Old man fists, my fists and The Man in Italy.
That I am using a Croatian keyboard might lead you to believe my typing skills have deteriorated beyond belief. The Z is where the Y should be. Never knew how popular Y was until now. So, give me a little extra patience this time round. I will try and keep it short.
There are stories up the kazoo from this trip, but I will start with Rant 1. For 10 days The Man has sat shotgun while I have driven us through four countries, across an island, up over a mountain range twice, no thrice and to a Lake like no other. The cheap bastards that we are have been navigating with the rudmentariest of maps, which has led us to places otherwise never seen. This has had it’s highlights along with more than one tirade of profanity from the driver, in particular when she gets back seat driven by The Man who can barely get a car out of first gear on a down hill slope.
The best of all his comments was cracked while I was trying to navigate Trieste, Italy. Let me set the scene. I am trying to keep my cool while looking for impossible parking, following the street signs that are just a cruel joke to the unsuspecting. Car doors are being thrown open in front of me at less than a meters distance, pedestrians are backing ce la vie off the sidewalks into traffic as they chat with friends arms a flying, one way streets everywhere you turn, fellow madmen are using every lane but their own, scooters are mobbing as they by pass on the left and the right at the same time on lanes less than an arm wide… Lest I forget the old man in his vintage Ford Fiesta who may as well have been buckling up in our back seat. In a burst of impatience he passed us in a squeal of old rubber and a waving fist as he beat his horn like… okay like a drum. All because I was keeping a reasonable distance of half a meter from the car in front of me. This is where The Man says, I think you are a really good driver, but you just don’t have what it takes for this traffic. Stund is what I was before my hand left the steering wheel and began to pump the air with my own tiny little monkey fist as The Man likes to call it. What!!!!!!!!!!! Okay smart guy I dare you to say that again!
But the most entertaing comment of all was from a fellow Los Angelese.
Oh your going to Rome. It’s great just watch out for those scooters. I stood on the corner for an hour before I dared step off the curb. In the end I just realized you just close your eyes and go. They will scoot around you.
Oh well I am from LA so I can handle it. I know how to handle traffic.
In my head the sound was HA HAH AHHA HA HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHHA. Okay control yourself. HAH AHAHAHAHAH AHHAHAH AHA HAHAHA HAHAHAHAH HAHAHA
But, what I said was okay.
What is it with us Americans, more to the point Los Angelse folk, that think we own the toughest of the tough? I am A Merkin, can’t do me no surprises. I hear myself saying that crap too. OH why? Oh why?!
The truth is no one is good enough to just drop into Italian traffic from Planet Earth. You need have titties of steal, be aggressive as a bull and be in possession of oodles of luck. In any case if Italy ever needs to pull itself out of national bankruptcy a la Iceland all it need do is spend 24 hours giving well earned traffic tickets to its drivers. They could probably solve world hunger while they are at it.
Okay rant 1 off my chest.
And now you say that wasn’t so short and what about the food, didn’t you eat?! Of course I did, but I haven’t got any photographic proof prepared. Let it be known that I had THE BEST pickles ever in Opacina, Italy at a roadside winery, THE BEST fried seafood at the second restaurant we walked past in Venice and it was nice to the wallet too. So keep your hat on, I will be back with details.