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In Which I Sound Like A Daily Mail Reader - Yuck

May 14, 2008 by Mike

Camogli

Route: Albenga - Genoa - Camogli

My second day in Italy and almost my last. Not last as in, I nearly died in a hideous traffic accident caused by an appalling Italian driver.

Oh no. Rather, last as in, I nearly died in any number of hideous traffic accidents caused by any number of appalling Italian drivers.

Or even, last as in, I considered ignoring the Italian coast completely and heading straight across the north of the country to Slovenia in order to avoid nearly dying in a hideous traffic accident caused by an appalling Italian driver.

To be honest, I'm not convinced the driving will be much better in the Balkans, Greece, Ukraine, Russia or Turkey. I have crossed the Rubicon in terms of road manners, and if I have to get used to a new mentality, I may as well do it in Italy as anywhere. I haven't come this far to be defeated (or killed in a hideous traffic accident) by an appalling Italian driver or anyone else.

From my point of view, high but relatively unprotected on a motorbike, the worst of it is how close and aggressive the car immediately behind me is. Like Mr Fiat yesterday, they think nothing of coming up right behind me and sitting on my tail. It's not as if my tail is particularly attractive either, it's happening to everyone.

And they'll overtake in a flash, simply to get one vehicle further up the queue of speeding cars - in town or country. No matter that there's a blind corner up ahead -- or even a car coming in the other direction. The other person will get out of the way (as I've had to do several times today, faced with an overtaker coming straight at me in the other direction).

Speed: if you're not 20-30kmph over the speed limit in town, and more outside, the anger and frustration of those behind you becomes seriously dangerous. Yet the roads are the worst I've seen since northern Portugal. Potholes, great misshapen bumps, ruts, you name it. They don't make riding quickly any easier, to say the least. The roads in small coastal towns are the worst, so much so that I've taken an executive decision to avoid them and stay on the highway bypassing them inland -- hardly what this trip is about.

There's been a blanket decision by all Italians to ignore road signs -- and road lines in particular. An unbroken white line means 'overtake if there's an inch of space'. Two unbroken white lines mean 'a challenge, but overtake anyway.'

It's not just White Van Man, though he's alive and well here. It's not even just testosterone-filled young men. Old men, family men, young women -- all have had me quaking at their antics.

And that's just the cars.

Sad to say, the scooter and bike riders are if anything worse. And this being the land of the Vespa, there's tons of them. Teens blatting on hairdryers; older riders -- up to and including pensioners -- on more powerful scooters. Undertaking, overtaking, hogging the white line, riding in the other carriageway around blind corners. Or straight at oncoming traffic, daring them not to get out of the way.

In 24 hours I've seen:

* a scooterist tear across a pedestrian crossing, without slowing down, actually steer between a couple who had been holding hands until they realised what he was doing and jumped apart. Oh. My. Gawd!

* a scooterist composing a txt message on his mobile while riding on the wrong side of the unbroken white line around a blind corner.

* a scooterist reach into his pocket with his right hand (the one that controls acceleration, remember) to find and answer his mobile phone. ('Luckily', his helmet was already pushed up over his ears so at least he didn't have to adjust that.. while riding at twice the speed limit).

* a scooterist with a toddler hugged between the rider's knees; a scooterist with a six- or seven-year-old child standing on the footplate between rider and handlebars (blocking the view so the rider had to peer round the side); a scooterist with two children sitting on the bike with her.. yes, her, because these were all young women and, presumably, mothers.

* The number of scooters on the wrong side of the road to beat the queues is just daft.

* (I'm also miffed that no Italian biker, even those with big bikes and panniers, has the grace and friendliness to wave back at me -- an international convention that everyone in France does, for example, but that stopped abruptly at the border yesterday.)

* And I keep remembering -- these people just voted Berlusconi back into power. Ye gods!

* On the other hand, the women here all turn to look admiringly at me and my big, throbbing Triumph.. so it's not all bad.

It's possible that, all too quickly, such madness on the road will become second-nature, as it must surely be for all the locals. (Even if there is a TV advert here, for a new Fiat with extra anti-crash features, that goes to the tune of "At first I was afraid, I was petrified... but I will survive, I Will Survive..")

So I'm glad I've got these words down in the first flash of experiencing it. It may become second-nature, but I plan to survive, but I don't want to pick up any of their habits.

I stopped in Finalborgo, "The most beautiful town in Italy", a town the colour of melon yoghurt nestling beneath green hills and a deep blue sky. It's historic centre is ridiculously, perfectly beautiful. But even here, on pedestrian streets away from the madness of the roads, I'm almost run over by a kid on a bicycle.

And then I realise -- the pedestrian areas have been cordoned off and marked out as make-believe streets -- chalk lines and mini road signs -- and scores of young children are riding around the course, stopping at T-junctions and going the right way on roundabouts, signalling to overtake and turn, being judged by policemen and -women and urged on by mothers and grandmothers.

I end up talking to the Comandante of the Municipal Police -- me thanking him for trying to instil some road sense at an impressionable age (and hopefully some of it will rub off on the parents and grandparents) and him so grateful that I've taken the time to speak to him, and so horrified by the catalogue of bad driving I've seen, and with 50,000 km behind me the fact that I assure him this is the worst driving I've seen in Europe, that he's given me his email address and urged me to put it all down in writing. Which I have. If it helps his campaign in any way, I'd be thrilled, because he is, literally, in the business of saving lives. (Two scooter deaths in the local paper today.)

There. Glad I got that out of my system. I haven't had much to say about Italy in the last two days except the terrible driving, which is a shame because it's been stunning as the French Riviera became the Ligurian coast, and the sea, the shimmering silver sea, became the Ligurian Sea.

Little towns yesterday, like Imperia, Cervo and Diano Marina, delightful clusters of homes under mediaeval hilltop castles. Imperia had a grand centre too, worthy of the town's name, with stately blocks of arched townhouses set out in true Roman form. The villas that cling to the hillsides overlloking the sea are a little pinker, and less ostentatious than in France -- no bad thing.

This, after all, is Liguria, where I spent a very happy holiday as a young married man. (Yes, I wasn't just married once - I was young once, too.)

We stayed in Chiavari, Santa Margharita and Rapello. That wasn't planned, it was forced on us: we arrived during a week when half of Italy was on holiday in Liguria, on public holidays we'd forgotten to check, and had arrived without booking accommodation because I'd assured Samantha "it's more fun not knowing where you're going to stay. We'll find a little hotel somewhere that'll be just perfect." Needless to say, we ended up staying in some right dives, but the area, the food and the weather had been fantastic.

I also distinctly remember seeing a young man here riding a Triumph Bonneville. He had a beautiful women on the pillion. He has a LOT to answer for.

Portofino was stunning; Genoa was big and exciting and exotic; the coast was dramatic and the roads curly. That was true when I was here before; it was true today. But.. butbutbut.. it was overcast and drizzly today as well, and the weather forecast is TERRIBLE.

"Pope, Wind And Rain Set To Arrive In Town". That was the headline in the local paper. (The other recurring stories in the papers, besides the Pope and the weather, are Berlusconi -- parliament is just resuming after the general election -- and the gypsies. I can't understand what's being written about them, but in Berlusconi's Italy I fear it isn't good. There are half-a-dozen articles in the paper, and it leaves me feeling very uncomfortable.)

The Pope arrives in Genoa in a couple of days; the rain, the wind, the thunder will all be here by then too. Can't say I'm overly fond of any of them, and it's set to stay that way for more than a week (all except the Pope).

In fact, I've become mildly obsessed with the unmild weather. I've had bad weather before, of course -- the snow in Estonia threatened to strand me in Tallinn for months -- but my mind has become so geared to the idea of Italian summer = sunshine that I'm having kittens. Rain on the bike is bad. Rain in the tent isn't exactly good.

I can't concentrate on Genoa -- not only a city I have fond memories off, but one of the great coastal powers in Europe for centuries, the heart of a Mediterranean Empire, home to Magellan and birthplace of Colombus. I could tie so much of this story together if I spent hours and days in its museums and feeling the history in its streets.

Well, I manage the latter -- there's lots of old stuff here -- but there are no museums in Genoa dedicated to the city's mighty history. Oh, there are plenty of art galleries, palaces and churches, don't get me wrong, and in sunshine I'd be bubbling over with enthusiasm, but nothing that tells the story of the rise, or the decline and fall, of the Genoese Empire.

Besides, I tell myself, why spoil yr memories of Genoa seen as a couple, by doing it all again on yr own?

But I'm not kidding myself. If it was sunny, I'd be staying.

Instead, I find the bike again -- luckily, in a city of thousands and thousands of two-wheelers, all parked together in overflowing waves down by the waterfront, mine is the only silver Bonneville with Metal Mule panniers and GB numberplates.. so it's not that hard to find. How you're supposed to find yr Vespa in amongst all the others, I'll never know.

To Camogli: an old friend used to live here and loved it; Samantha and I visited for about 20 minutes and loved it all those years ago. I feel like I need cheering up, and a late afternoon and evening here does the trick. (In fact, I confess, it's sunny here! But don't worry, I checked again: rain tomorrow...)

Comments

By steve | May 19, 2008 7:17 PM

Yikes, Mike, that all sounds pretty scary. Take good care and look after yourself on those roads.

Beside the Seaside

In Which I Sound Like A Daily Mail Reader - Yuck

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