Beside the Seaside

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In Which I Go Off On One

May 25, 2008 by Mike

Rome

Oh come on, do you really think that's all I did yesterday?

I visited one of the Bonaparte family palaces, now the Napoleon Museum.

I returned to the Vatican to explore the Basilica of St Peter's, and the underground tombs of a) a Queen of Sweden, b) lots of Popes, including John Paul II -- a huge crowd, not all of them Polish -- and St Peter, close friend of JC himself, the single historical figure most closely identifiable as the root and cause of the spread of christianity from Jewish cult to global superpower, the first Pope -- a crowd of one. Me. And as you may have noticed, when it comes to veneration and prayer, I don't really count.

To the National Gallery of Modern Art which isn't all too modern for someone like me who struggles ever-so-slightly to see the Art in a hat-stand, or an urinal. Yes, Marcel Duchamp is well represented here.

As are some perfectly acceptable works by Morelli, Mancini, Cremona, Leto, Previati, Pellizza, Boldini (who was surely sleeping with all the society women he painted, so intimate and glowing and knowing are the portraits), Corcos, Van Gogh and Bargellini.

(Hands up who actually read that list and spotted Van Gogh?)

They're all really there. I made notes for the first few galleries before everything got a bit hat-stand. I also saw my first Twombly, to my knowledge. He's my Spanish teacher's favourite artist. I was ashamed that I hadn't heard of him.. until I saw what he did in the name of art. ;-)

D*minique and St*ph*n and the childr*n were home when I got back. They have some good pointers for me as I head south. Buffalo mozzarella, Roman remains and steer clear of the Mafia.

It's fascinating to get their perspective on Italy and the Italians.

For example, St*ph*n is allergic to the classic foreigner's complaints about the driving. He's had to sit in embarrassed silence as visitor after visitor bemoans the horrendous driving, all the worse when a native Italian has to sit through it too. "And every book about Italy has to mention the driving. Why do they all have to go on about it?"

Because.. I reply here, with the benefit of hindsight and being able to collect my thoughts.. but yes, you do have a right to reply.. because the driving really is beyond the pale. It's dangerous. It is, all too often, by which I mean every single bloody day of the year, lethal, to someone, somewhere in this country. It's just plain *rude*. It's pointless. It's the aggression of small people who feel powerful, protected by their car. Who have a point to prove. It's pathetic.

It's indefensible. Anyone driving a car in Italy, no different from anywhere else, has bought in to a set of rules and regulations that, for better or worse, are designed to improve safety and promote traffic flow. To reject or ignore both, because it feels like a little victory over The System and All Those Other Suckers every time you get past the car in front, is to put not only your life but the lives of others at risk. And that's wrong. Because while it might seem that most of them have rejected those rules and regulations, not everyone has. Not the infant on the scooter or in the front seat of a car -- don't get me started on how few seat-belts get worn here -- not the pedestrian who is obliged to cross a road where any pedestrian crossing is seen as a provocation by most of the drivers -- and not, thank you very much, by me.

The irony of this fast and dangerous driving is, just like Portugal only more so, the roads are also in a terrible state. Which puts me in double jeopardy: I'm obliged to avoid the worst holes and ruts in the road while also avoiding the worst overtaking, undertaking and cutting in. Either, on its on, would be bad enough. As with Portugal, I wonder if the poor roads are designed by the government to try and restrain and rein in the worst excesses of the bad drivers.. but, no, I'm not convinced for a moment that the Italian government and bureaucracy wants to do anything about the state of the driving. It would involve too much work and recrimination. And they're all Italian drivers too, aren't they? (No, the police don't wear seat-belts. And they don't lift a finger at the murderous driving they see every day.)

I'm going to start a You couldn't-make-it-up driving corner of the blo-- i mean diary. A little taste every day of what Italians do and see every day. For my own good, at least, to remind myself this isn't normal:

An ordinary urban road junction. Traffic lights. Busy but after the rush hour. One lane in each direction on the main road. So, heading north (which was the busier direction at this time of the morning) two lanes form. They'll have to blend in to one by the time they reach the other side of the junction, because someone's parked illegally on the corner on the junction.. of course.. but that doesn't stop the more aggressive drivers forming the second line of cars, pushed over the white line and half into the opposite lane.. which is busy enough queuing at the lights on the other side. So far, so Italy. But in the moments before the lights turn green, that strange no-man's-land when drivers start to edge forward and scooters are already off and running, a beaten-up white Punto screeches to the front of the junction by driving alongside the second line of traffic. So now there's THREE lanes of cars waiting at a red light on a road with space for one lane. And he, more than anyone else, is responsible for.. hmmm.. 200 cars not being able to move. One in ten hit the horn.. because that's really going to help.. so now there are twenty car horns blaring. Gridlock. Deadlock. If they'd stayed in the correct lanes, half of them would be through by the time the first car escapes the crush. But all is well. The loon in the white punto inches is that first car, after the other lanes reverse and manoeuvre. He's made real progress. What a hero. The next traffic jam ahead is one block ahead. I hope he's happy.

I do go on, don't I? Had a lovely, chilled evening with D*minique and St*ph*n: pasta, wine and conversation. All good.

Beside the Seaside

In Which I Go Off On One

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