of counting in Wolof because you can always here the Senagalese saying all of their numbers in French. Wolof is the major tribal language of Senegal, the former French colony. I also know that there is a lot more Senagalese emigration than from their neighbors on the Ivory Coast. There are also people from Ghana, Nigeria and Kenya here as well. I can tell the difference because they speak a mixture of their tribal languages with English mixed in.

After a stop by Franco’s accountant ( ‘commericalista’), we walked to the Questura which is right off the Piazza Maggiore. We inquired where the immigration office was and were told to go round back and that it was across the street from the back door of the police station. Coming around the corner we had the unpleasant surprise of seeing a large number of people, mostly from the Middle East and Africa in various modes of traditional dress milling in front of a yound dark-complected man in the dark blue uniform of the Polizia Nazionale, white belt and all. He couldn’t have been more than 25 and was a very affable gent. The crowd had him surrounded and were hounding him as to when it was there turn. So we muscled our way in (you’ve got to learn to be more aggressive if you live in Italy, the concept of organized lines seems to be lost on the residents of the boot). We were under the impression that we had an appointment. This was only true in a general sense; we had number 139 and they were on number 75. It was comical to watch the young fellow try to pronounce everyone’s name instead of just calling their number. He did as well as any receptionist in America does with mine. Thus we shrugged our shoulders and decided to grab two cappuccini and two cornetti at a local bar. I stopped and bought a Repubblica for the wait on our return.

The only benefit I could gain from standing in line was our good fortune to be near the door where the cop cars brought the perps. A few car loads came in then the doors opened and this tall African man was let out into the street weaving a tapestry of profanity. He was hollering something about the police having not given him his bags back. He disapeared then came back a few minutes later with a cigarette but no light. So now he goes to one of the other cops milling around smoking out back and had the temerity to ask for a light. One smoke later and he was gone again only to return, this time with a beer. After a while I got tired of keeping my eye on him and went back to my newspaper.

Two hours later my number was called and we were ushered into a small room with five tellers behind bullet-proof glass. Three 30ish looking fellows in blue jeans were working as fast as they could behind the counter. Candidates for the long-stay permits were hurling every excuse imaginable at the employees as to why this or that was not in order. One man was saying in broken Italian that his wife, also a candidate, couldn’t come because she was at home sick. The employedd curtly replied that although this was surely the case, all candiates must be present in person. Basta. Period. Thanks for playing. Next.

I was next. He about fell off his chair when he saw that I was American. He musn’t have been used to seeing candidates from my part of the world. He took my forms and his hands moved in a blur of staples and stamps. He told me to photocopy the form he handed me and come back in 5 minutes. The fellow guarding the door was nice enough to run across the street and do it for me for free. While we were waiting we were talking with one of the employees who was preparing to leave for the day. I asked him about working and he laughed and said not to worry. He said since I was American my papers would be expedited with no problem; it was just a matter of time for the bureaucracy to churn out my permesso di soggiorno which in addition to being my residence permit would basically allow me to work.

Unfortunately for most of the other candidates, who by the looks of them were wearing one of their few outfits, you are judged by where you come from. Same thing at INS in the States. It’s not a question of the color of one’s skin but more a question of motivation. I come from the richest country in the world and am married to an Italian so I have different ‘motivi,’ the word the employee used, than someone who rode across the Mediterranean in a rickety boat. I was told basically the same thing when Stef and I had our final interview with INS in Kansas City. We had a whole bag of items to prove we were really married but the lady waved us off saying that in Stefania’s case there wasn’t anything to worry about. She wanted to look at our wedding photos simply because she was planning a trip to Italy. The desperation in the immigration office in Bologna, however, was palpable.

It’s actually a whole lot easier in Italy to get permanent residency than in the States. Just four forms, an 11 euro stamp, four photos and fingerprints and I should be good to go—but only after the 21st of June. That’s when I have to come back and pick up my permesso. The man recommended that Stefania come too just in case anyone had any questions. All I know is that in the U.S. we filled out a dossier of forms two inches thick, had obligatory doctor’s visits—with their doctors, photos, fingerprints, background checks and $800! And this was is 1998, well before 9/11. I wouldn’t want to try and get even a student visa nowadays wether you’re from Western Europe or on the State Department’s shit list.

I think I can look for work but can’t really be hired until after June 21. They gave me a slip of paper that indicates that my application has been filed and that I am waiting for final proval but that probably wouldn’t cut the mustard with any company trying to stay on the right side of the law. Hiring takes forever here anyway, so it probably doesn’t matter. After I get my permesso I might apply for citizenship just to have it. The U.S. allows dual citizenship with some countries. That way I would have it no matter what happens. We’ll see. I’m just gald I’ve got one more odious duty done.

Driving like an Italian.....for the payoff

MAY 11 CRESPELLANO—Although I spend much time here ruminating on all of the differences of our two countries, how long I will be unemployed and the meaning of life, the payoff is days like Sunday.

The slate gray skies and cool, damp weather cleared out of the Emilia-Romagna region and gave way to bright sunny skies. Cats were doing fairly well and we had a good old lie in. With the blast shields down and covering the windows we didn’t know what time it was and slept in until about 10:30. Reveille, in the form of Mimi burning rubber, peeling out on my back, was followed my pure pandemonium: Today was Stefania’s father’s birthday and Mother’s Day to boot. House had to be cleaned before we left, clothes ironed, flowers bought, presents wrapped.

Being on Stefania time, we got a half hour-late start. Cell phones were ringing inquiring as to ETA. (Makes me think of someone else I know.) I was driving and have adopted Italian ways—I try to take the two roundabouts on the way to their house in fifth gear. The plains leading towards Crespellano and the snow capped Apennines were beautiful. The poppies are now blooming; they look like a million red butterflies fluttering in the green fields interspersed with drainage ditches and ancient brick structures. Did the usual Castle Run (Star Wars reference) in record time—tear down the county highway towards San Giovanni in Persiceto, take out two roundabouts, cut right around the town, zigzag around the cemetery, go past the carwash, sprint over the plains to Calcarra and the Ponte Samoggia, jog right for 100 yards on the Via Emilia, hang a left and burn rubber towards Crespellano. Come in the back way, curl around the town square past where Lori and Luca were married, stop at the train tracks, wait, then hang a right, drive straight for about a half mile and whip into Stefania’s parents’ house. Whew.

We hit the door and could already smell the tagliatelle in ragu’ sauce. Both home made, of course. White frizzante wine and no bread with pasta my friends! Then breaded and lightly fried cotelette with steamed cauliflower. Red wine this time. This was followed by cheese and dessert etc. etc. I’m losing weight by the way. Presents were opened then we adjourned to play with the youngins, write some emails then the kids helped me take apart my bike and lube some of the parts that needed to be....well.....lubed.

Luca and Lori soon had their mini minivan loaded and headed home to Modena. We joined Stefania’s parents on jaunt through the hills near Monteveglio where there friends have restored a house on a steep hillside. His name is Dario and he worked as a tailor for many years then put in another career as a machinist at Weber who made parts for Fiat. He is basically one of those enegizer bunny/McGyver types who can do it all. He restored most everything himself, built a new garage, was finishing a stone wall (he carried every wheelbarrow full of rocks from a stream by himself) when we arrived. He also planted a small vineyared on the steep hill that runs up to his house and makes his own wine. His daughter is a good artist who made all kinds of sculptures that adorn his house.

The sun was going down and the scene looked like something right out of Under the Tuscan Sun. Of course I had forgotten my camera but took pictures with my phone. We all headed up the hill to the village where they were having a Sagra or local festival. Stef bought a ring from a local craftsemen. I tasted some great cheese and just generally people watched. As the sun crept below the hills we went to a local pizzeria (1993 2nd place in world championships) to eat.....pizza. This one was great. The crust is what is really different here. The dough is different and they use wood-fired ovens, fresh tomatoes and if you’re lucky, real mozzarella di buffala.

Wrapped up the evening back at Dario’s with shots of limencello, a lemon liqueur. Stef had to get up early the next day so we bid our goodbyes and left early. Her parents are happier than two pigs in mud since he retired last year; so they kept on hanging out telling funny stories.

Next time: my adventure at immigration.

My kingdom for a XXXL

10 MAY CRESPELLANO—

Thursday night we went to the warehouse clearance sale at Stefania’s firm who represents Guess Europe. With all of her discounts, she literally walked out with a car load of expensive clothes for nothing. About all I could find to fit me was a couple of shirts. I’m about 50 pounds from being the ideal Guess customer. An XXL is about as big as an L at home. Suffice it to say that the XXLs are hard to find. Furthermore, there is absolutely no consistency even within sizes. That’s what you get for having most of the stuff made in Italy and not China. The Chinese, at least, are used to sizing for us North American Land Whales. Stefania’s like, ‘Try some stuff on.’ I, who hates to shop for clothes anyway, reply: ‘I would, if I could find anything to cover my big box butt.’ Maybe I could just wear one of the big plastic garment bags. The payoff was in watching Stefania waddle to the car under a massive load of plastic bags and the pizza we ate with her parents who had come along for the employee discount. We ate on the outdoor terrace of a pizzeria about 100 meteres from my front door.

On Friday, I decided to go into Bologna and check in on my friends at Intuition to see if any gigs had come up. I’m getting pretty good at the buses by now. 576 at seven past the hour to Bologna Santa Viola. Hang a right pick up the 92 or 93 bus to Via Veronese. Have a chat with Mirella and Chiara. Come out of the building, take a left on Via Batindarno, walk three blocks and pick up the number 14 “Body Odor Express” down Via Andrea Costa to Via Ugo Bassi and the two towers. The 14 bus is jammed to the gills with people, most of whom are only riding for a short distance. It’s one of the red methane buses.The same could probably be said for how it is “run” on the inside as well. I mean I am glad that I am not short by Italian standards. Those who are get a nice treat on the buses.

Here’s my patented technique for riding the crowded city bus: Get on at the front. You can’t get off at the front so this way it’s easier; if you try to enter the bus at the middle or back doors you will be swamped by exiting passengers and never make it on. Secondly, you must “convalidare” (have your ticket punched by a time/date machine) your ticket. This machine is usually behind the driver or “conducente”or “autista.” You’re not supposed to takl to him/her but nobody pays attention to this rule, however, including yours truly. Next, glance at the computer screen hanging from the ceiling to see if there are any important announcements, like such and such line is out of service etc. Most importantly, keep pushing through the crowd after each stop, slowly working towards your goal of the middle door. If you time it wrong, you could get stuck and have to wait until the next “fermata” or stop. This happened on my way back. Some older lady waited too long and started yelling “permesso” (this is what you say when you want to get by someone or when you enter a person’s home)! She was pushing and shoving like in the third period of a blow-out hockey game. As she exited she was cursing all of us, her fellow riders, as being a bunch of “maleducati” (ill-manered) miscreants. A lady standing next to me said sarcastically, “Ma vada pure, signora!” (Well, you just go right ahead, ma’am.) I, of course, timed my arrival at the falls perfectly and jumped out with my fellow salmon under the porticoes near the Piazza Maggiore on Via Ugo Bassi. My goal was the Feltrinelli bookstore on past the piazza by the two towers. I made it. No worries. However, the crazy Eddy Merckx-looking dude was on the 576 bus back to Crevalcore again; he’s the guy who likes to get up from his seat on a half-empty bus and go sit down next to unsuspecting women. When he isn’t doing this he is playing air drums between facial tics. As far as I know, that is the extent of his weirdness. But I always see him on the 5 o’clock bus.

Saturday brought a trip to Crespellano to see the Ps. Lori and the kids were there, too. We had some lunch on the patio, then went upstairs to do some work. I used the computer while Stefania busied herself storing winter clothes and taking out the “spring collection.” We got done at about 7:30 and headed into Casalecchio to go to the big Shopville mall; had to buy some presents for Franco’s birthday and for Vanda, for Mother’s Day (both the same day.) We also hit the big Carrefour grocery store/ target-type place. Stef and I swam upstream like salmon trying to pick up a couple of items we needed, like an ironing board that barely fit in the car. (We drove around with the end of it literally sticking out over Stefania’s head in the passenger seat.) The Micra was hungry so we had to fill her up at $5.20 a gallon ( Put it this way, it’s about 1.14 euros per liter. 3.6 liters to the U.S. gallon. That gives you about $4.10 per gallon (for us Euros) + the 30% or so more for the exchange rate (for those converting dollars,) plus commissions which gets you in at a nice $5.20 -$5.30 per gallon depending on how bad you got jobbed at the exchange booth at the airport.), thank you very much and no whining please. We paid 40 euros for 35 liters. Again, diesel used to be about half that of regular gas, was about 90 percent of regular in August and is now about the same as regular. Topped off the day with a pizza at a place in Casalecchio, next to the Reno River. Was a pizza for two this time. Sicillian style, which means a bit thicker and heavier for my exquisitely fine-tuned palette.

She's backkkkkkkk

09 MAY CREVALCORE—Benvenuti gentili lettori al mio blog di oggi. Oh sorry. Are we on? Uhmmm. Let me adjust the volume on my Itunes®. There we go. Got a little Glen Gould playing Bach’s Goldberg Variations going on in the background, just for snob appeal. Almost went for the Ketih Jarrett at the Blue Note but the groove didn’t fit the mood. RAI3 is on mute. I’m keeping an eye on the third stage of the Giro d’Italia. Nothing much is going on. It’s another flat, early stage on the southwest corner of the
Peninsula. I believe that the Tour will pass close to where I live, at Ferrara, a couple of weeks from now. In the meantime, I’ve almost got my ride ready to go. But I digress. Let’s back up, dear patients, and pick up where we left off at our last session.

Last week had our hero searching for his beloved pain-in-the-ass cat, Mimi, off again on one of her feline benders. I put up posters at the Koop grocery store, an elementary school (kids love animals) and generally tried to avoid the suspicious “vecchiette” (old ladies) that seem to be watching from behind every shutter. But if I had had to live through what they did I would be suspicious, too. (Note from the editor: I am preparing a blog for future publication on Bologna during the war. Interesting stories of how the Bolognesi suffered through 21 straight months of Allied bombardments with thousands of deaths and then were throwing flowers at Gen. Mark Clark and the other Allied soldiers who liberated Bologna on April 21, 1945. Ah, the irony is killing me.)

In between thrice-daily patrols of a 15-block area of Crevalcore trying to locate the black feline beast, I kept busy as usual doing other tasks. I’ve got my bleach-to-water ratio down pat now so that when I mop I don’t have to don my HAZMAT suit afterwards. I’m becoming really domesticated. Give me a few diapers to change and I’ll be ready for the big leagues.On Wednesday I got a call from our friend Paola who invited us both over to their spacious digs on Via Andrea Costa in Bologna that night. The deal was that she and the girls would go out and have fun and Gabriele and I would stay home and watch the kids.

We didn’t get their until dark but the kids were still in fifth gear. Pietro, the oldest, was riding his younger brother’s trike up and down the hallway while their mom got dressed with the other two shrieking and following in his wake. Ettore, the middle son, hid in a closet and then, of course, so did Iacopo. He’s only two and thus don’t talk too good so it’s hard how to figure out how to make him stop a hollerin’.The other ladies arrived and then they all departed in Paola’s new red Mini Cooper. (They have a bigger budget than we do.)

Gabri and I fixed ourselves a snack while the youngins put in “The Barber of Seville” and commenced singing and dancing in the family room. Figaroooooo! Figaaroooo! If you don’t like opera, watch the much shorter Bugs Bunny version. (Oh man, there was just a nasty accident in the Giro. A 33-year old Spanish rider touched the back wheel of the rider in front of him and crashed head first into the guard rail. He is surrounded by fluorescent-yellow clad medical personnel who are attending to him. Hopefully, he will be alright.) After eating, we adjurn to the family room. It is soon off to bed for the boys. We then busy ourselves watching the last part of the Champion’s League semifinal soccer match between AC Milan and PSV Eindhoven of the Netherlands. Milan won on goal differential but actually lost the night’s game. You can’t watch regular Serie A league games unless you have pay-per-view. It’s called premium sports channels on Sky. Seems that the rights to the games are so expensive that the non-cable networks won’t pay to televise matches. It’s not like in America where the major networks bid some ridiculous number every few years to have the exclusive television rights to games and try to make it back with advertising. In Italy, I’ve learned, you pay as you go for everything.

Gabriele is really giving me a hand trying to help me find some sort of gainful employment. He’s an engineering project manager but has made a few calls trying to hook me up with at least some informational interviews. He gave me one phone number of someone who runs a big ad agency in Bologna. Stefania and I are working on a script that I can use when I make the call. Everything takes so much more effort here. For complicated matters such as discussing career options I really have to prepare and look up al the anticipated necessary vocabulary. Moreover, I need coaching on how one conducts business here. What I will be attempting is already fairly rare in Italy. That is to say, I will be attempting the ever difficult cold call. I got this persons number from a friend who got it from an aquaintance of the person I need to talk to. However, this person doesn’t know that I will be calling. So I have to learn how to fire fast from the hip before the possible brush off. It’s good for the ole blood pressure. Hopefully, this person will at least be able to give me a better idea of how the print media world works here. From what I’ve seen, they could really use the help. Only problem is, my body of work is very specialized and doesn’t really exist here. Therefore, I have the additional challenge of explaining what I’ve done but also what I could do, albeit with no evidence to speak of. Should be good times.

Thursday morning brought an urgent call from Stefania. She said a man just called her to say that people on his street, Via Minzoni, had called the “vigili del fuoco” (fire department) to have them get a black cat off a neighbor’s roof. The cat had been stuck up there for three days and was driving people crazy with its incessant howling. The man had seen one of my posters and put 2 and 2 together and made the call. Spurred on by this hot tip, I dressed faster than Superman and ran down the stairs, around the corner and off towards Via Minzoni. This small residential street is located several blocks from my pad near the elementary school. I walked the long way around, behind the school and through a little park. I first proceeded down the street next to Via Minzoni, then came back towards my original direction of travel on the street where the cat was allegedly last seen. I passed the first house and a big German Shepherd leaped at me from behind a fence. Nope. Don’t think Mimi would be hiding out here. I continued down the street. After two more houses equiped with canine meat grinders I fell upon a peaceful looking yard. I peered through an iron gate and thougth, ‘what the heck.’ I gave the official ‘Mimi-get-your-skinny-ass-over-here’ whistle. A big bush in the back of the yard seemed to move. Then a streaking black cat came shooting out in a cloud of dust. It was the Meemer. She covered the 100 meteres between us in about 5 seconds flat. She almost went right through the iron gate. I reached over and pulled her back to my side. Yep. It was her. She had lost her collar (just like the 37 others she has lost) but seemed no worse for the wear and tear.

I started walking for home with her cradled in my arms. She didn’t take kindly to this. Probably thought she was going to the vet. So I wrestled Miss Hulk Hogan all the way home. Once inside, the howling beast from hell headed straight for the food bowl, of course. After refueling, you guessed it, she wanted to go out again. Uh uh. She got the message and went off to sleep off her Pee Wee’s Big Adventure (no not the one in a movie theatre...the other one. The one about the circus or something) in the penalty box. Slept for about a day. Serves her right. I should of fed her to that hungry German Shepherd down the street. It looked like he flosses with skinny black cats. Sasha, her over-fed big sister was happy to see her—she growled, gave her two left jabs, an uppercut and jumped on her back. Had to give her five for fighting, too. She was so glad to see sis’ that I thought she was going to go for a Gordie Howe Hat Trick—a goal, an assist and a fight.

As I write this I am bathing in the warm glow of Sasha’s contempt from her comfortable perch on the IKEA love seat in her rent- free apartment. If I had a job myself I’d tell her to go get one. The dogs are barking again at the end of the street as old folks on bikes pass beneath my window, bells ringing as they come to intersections. The older fellow who owns the house and courtyard beneath my back window must be taking a nap. He is constantly bellowing at his wife in a bone-shakingly resonant baritone. I can never understand what he seems so pissed about since he only talks in dialect. I’ve just unloaded some clothes from the new Whirlpool washer that Stefania bought. I don’t know how to work it yet, I just unload it. It’s all digital, about a third the size of an American washer and holds five kilos. (Clothes not drugs.) The console is all digital and looks like the cockpit of a 737. The manual weighs almost as much as the washer itself. I have some trepidation in attempting to do a load while at home by myself, only to have the bathroom fill up with water like a sinking submarine. Now that would be a good post!

Cats, buses and automobiles

02 MAY CREVALCORE—The apartment is sparkling. Cleaning products and vacuum are put away. I’m choking on the fumes from a too-strong bleach to water mixture. So,the windows are open,the sun is out and temperatures are rising. It’s probably in the low 80s today.

It is the beginning of another week here in northern Italy. Promising new adventures must be balanced with sadness. My black cat, Mimi, has disappeared. She escaped Saturday night while we were unloading the groceries. She had been out before and seemed to know her way home. I’ve walked every street in the area and still have no sign of her. The good news is that there are no expired animals of the feline variety anywhere in the vicinity. The Romans, once again, have made my search easier—their gridded streets make it easy to block out the search area. Mimi is also a survivor, easily the most curious cat I have ever had and I’ve had a few. Hopefully, she got lost, began meowing and is being taken care of by some nice old lady. Next phase of the search is putting up some flyers and calling local vets. Her address is inside her collar and she had had a microchip installed before her departure for Italy, so if a vet gets a hold of her she should be able to make her way back to us. I’ve been trying to think like she would; there’s some fields nearby that I have staked out at dusk thinking that that is the first place she would head if she got out. We’ll see what happens. I always figured that something like this would come to pass owing to her roaming nature.

To make matters more interesting her sister, Sasha, has been having UT (urinary tract) problems. She must have a stone in her bladder or something. I understand that bladder cancer is extremely rare in cats. The vet has had us give her some antibiotics but this hasn’t seemed to help that much so I’m going to have to crate her up and take her in tomorrow. Whatever it is it’s going to cost some euros. Research on the web indicates that it is most likely some kind of stone but that these problems are often chronic. Yippee! I’ve been consuming massive quantities of dark chocolate to compensate. Milk chocolate is for wimps—I go straight for the dark stuff. So now that I’m unemployed, have one missing cat and one sick cat, I can relate my weekend trip to Fanano.

The sun popped up bright and early on Sunday. My lids definitely did not want to open for business. I didn’t sleep well after having worried about Mimi most of the night. Moreover, the day before had been spent at Stefania’s parent’s house for my niece Virginia’s fourth birthday party. Virginia, the twins, Lorenzo and Vittoria, plus massive amounts of hand-made tortellini and steak off the grill sapped what was left of my energy.

Saturday night was topped off by Mimi’s aforementioned jail break and a trip for a “megaspesa” (mega grocery shopping) at the Iperkoop in Bologna. The place didn’t look that big on the outside, but it was cavernous on the inside. I think that most of it was underground. It is the biggest grocery store I’ve ever seen in my life. To make matters worse, it’s probably owned by some transnational krypto Wal-Mart group. The place just had Wal-Mart written all over it. However, I was in no position to argue about where we were shopping—I just go where I’m told ;)

Everyone and his brother, sister,aunt and uncle must have been there. I swear, there were 47 registers all going full tilt. The people watching was optimum. Folks from all nationalities were represented. Stef and I turned our phones on and split up. It was ‘excuse me, pardon me’ all the way to aisle 567 to get the cleaning supplies. The shelves were literally picked clean from the marauding armies of consumers. Someone is making some serious cash off that place.

After two hours, four tons of gear shoehorned into the Micra and a half-hour drive home, we had it all stowed in our mini apartment and one cat on the lam. Sunday morning I got up at eight (which to those of you who know me is considered very, very early). I walked the streets for about 45 minutes with no luck. Stef and I grabbed a cappuccino and cornetto (cappuccino and croissant) at this small bar on Via Matteotti a few blocks from our pad. In Italy, you order first, they serve it to you, you eat it and then pay for it. Furthermore, the cappuccino is probably smaller in size than your average American Dixie cup and costs only about one euro. I’m really starting to see the portion distortion that we suffer from back home. Even if there were Starbucks in Italia, their portions would have to be microscopic in comparison to their American counterparts. The amount of milk in your average regular latte in the States is what an Italian would drink in three days. Plus, they ain’t gonna pay 3 euros for a coffee with milk. Again, drink at the bar if you want to pay less and don’t stick your hand out for the change. They’ll put it in the little tray on the bar.

Fueled by a nice jolt of caffeine, I fired up the awesome turbo diesel power of the Nissan Micra, turned on the obligatory daytime running lights, tuned in to RMC and headed out towards Fanano. Fanano is a small town nestled in the high Apennines in the Province of Modena. It’s about 60 km as the crow flies from Crevalcore. (Sorry folks. I don’t have time to hold your hands and do the metric conversion thing for you. It’s time to get on board with the rest of the world and go metric. It’s a system of tens, so the math deficient among you, like myself, will enjoy the lack of fractions. How big is a 64th of an inch, anyway? I mean even the English, who invented the Imperial system in the first place, went metric in ‘96.)

It took awhile to pick our way through Sunday traffic. We first headed southwest to Modena, past the Maseratti factory and then southeast towards the Apennines. The Apennines are an ancient chain of mountains that run down the spine of Italy. The foothills start just to the south of where we live in the flat Po River Valley. From there they build to some fairly high peaks. Montecimone is the 8,000-foot or so summit that towers over Fanano. Snow is still in evidence above the tree line. The approach to the higher Apennines was beautiful. Not a cloud to be found and just a little haze. Sportsmen were trout fishing with extremely long poles. Cyclists and motorcyclists dotted the roads everywhere. (Note from the editor: cyclists ride bicycles and bikers ride motorcycles.) Here they jokingly call the dudes on the crotch rockets “centauri” (centurions) because they look like they just walked out of the gladiator ring with all of their gear on. No frat boys wearing cut-offs without helmets on 1200cc Yamahas here. These boys that ride the switchbacks really know what they’re doing. They don’t have the knee pads on their leathers for nothing—they literally lay their bikes down going around bends. Luigi, the 65 year-old father of my brother-in-law who was present at Saturday’s party and an avid cyclist, boasted that he climbs the hills in this area in his large chaingring (i.e. biggest gears). Yeah right. The guy weighs 140 lbs. soaking wet and couldn’t roll the big ring on the flat, let alone these substantial 10 percent plus grades around here in his dreams.

The driving is very fatiguing. Switchback after switchback. At one point, I took a right when I should have turned left and stopped abruptly to turn around. Obviously too fast for the yahoo in the Audi convertible behind me who ‘cheerily’ called out, “frecce” (turn signal) as he blazed past me. “Va cagare” I replied. Look it up. This is a family blog. Exchanged pleasantries aside, we rolled into Fanano and followed the main drag to a large blue “P” sign which means “parecheggio” (parking lot). Found a place right away. After making sure the lot was free ‘o’ charge, we headed out. I had my Canon 20D around my neck and was doing my best Joe Ledford impression (matching safari gear, 400 pockets bulging with lenses, infrared night-vision goggles, hand-held GPS locator, portable Navy SEAL satellite phone etc.) However, I made a very un-Ledforian-rookie mistake and had blasted off a dozen pics before I realized that I had left my memory card back in the car. Hike back to car, retake pics, catch up to the Stef.

At first I couldn’t find her; she had gone off to buy me a t-shirt. We had noticed while driving that my Nike tennis shirt kind of, er, smelled ‘funky.’ Didn’t smell like I had just forgotten to wash it but much more acrid. We finally concluded that it must have fallen on the floor and Sasha, the sick cat, had used it for target practice. Apparently, when cats have UT problems, their litter habits break down and they take aim at whatever they please. Guess it serves me right for leaving my shirt out.

Found a cool, new black t-shirt. I put it on in the broom closet seeing as this “negozio” (store) was all of about 100 sq. feet. We promptly buried the offending article of clothing in the bottom of a paper bag. Being the fastidious American clean-freak that I am—I usually carry an extra toilet kit in my car in case such emergencies arise—you know, like if my hockey bag were to explode in my face on my way to work and I needed a quick freshening up. (My scrupulously scrubbed American parents, please never buy used hockey clothes. Skates, sticks, helmets, maybe. Gloves, pads, no way. There must be 800 different kinds of flesh-eating staph residing in those things.) Haven’t yet had the chance to bury personal hygiene items in the area, like a squirel burying nuts for the winter. So I just had to hope that the new shirt did the trick and that no odor transfer had taken place.

And no, stereotypes are not necessarily true. Europeans are not unwashed heathens. Well, heathens maybe, but then so am I. It’s just that Americans, in my vast travels, tend to go way overboard and smell like mobile cosmetics counters. Shampoo. Rinse. Repeat. Soap up. Mousse. Gel. After shave. Cologne. Deodorant. Lotion. Makes me wonder if those stories of guys who were in ‘Nam not bathing for several days before going on patrol are true. When people are abroad, their senses tend to be heightened. There’s a whole other world out there with new sights, sounds and yes, smells. Add in the average European’s different concept of personal space and the odd fellow who worked up a bit of sweat at work and you’ve got a Proustian olfactory souvenir that will last a lifetime...buy not necessarily apply to everyone.

This said, one generalization that is generally true is that Italians do indeed talk with their hands and do get into your airspace. But hey, there are fringe benefits, too. When you greet or say goodbye to friends of the opposite sex you kiss them on the cheeks. Just once on each side. Not fifteen times like in France. Case in point: The other night when we were in Bologna, it was getting down to the end of the night and as we bid our goodbyes to Roberta and Alessandro, I then moved in with lightning quickness to kiss good-bye our other female friend, Paola, who also happens to be very easy on the eyes. She laughed and said, “But John, we came with you guys. We’re not leaving yet. You’re taking us home. You just wanted to kiss me, didn’t you!” Oh. Does the Fifth Amendment apply in Italy?

One other grooming near-disaster to report. I bought one of those electric hair trimmers at the store about a week ago. So when we got back to Stef’s parents’ house I marched right into the bathroom to try it out. My three hairs were getting a bit unruly, you see. But as you know, haste makes waste. I ripped the box open, plugged it in and went to work. The first pass of the combine down the wheat field let me know that I had forgotten to put the little adjustable plastic guard on the machine. Whoops. I mean my hair was a good half-inch long and this thing went all the way down to the skin. Can you say Mr. Clean? I mean the stripe I cut was bright white, it had been 38 years since the sun had penetrated all the way down to my scalp. I burst out into hysterical laughter which of course brought the ‘boss’ into my salon. Let’s just say that I did not win rave reviews for my performance. I thought it was funny. She did not. But, whattya gonna do? Had to burn the remaing crops to the ground. Ah, it’s good to do that from time to time anyway. Start over from scratch. Within four days it was back to normal and now I need to trim it again.

As you can probably tell, all of these asides aside, Fanano was just average in interest. The scenery was nice. We had a picnic of mortdallea sandwiches (I actually found a warm can of Coke in a small store) and drove around the rest of the day through the mountains. Got home at dusk, just in time to walk every street in the central part of Crevalcore again looking for my cat. No luck. This feline is really costing me a lot of money and aggravation. If I find her, she’s going to be in big ASS trouble and will definitely not be going out again in the near future.She’s got a 10-minute misconduct and one game suspension to serve before she gets out of my sight again. Arrivederci America.