Space odd-issey

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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