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

Life's a beach in Italy

10 JUNE CREVALCORE—Last Friday, we loaded up the car and headed for the beach. The trip out on the Autostrada A14 wasn’t too bad since most people had gone down the day before. Summer has officially started and the beach towns are brimming with vacationers. Cesenatico is nice because it is where a lot of “regular” people with families go. There are really chic areas like Rimini where all of the model wannabes and partiers go but Cesenatico is really Italian (just some German tourists) and really family oriented. It’s so Italo-German that I can’t even get an English newspaper though there are jillions of magazines and papers in German.

Franco and Vanda were waiting for us when we arrived. We had some dinner together then Stef and I took a loooong walk to the Da Vinci-designed canal to people watch and eat ice cream while her parents played cards with their friends back at the apartment. We had decided to walk down to the canal (a couple of miles) then take the bus back. This was almost our last decision as we had the bus ride from hell on the way back.

Apparently the guy driving the number one bus, our bus, was the only one who showed that night. (They usually have at least two or three of any bus on a route at a time when it’s busy.) The 11:30 bus didn’t show until 12:15. It was packed to the gills. Stefania, as well as many others, asked him what took so long. Evidently, he had been asked that question one too many times that night, slammed the door shut and took off before we could even get our tickets stamped in the little machine. We shouldn’t have paid. He drove like a madman, running over curbs, careening around roundabouts and almost getting in a wreck. People were whistling and cursing at him but he didn’t seem to care. After what seemed like an eternity we got off at our stop, walked home and crashed into the sleeper sofa.

Saturday we went to the beach, played tennis and then went to a great osteria under new management in Bellaria. The people were so nice and the food excellent. We then took a walk down to the main drag which is a really long pedestrian-only tree-covered avenue lined with shops and caffe’s. Best people watching there is. Young people rode on the handlebars of their friends’ bikes, kids with ice cream mustaches screamed in delight, old folks spoke in dialect on park benches. I know, it’s a tough job.

At any rate, my belly was so full that night that when I woke up in the morning I thought I hadn’t slept. I had those lucid dreams all night long and was convinced I wasn’t sleeping. Apparently I slept well for I felt really good when I got up.
We had breakfast on the terrace followed by a trip down to the harbor where we loaded up Franco’s sailboat and went out for a spin. The weather was perfect. Enough wind but not too much. I worked the lines of the mainsail, Stefania was responsible for keeping the jib from fowling when we tacked and Franco worked the tiller. It’s quite a workout on a small boat. You have to really watch where you sit to maintain proper trim of the boat. Then when we tack, I have to duck real low under the boom as I let go of one line then jump to the other side of the boat while pulling another line taut in order to move the jib from one side to the other as the mainsail swings overhead. You have to do it quickly and correctly because if you mess up and the sails do not remain properly oriented to the wind the boat loses power and becomes difficult to steer. I can’t believe that Franco goes out by himself sometimes. This boat is fully manual. He doesn’t have any winches or and autorolling jib. He has to coordinate this whole ballet alone. Fortunately, he isn’t allowed to go farther than three miles from shore but still, one crack of the boom against your head and you’re in the drink far from shore, hopefully wearing your life jacket. Luckily, my mom and dad forced me to learn to swim when I was little and I eventually took to it, even swimming competitively for a year or two, so I’m not afraid of the water. Stefs parents keep asking me if I know how to swim, though. Her mom doesn’t like to go on the boat because she can’t swim well. After going out a few times on the sea in a small sailboat I can definitely see that it isn’t a place for those who can’t swim or are afraid of the water. There’s alot to do, you’re really close to the water and if you make a big mistake you could capsize the boat. That is why Franco wants to buy a much bigger boat. One of those used Beneteaus that can sleep two to four. They really are much safer and ironically much easier to sail than the 420s or other small Olympic-class boats. A good used boat costs as much as a car so it’s not out of the realm of possibilities. We were drooling over the six-figure boats in port, though. Very sweet.

After the boat ride, we went back to the apartment and had to pack up. Everyone would be clogging the Autostrada back to Bologna. We left about three and took the back roads home. It took us only about three hours to get home. Good decision. The Autostrada from Cesena to Bologna turned into a parking lot. It would have taken us six hours for a normal 90-minute drive. The back roads are nice. They are two-lane SPs or Strade Provincali that have bypasses past most of the villages now. There are just a few spots where there are some lights that cause slight back ups. We’re going again this weekend. The twins will be there. Hope they don’t scream for mommy all night. I must now pay for the sins of my childhood.

In the meantime, leads for jobs have dried up. The one that I had a meeting for is looking for someone who has experience in that particular field of catalogue and brochure design. I don’t blame them. The language barrier at the professional level is a concern of mine and I’m sure of prospective employers. The design world is a world of tight deadlines and very technical discussions with printers and clients. I do fine in most contexts but have no real experience in this field even in the States. They basically told this to me to my face though not so bluntly. I could learn to do anything but most of these firms are small and probably don’t have time to hold my hand until I learn to do product layout and all of the necessary vocabulary that goes along with it. I’ve found a couple of other small design firms but don’t have any contact people. Website design seems to be a viable market although I don’t know how to do that. I’ve also noted that the firms usually have a video and a 3-d animation specialist. I sent my stuff to one, unsolicited but of course didn’t hear anything. We’ll see. In the meantime I’ve been learning another program at home and riding my bike....a lot.

I’ve been going farther and farther exploring the local countryside. I almost got hit by a car the other day but I read the play and dodged getting sacked. It was on the least-traveled road I ride going over a small bridge. I saw the guy coming and figured he didn’t see me, which he didn’t, and would try to cut the corner coming off the bridge, which he did. I saw this developing and yelled at the top of my voice. He had his window down and corrected at the last instant. I already had my foot out of the pedal and was ready to jump when he caught himself. Man, it scared him more than it did me. I think he really shit his pants. I cursed at him and continued on my way. Don’t tell my mom, but if I had a quarter for every time that’s happened to me, I’d be a rich man. I can think of worse ways to go.

Johnny’s rules of the road: The key, my causal cyclist friends, is to always pretend you’re invisible and learn to anticipate when drivers can’t see you. The most dangerous places to ride are actually the lonely country roads; drivers speed up, cut corners and aren’t paying attention. Cyclists surprise them. I actually feel safer on a rather busy two-lane highway, once you get used to cars whipping by really close. Drivers pay more attention. The next worst place is your average suburban street. People pull out from any old place without looking but they’re usually going slow, sipping a latte and talking on their stupid cell phone. The absolute worst place is when you have the right of way on any street and you see someone at a stop sign waiting to turn into your path and staring straight ahead. I will not, I repeat, will not cross in front of them unless I have made solid eye contact. I have come to a complete stop on Massachusetts Street in Lawrence when I saw some guy napping in his car at a stop. I inched right up to him and yelled and waved to snap him out of his reverie. Nice expression though. Don’t ride too close to parked cars either. Ever gotten doored before? Don’t go there. I’m not a Safety Dad but wear a helmet. My worst wreck was a self-inflicted, 5 mph-crash over an unseen speed bump. I flipped over my handlebars and landed on my head. Shattered my helmet, not my skull. Slow-speed crashes are often worse than high-speed crashes that racers get into; the full force of the blow is absorbed by the body. I saw a crash at over 40 mph in the Giro the other day and the guy got up and walked a way with just some road rash. At higher speeds, provided there isn’t a hard, immovable object in the way, you slide on the ground and dissipate the full force of the impact. Cycling can be dangerous but, with the proper precautions, it is probably less dangerous than eating a hamburger or at your local salad bar. More people die from food poisoning every year (about 9,000 in the U.S.) than get hit by cars on their bikes. It happens, but in the grand scheme of things, it is a risk I’m willing to take.

Well, I’m 39 today and I always ride my age (in miles) on my birthday. Time to suit up. See you on the roads. Keep the shiny side up.

Under the Tuscan sun

08 JUNE CREVALCORE—The weather here has cooled off a bit and has been quite pleasant, grazie a dio. The fan has remained silent for which Stefania is eternally grateful.

Last week we took advantage of the long weekend because of the Festa della Repubblica, the day celebrating the founding of Italy’s first republic in 1948, to take a day trip to northern Tuscany. Stefania had Thursday through Sunday off so we decided to drive down to Montecatini on Thursday then meet up with her parents at their place in Cesenatico for the weekend.

Montecatini is in the northwest corner of the region of Tuscany between Pistoia and the walled city of Lucca. I’ve been wanting to go to Comacchio to the Parco del Delta del Po, the big national park in the Po River Delta, but figured that this particular weekend it wasn’t worth it due to the fact that half of Italy would be heading to the beaches. So instead, we took the always beautiful A1 Autostrada from Bologna to Firenze (Florence), then broke right towards Pistoia once we were in sight of Florence’s Duomo. Driving through the suburbs of Florence isn’t the most beautiful spot in the world. It is a see of newer row houses and red-tiled roofs and mini-cranes where they are building new ones. Furthermore, the road to Pistoia is a two-laned highway dotted with rotundas or roundabouts. Along this road we came across a police car driving at about 30 km/h trying to trick people into rushing past him. Since I was at the controls of the ever powerful Micra, I steered clear and kept my distance.

This obstacle course of road furniture led through many Tuscan villages in this flat area of the region at the foot of the Apennines. Tuscany is a surprisingly diverse region. The Apennines curl east to west along the Emilia-Romagna-Tuscany border then dive southward towards Florence and Arezzo. The area in the triangle formed of the cities of Florence, Sienna and Arezzo comprise what most Americans think of when they think of Tuscany. This is the famous Chianti region and has the beautiful gently-sloping cypress-topped hills dotted with picturesque villages and vineyards. And let me tell you, it looks just like it does in the movies. To the south of Sienna are the Crete Senesi, an area of denuded hills that look much like the Flint Hills of Kansas. The area along the Mediterranean Sea where Pisa and Livorno are located is much flatter. The spine of the Apennines that run down the border between Tuscany and the neighboring Marche region is notably steeper. Hilltop towns such as Cortona, can be found in this area south of Arezzo.

As we approached Montecatini we got closer to the steep hills of the Apennines. Montecatini is another Roman town founded around thermal baths. There is the big town of Montecatini in the valley and Montecatini Alto, a hilltop village that can be accessed by car or a little train that runs up the steep hill. Hilltop towns such as this were of extreme strategic importance by the Middle Ages. Montecatini controlled the Via Cassia between the Apennines and Pistoia and thus the trade.

We chose the car route and drove the switchbacks past lavish villas sporting impressive iron gates surrounded by Italian cypresses and date palms.At the top of the hill lies the ancient village. We parked the car in a small parking lot for tourists and made our way along the road that ran along the ridge of the hill. It offered a scenic view of the valley to our left and allowed me to take some nice shots of the town to our right.

We were lucky to have come during the Festa della Repubblica because the whole piazza in the center of the town was decked out in the red, white and green Italian flags. The only people a round on this day seemed to be us and a bunch of other foreign tourists. I heard some people speaking behind me and it took about five minutes to realize that they were talking in English--They were from Scotland!

After poking around the village and firing off a few pictures we decided to have a snack. We were unlucky enough to pick a caffe’ with possibly the dumbest, spaced out waiter of all time. He forgot our order. He forgot our napkins. He forgot our water. Then when we went to pay, he had forgotten what we ordered. We could have told him that we had a Coke and gotten away for almost nothing. It wasn’t as if he were busy. There were two other tables occupied in the whole place.

On to the rest of our day trip. Stefania suggested we head out towards the northwest where there were some picturesque towns along the national park in the Apennines on the border with Emilia-Romagna. This turned out to be a blessing and a curse. The scenery was magnificent. The temperatures had cooled as we drove through scenic valleys along a rushing river. The sun was out and headed westward. The problem is that we should have turned back towards Modena earlier. We were now so far into the Apennines that the only way home was to drive over the Passo dei Radici near Montecimone. This was an absolutely beautiful road. No traffic. Perfect asphalt. Setting sun. The canopy of the forest closed in on us near the top in an amazing cathedral of light and branches. Stefania had had a headache all day and couldn’t get any aspirin because, of course, the pharmacies were closed. Only pharmacies can sell aspirin and the like because they are classified as drugs. And, again, there is no such thing as 24-hour quick shops or supermarkets. There are 24-hour pharmacies in big towns but we weren’t driving back to Pistoia or Florence for some Tylenol.

This proved to be a killer decision. For on the descent from the Passo dei Radici into Emilia-Romagna and back towards home, there were literally dozens and dozens of switchback turns. Stefania had been driving and had to ask me to takeover. She was getting nauseous and she still had that jackhammer headache. I started off like Michael Shumacher but she begged me to slow down. Still 57 km to Modena. We finally made it out of the mountains and back on to the plains but we were both really tired from all the driving by the time we got home at 10 that night.

The iceman definetly not cometh

JUNE 01 CREVALCORE—Life under the Emiliano sun is in full bloom and about to wilt now. Temperatures in the region have been in the 30s all week. The hum of air conditioners can be heard on residential streets. Old men in broad brimmed straw hats, shirt sleeves, dark socks and pocket protectors can be seen trundling to the local caffe’ on their rickety bikes. I’ve got my cycling tan in top form. My new helmet allows more sun through than my old one, I discovered the hard way. The cats have moved to their summer position of lying on the tile floor when not on guard duty on the window sill. I need to buy one of those John Deere combines to bale the fur that they are shedding. I’m sure I could make a comforter out of it.

I, as an American wimp, have been suffering more than most during this late-spring heat wave. I appreciate more and more every day how we represent 5 percent of the world’s population and consume almost one third of its resources; Stefania and I have been battling over whether or not I can plug in the fan that her father lent us and if so how many seconds a day I can run it. Her parents have an air conditioner in the “mansarda” (the finished third floor attic).

First let me explain the difference between an American air conditioner and an Italian/European one. In the States we are accustomed to central air with the condenser unit outside and hooked up to the ducts in the house. If you’re really lucky you have one of the new-fangled heat pumps with a programmable zone system so that you can control the heat or air in each part of your house. Here, the first thing to remember is that most houses and apartments are wired (on purpose) to handle about a third of the electrical load of a comparably sized house at home. This has been made abundantly clear to me twice in the past week at the Vigaranis’; Stefania’s dad would wait until he wanted to go into the mansarda before turning on the air conditioner. Of course he forgot that the washing machine was running on the first floor. And you know what happened next. You guessed it, the breaker popped like a champagne cork. Same thing Monday night. Stef and I were watching CSI on FoxLife on Sky when Franco went up to cool down the mansarda for me. Boom. This time it was the AC and the dishwasher running at the same time. He wove a tapestry of profanity as he searched for a flashlight. “Porco Giuda” seemed to be his favorite. When he came down he had to search for the keys for the front door, then the “cancello” (gate) for the breaker box is out on the street inside a little metal box imbedded in a brick wall akin to where our meters would be. Inside is just one main breaker switch which sits under a little digital screen that contains information on electricity usage.

There house was built in 1992 and thus not specifically wired for all of the TVs, computers, washers, air conditioners, PlayStations etc. that are in use today. Putting in a new service would be prohibitively expensive and still not solve the problem of energy costs. Italy produces almost none of its own electricity and thus has the highest prices in the EU. The French produce more than 95 percent of theirs through nuclear power but there has always been political opposition to such practices here. There was an article in the paper the other day noting the opposition of ENEL and other utilities importing power from some of the Slavic countries. Italy is in the throws of a recession and really suffering from lack of “competitivita’” (competitiveness), which has diminished 25 percent in the last 4 years. Governatore della Banca d’Italia (I think this a position akin to being chairman of the Federal Reserve) Antonio Fazio declared yesterday that, “la competitivita’ nei confronti dell’estero si conferma come il punto di maggiore debolezza.” That is to say that competitiveness (of Italian firms) in comparison to foreign competition is the major point of weakness (in the Italian economy). As I’ve mentioned before, part of Italy’s charm is derived from it’s reluctance to change. This seeming lack of will to innovate affects all facets of life including energy production. That is to say that Italians are great innovators in industrial design, for instance, but seem to lack the Anglo-Saxon aptitude for organization and implementation of ideas.Thus the Chinese are gaining on them and us as well.

“Condizionatori” or “climatizzatori” (air conditioners, air conditioning is “aria condizionta” or “climatizzazione”) are usually console units that are about three-feet tall and sit on your floor on little wheels. They are digital and controlled with a remote control. There is an exhaust tube that goes through a hole in the wall of your house to an outside wall mounted unit that is about two feet by two feet with a spinning fan. If I understand correctly, this exterior unit takes in recycles air to the condenser unit inside, sort of how bleed air from the turbines of a jet engine is recycled through a HEPA filter on airplanes. My sister-in-law has a wall mounted unit that operates in the same way but is long and narrow and looks kind of like one you would see in a hotel. One of these units is sufficient to cool most reasonably-sized apartments, provided that it is all on the same floor. At the Vigaranis’ house, they just use theirs to cool the mansarda since heat rises. You would be surprised to learn, however, that Italian houses stay reasonably cool if you keep the shutters closed or “in casone” ('sochiuso' in proper Italian) as they say in Bologna. That means where the shutters are propped open at a 45-degree angle; this lets air in but keeps the sun from heating the interior. The walls on most houses are so thick that they do a remarkable job at keeping out the heat.

Now, of course, this only works with moderate heat spells. Obviously, the longer the heat lasts, the more that the house remains warm. Our problem is that we are on the second floor with a building behind us and a narrow street in front with houses on the other side. The heat rises and we don’t get good air circulation. Thus the argument over the fan. I maintain, with Stef’s dad, that if you’re hot you can’t suffer just to save a few euros. If you want something in this life you gotta pay for it. Sure enough, after a couple of days of this heat, Stef broke down and was amenable to the usage of the fan.

Besides the fact that many people now have AC in some part of their houses there is the issue of public buildings. Same story. Some do, and some don’t. Those that do still don’t keep it low enough for most Americans’ tastes, though. I don’t mind the heat so much when I’m not working or during the day. In fact, when I ride my bike I like to wait until the hottest part of the day. But at night I like it to be cold enough to see your breath. That’s the part that bothers me; here there is no escape. No cold beverages. No freezing workplaces. No cold bedroom. You just sweat all the time and wait for those precious minutes when you can get in the car and crank the AC. God forbid you go into a bar and ask for a Coke. At best, it’s about as cold as a bottle out of your fridge. This is hoping their fridge hasn’t been getting a workout being opened and closed all of the time. Go ahead, ask for ice. You might be lucky to get two “cubetti.” I was explaining to my friend Alessandro how in the States what you do is get a cup that is bigger than most bottles of Coke you buy at the store and load it to the top with ice. Then you fill it up at the fountain. He looked perplexed and wondered why someone would fill their cup with ice thus cutting down on the amount of beverage purchased. I didn’t go into the complicated Eames Unified Field Theory of Perfect Ice to Beverage Ratio but replied à la “Spinal Tap,” “....No, but you see, you fill it to the top with ice...” For some things there are no explanations.

At any rate, my convulsions from beverage withdrawal have subsided. I’ve taken to drinking fizzy mineral water. I buy it by the case. I did see a self-service fountain at the IKEA store on Sunday. You pay first, cafeteria style, then they give you a cup. There was no ice dispenser so I just walked on by. Not worth the hassle. You would go broke here selling ice seeing as most Italian mothers still drill their children in the fine art of avoiding cold drafts and cold drinks. Causes colds you know. I guess they didn’t get Louis Pasteur’s memo—maybe they should move to Kansas.

A little more flair, the sheriff and the Falcon

JUNE 2 CREVALCORE—On Saturday night we went out with Roberta and Alessandro to a good Chinese restaurant. Food was actually quite good. You tend to get better service in “ethnic” restaurants than in your every day restaurant or store. The concept of customer service here is quasi non-existent. Moreover, waiters and waitresses are paid the same and don’t work for tips so there is no motivation. It’s actually quite pleasant when you get used to it. Customer service in the States has tended, in recent years, to have morphed into some kind of sycophantic co-dependent theater: “Good evening, folks!! Don’t you all look just wonderful tonight. My name’s Matt and I’ll be your server tonight, ummmkay?” (See the movie “Office Space.”) Half the time when you go out in Italy they show up after what seems like quite a while, by American tastes, and kind of stare at you with their pen poised to strike like a spectacled cobra. At one pizzeria a few weeks ago I thought Stef’s dad was going to come unglued. The restaurant was really busy and it took almost half an hour to get a server. When she finally showed up she just peered over her glasses and kept repeating, “E poi...” ( ‘And then...’) as each person ordered their first course and then their pizza. We were a party of nine so it was quite comical. That’s all she said the whole time. Most Italians wouldn’t make a scene, though, unless something really bad happened. It would be “brutta figura” (Literally, “ugly face” or a loss of face. The corresponding positive term is “bella figura” or making a good impression and thus save face.)

Italians just expect this lack of service as par for the course whenever they go out or go to stores and banks . As British author and long-time Italy resident Tim Parks notes, for all of their seeming flamboyant individualism, Italians are really consumate conformists. Living for thousands of years in dense villages has inspired people to sublimate their egos at certain times. There are times when they go along to get along and times when they would run over their grandmothers to get something. Lines are another foreign concept. But if one did not perceive another trying to cut in line and head it off by moving swiftly to occupy that space, there most likely would be no argument. It is simply expected that the early bird gets the worm. Same thing on the road. People will come up from behind and try to get around you and cut in front. This is simply expected. If you leave the space someone will take it; it’s your fault for not paying attention.

Stefania always tells me that I have to learn to be more aggressive. My seeming passivity grates on her. She always asks me why I let a person go ahead in line at a store or on the road. I say that I’m not letting people take advantage of me. I’ve made a conscious choice; if I’m not in a hurry I don’t care. I remind her that I used to be a teacher and can turn on the jets if I have to. I maintain that all of this posturing is a waste of energy. As I get more acclimated to life here, which is difficult, I just learn not to care what people think. I get points anyway for being American. Being an outsider sometimes has its advantages; I’m not expected to conform like a native-born Italian.

Like yesterday. I had my first run in with the law. I was coming back from Crespellano to Crevalcore and got stopped in the village or Calcara. Coming towards the village people were flashing their lights to signal that the cops were on the prowl. I wasn’t speeding so I didn’t pay too much attention. As I entered the village, I saw a car from the Polizia Nazionale on my left with a car pulled over. Poor bastard, I thought. Sure enough, I round the bend and there is an officer dressed in navy blue pants, light blue shirt with white bandolier and belt waving one of those cool white wands with a red reflector on the end. Busted. He signaled for me to pull over, which I did. I lowered the window and he said, “Buona sera, signore. I Suoi documenti per favore.” Seemed like a nice enough guy. His radio squawked as I fumbled for my documents. Never having been pulled over before, I wasn’t sure what they wanted to see. I first opened my wallet and took out my passport and explained that I was American and that this was my wife’s car. He wanted to see the registration and proof of insurance, too. So, nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rockers, I opened the glove box and pulled out a green plastic folder that had the insurance info. He still wanted to see the registration. I said that I’m sure it was there somewhere. So I started pulling out cds,Stef’s make up kit and maps. There was junk all over the front seat. By now it was hot and I was sweating bullets. Probably looked liked like I had a couple kilos in the trunk. He said, “Provi il portadocumenti.” ( ‘Try the document holder.”) I thought he was referring to the green folder. Little did I know that another blue document holder had fallen on the seat. I kept fumbling. Finally, I spotted it and opened it up. Sure enough, my international drivers’ license and the registration for the car were inside. I handed it to him and he nodded his head. He said that I would eventually need an Italian license since there was no American equivalent but that I probably had a year to get one after establishing residence. He wasn’t sure. He said I could go. I asked him, “Perché Lei mi ha fermato?” ( ‘Why did you stop me?’) He said, just a “controllo di documenti.” A routine stop to check papers.

Didn’t seem so routine to me. Whew. Luckily I wasn’t stopped by the Carabinieri. Maybe I should explain. I divide the police into two basic categories, although it’s actually much more complicated. Basically, there is the Polizia Nazionale who wear blue uniforms, usually dark blue pants, light blue shirts, white belts and bandoliers and regular police hats. These are the national police who deal with most crimes and traffic offenses, too. I think of the Vigili Urbani or municipale traffic police as a sub group of the polizia nazionale. The other main group is the Carabinieri who are kind of a state police force who are trained by the military and deal with a variety of crimes from the Mafia to traffic offenses. They wear uniforms similar to those of the Vigili but have a read stripe on their pants. They drive dark blue cars whereas the others drive white cars with a blue stripe that says, Polizia Municipale or Polizia Nazionale, on it. The Carabinieri are noted for being much tougher and thus harder to dissuade from issuing a ticket. Whenever I’m riding my bike and I see them pulling people over they are wearing big flak jackets over their uniforms. Looks much more intimidating. Of course, there are a variety of other services just like in the U.S. The Guardia Finanza are the financial police like our Secret Service and deal with crimes such as fraud. Stefania loves the RIS of Parma, the Polizia Scientifica di Parma. They are purportedly the best CSI team in Italy and were called in on the recent case of a young mother whose infant son had been drowned in the bathtub. They cracked the case by bringing evidence to bear that the facts didn’t match the woman’s description of the events; she cracked and spilled the beans. (When I was fingerprinted for my long stay permit it was at the PS of Bologna.)

What you’ve really got to watch for are the hidden Auto Velox high-speed cameras that take pictures of speeders. Then they just mail you the ticket. Lamborghini must have some sweetheart deal with the coppers. Their drivers pass by my house at least two or three times a day testing the new cars. They go around the corner to the cemetery parking lot where they do circles and figure eights as fast as they can, stop to write down some data, then roar off back to the factory. If you’ve never heard the roaring growl of a 12-cylinder, 500-plus horsepower engine, you’re missing something special. I can now tell the difference between a Ferrari engine, which has a much higher-pitched whine, from the lower, more throaty Lamborghini power plant. It’s fun to watch them go over the numerous speed bumps here since they sit about an inch off the ground and almost have to come to a complete stop. This surprised me the other day. I was behind the black one they’ve been working on and was on my way to pick up Stef from work. I was right on his tail when he suddenly hit the brakes to go over the speed bump that I had forgotten about. I almost rammed into the back of a $500,000 car! If I ever see them parked with the door up I’m going to try to talk to the driver. Maybe someday he’ll let me ride with him!

Last night was the big charity soccer match in Milano for the Children of Tibet. Richard Gere was the de facto host. The teams were composed of one team of current and retired Serie A players, mostly from Milano, and a team of famous singers with some wringers like Leonardo thrown in to even out the sides. It was actually a good match. The singers won 6-4. Gere was interviewed several times, his interpreter whispering in his ear. The soccer season is over.....except for Bologna. Juventus took the “Scudetto” or championship from Milan AC. Bologna must play regional rivals, Parma, in a two game playoff to keep from being sent down to Serie B. The bottom four teams in points are sent down each year while the top four from Serie B are promoted. Bologna tied, 0-0 against Sampdonia during their last regular-season game on Sunday to force the playoff on June 14,18.

Calcio or soccer here is like the NBA in the States. It used to be the Beautiful Game, as Pelé once called it, but now is a bunch of preening divi who clutch and grab and hack each other up and down the field. It’s still the number one sport followed by cycling but the rights to games cost so much that you can’t see or watch a game except by pay-per-view. To view Bologna’s last game would have cost 15 euros. You pay less per match if you order the season package but there is no reason; Bologna is relegated to perpetual mediocrity because there is no revenue sharing and thus they cannot compete with the top teams like Berlusconi-owned Milan AC and Juventus of Torino. Last time they won the Scudetto was in 1966, I believe. Sound familiar?

Cycling, all the doping scandals notwithstanding, is great because it’s still accessible and everyone here rides. Besides, cycling does more than any other sport to test athletes. Saying that soccer players are clean is like saying baseball players are clean—until recently there weren’t any controls at all, so how could you tell?

Paolo Salvoldelli, Il Falco (The Falcon) from Bergamo, who rides for Lance’s Discovery Channel team won the Giro d’Italia on Sunday. It was great to see. He is 32 years old and won the 2002 edition before he was sidelined for two years because of illness and injury, including breaking his collar bone this past January. He is the thinking man’s cyclist; very quiet and unassuming who uses his brain to make up for the gaps in his physical abilities. He isn’t a killer like Lance. He says that a champion says what they’re going to do then goes out and does it. He, on the other hand, tries to manage the whole race, taking time where he can and minimizing time losses on days when he isn’t the best.

His shining moment came last Saturday on the penultimate stage of the Giro with the now infamous 17km climb of the Colle delle Finestre, the top 8km being over unpaved, dusty roads. Big mouthed climber Gilberto Simoni was in second, two minutes down on Salvoldelli. As predicted he took off on the big climb knowing that The Falcon was not the best climber. He found out why they call Salvoldelli The Falcon on the other side. He didn’t try to stay with Simoni on the climb, preferring to ride within himself and manage his losses. Simoni worked with eventual 4th place finisher Danilo DiLuca and a group of others including 3rd place finisher and stage winner José Rujano. Simoni was greedy and used all of his energy on the climb to become virtual race leader on the road by the summit, eliminating the two minute deficit earned by Salvoldelli’s excellent performance in the previous day’s time trial. That is when The Falcon came out to play. He hit the jets over the rutted, dusty roads up and over the summit gaining a half dozen allies along the way who paced him. Simoni, never the diplomat, had dropped everyone but DiLuca and Rujano by the bottom of the descent. Salvoldelli then did what he does arguably better than anyone else in the history of cycling and descended at 70 mph to bring Simoni back to within a minute and a half and maintain his race lead. Simoni was now isolated with a cramping DiLuca and a 49kg super flyweight Rujano who refused to pull forcing the former to do all the work. DiLuca fell back and Simoni had to cover 10km of flat roads and a small climb to the finish doing all of the pulling. Salvoldelli had more than six other riders to pace him to the line. This is where past sins can come to haunt a rider. Simoni is outspoken, seemingly not very tactically bright and therefore found himself alone when he needed people to help him the most. The Falcon found a small group of allies who had no reason to help Simoni. Without the help, Salvoldelli couldn’t have maintained his winning margin. He won the Giro on Sunday with a 28-second lead. Bravo Paolo.The stage was so exciting that Tour de France officials are considering using that climb in a future Tour as it is right on the French border.

Makes me want to go ride. Think I will take my own advice.