The Baldo Show...
Let me do a sketch of Baldo for you…
he is tall, thin, often breaks into a toothy grin and has a distinct and very bouncy gait. This bounciness could be attributed to any number of things. List is long, however, so let’s just put it down to the trainers he habitually sports. (Please note the above left-hand photo). Frankly, hard for me to imagine Baldo ever wearing leather-soled shoes. He might cause accidents. The gift of trainers are they do keep one light on one’s feet. A Good Thing when driving in Italy too. How else can you swerve deftly from an Alfa-Romeo driving on your side of the road and at a high rate of speed? The other parts of Baldo’s Standard Uniform are short cargo pants... in beige, light grey or, faded green and worn 24/7… a short-sleeve T-shirt, washed to the point of exhausting the printed graphics across both their front & back, and Black framed glasses, propped on his head when not in use to see or, to make an important point to some kid at the back of the classroom.
Other details? Well…
he rarely shaves. Damn Italian men with their morning shadow, looking dangerous, cooly unkempt, contemptuous of convention, sexy. Apparently, when Baldo hits the local barber to shear his locks… frothy in front and clear-cut on the sides, as is the fashion of his 18 year old male clientele these days… he takes razor to face. A scrubbed look for others to admire.
And, a cigarette is rarely absent. Unlit when teaching or, driving with a student…
well, that’s not quite true. He does hang out the passenger window to blow cigarette smoke away from the 18 year old with his mitts on the steering wheel at 10 & 2…
and one is definitely lit the rest of the time Baldo bounces across the face of Our Mother Earth. He’s Italian, after all. Oh! There is one exception… a cigarette substituted by his iPhone.
You have an idea, no?
The Driving Theory Class is scheduled to commence at 10AM. Sharp, as in precise, does not exist in the Italian language. Sorry. Just the concept of being precise is iffy here.
10:05 AM, Baldo bounces into the classroom. He’s late. He’s not ready. The classroom isn’t either. He bounces around.
The Boys & Girls are pronti and have been since 09:59:59AM. Good kids.
The boys are seated to the far right… if slouching could be called being seated… and as far away as possible from the front of the classroom… and Baldo… as is physically possible, without extruding themselves between the iron rods of a window grating. A Black Block of NIKE. Hairy and toned from soccer short-panted legs spread wide apart… What? To air out their masculinity? Doubt they would ever dare to cross their legs. Maybe they can’t? Must have big ones, do you think? They are 18.… and their uniformly white ADIDAS trainers are propped upon the backs of the dinky chairs in the row in front of them. Nothing to write with. Nothing to write upon. Might conflict with la loro aria di disinvoltura… aire of nonchalance. The boys are ON but not by much. Or, so they seem.
The girls are ON. And, are decidedly in the minority, grouped behind me on the far left. I don’t know why. It just happened. However, I was seated first. Two or three have positioned themselves in front of me. Most have A4 notepads & click-to-retract pens. You can hear the nervous clicking during class. Fear of interrogation? Could be. NO PURSES. Jeans have pockets enough, I guess. However, their finger nails are perfection. Pink, silvery sparkles or, Dark Blue enamel, all the rage these days in the Lunigiana. The girls look primed for the hour and a half we all will be listening to Baldo.
He does not linger for long. He bounces back out of the classroom. Voices are heard from the street. Then quiet. Baldo bounces back in and flips a switch and bounces out again. A simple job well done? A monitor above his desk…
yes, an ugly wooden assemblage, showing signs of having been either in a war or dragged out of trash pile, and capped by an incongruous plate-glass top-piece Baldo slides back ’n forth when in idle. Decorating the remaining surface of the desk are a clear acrylic pencil/pen holder for his few marker pens… only in Blue… and a prestigious assortment of pointer-sticks in bamboo, wood, plastic, metal!!! Corporal punishment appears to be legal in this country.
The screen pops ON with menacing graphics. It settles upon a scary triangular sign. Red border on a White background and has Black silhouettes of kiddies dancing. I think they are kiddies. Munchkins, maybe? No, kiddies. Running away and fast too. Or, taking flight. That’s it! I would, if I could but, I can’t so, I don’t. In any case, an ominous vision. A preview of coming instructions? You bet. I will eventually learn it IS a WARNING children are in the area. Aren’t they always in Italy?
Different voices are heard outside the school’s entrance. Turned to still chat with whomever, Baldo bounces in and almost collides with his desk. Stops just in time. Braces himself. Absorbing the energy of his propulsion. Time to prep for the onslaught? Noticing something’s amiss, he bounces over to the wall with the 70’s FIAT Tema sedan mounted on a White board and flips its ON button. The automotive demonstrator becomes a temporary riot of flashing Red, Yellow… OOOPS. No. I stand corrected: Amber… and White lights, until it goes into a self-imposed hibernation. Dormant until called upon, I guess. That scary triangle stares out at me. Not enough to do? So, for spite, it glares from its superior position on the monitor upon High? I sip frizzy water to revive my Spirits. Baldo sits down at his desk. He surveys the room… slowly, calmly… lips moving counting heads. We are 14. Thinking, thinking, thinking. Composing his thoughts for his first salvo of the day’s instruction. Class starts. It’s 10:13AM.
Baldo wants to talk about speed limits… i limiti di velocita’. He warns us l’argomento will be definitely… and amply… covered on The Quiz. This last word is often mentioned. Of course. It’s the reason why my butt grows tired sitting in a tiny school chair for what will be the eventual number of compulsory… by Italian Law!!!… 25 in-class lessons I must attend. Ditto for the 18 year olds. Misery loves company? Guys & Gals are trapped by our mutual obligation. So be it. The Quiz looms on our horizon like Godzilla. The Italian pronunciation stabs me like a jolt of electro-shock therapy… Qwtz! Who needs a vowel when there’s a menace about? Baldo continues, seated.
His lectures aren’t dry rote, and Thank God! Fastest route to send us 14 into a deep, mid-morning snooze. Nope. Baldo elaborates the explanations with examples: True History, Personal Experiences, Sage Advice. Invented stories too, I suspect. Often causes him to rise and move with a couple of artful lunges… he’s quelled his natural physical exuberance for Driving Theory Class?… over to the large White writing-board to draw stick figures of roads, speed signs, maybe a building or two. No doubt, Baldo has had lots of practice. These sketches are quickly executed with a Blue ink marker. Less upsetting than Black. And Red might cause nervous break-downs. Or, hysterics, at least. I try to duplicate the drawings… for Posterity or, for studying at home. Yeah, right… but, no sooner drawn than they are immediately wiped away with a rag. Always more to sketch-out when one is dealing with the many, many, many Italian Rules & Regulations of the Road…
in walks a man. Elderly. Has to be speeding well past 100. Shuffles into the classroom a bit bent over against a non-existent gale. Mumbles about needing to renew his Driver’s License. Proceeds right up to Baldo’s desk… in the middle of the classroom. Baldo remains seated and stares at the man with a slightly bemused smirk. Says nothing. The mumbled message is repeated like a tape on a loop. Over and over and over again. The man then starts to point a finger towards the floor. The floor does not respond either. Could it? It’s wall-to-wall and nearly denuded of its original Caramel coloured tufting, rendering it permanently mute. Or, dead. Any notion… slim or otherwise… of having interrupted our Driving Theory Class has registered not upon this man. His mumbling deteriorates into noises of shock, outrage, ebbing towards protest. Like an approaching thunderstorm. But then, silence. Ran out of steam? All is stopped. No mumbling. No pointing. No listing forward. What’s next? The room is all hush. In the vacuum, Baldo stirs himself up out of his seat and shoots some… qwsteeeyonz. More electro-shock. I perk up. Baldo wants to know from the man: his mobile number, date of birth, expiration date of his Driver’s License, and age. Half wanted to raise my hand to say… 100. Didn’t. The man beat me to it. He’s 94. He looked at Baldo appalled. As if Baldo had broken A Privacy Law in the asking. Baldo looked at the man satisfied. Matters taken into control. Suddenly, spacial orientation of our shared Time-Space Continuum hit the man. He looked around at 14 quietly staring faces. Smiles, says saluti ai tutti voi, turns and leaves, listing in the direction of the school’s Exit. The End? Not yet. Baldo yells he will call the man on the day before he needs to come in again to do the paperwork. The End
The hush is shaken by giggles… from both sides of the classroom. Baldo’s motor is running but he’s not moving. Thinking? Yes, thinking, thinking, thinking… Where was I? Oh, yes. Speed limits for pulling a trailer.
A what? Really? A trailer and speed limits together? Is it important to know? Strikes me as a special interest. There’s the Internet. Or, how about this: when someone buys a trailer, they take a day’s instruction at the local Driving School on Trailers. To get insurance. There. Done. Let the rest of us get on with passing The Quiz.
I itch with rebellion. What ridiculousness is this adventure of Getting-A-Driver’s-License-In-Italy.
I feel terribly stressed. Like the Italian Driving World is pitted against me and my simple desire to drive legally in Italy. I am a 71 year old man, who was caught by the Carabinieri after nearly 40 years of driving around hither & yon of the Italian peninsula without an Italian Driver’s License but, with a very valid American one which, you can lease a car here with it. AND, DO I LOOK LIKE A CRIMINAL? I COME FROM A GOOD FAMILY!! I HAVE TWO COLLEGE DEGREES!!! And now, I have to go to Driver’s Education School twice a week to listen to a half hour lecture about speed limits and trailers? Guaranteed, minimal concern in the general scheme of things, ie, like driving A CAR. And yet, it might be asked on a 30 question Quiz. Gosh. So the Italian State can feel it has control, has done its bloody job and has gotten more taxes out of me by burdening me and others with inconsequential information? A form of terrorism. State propagated terrorism. Out of the fracas of my hysterics comes… You gotta know what you gotta know… to pass The Quiz. Gotta pass The Quiz. Gotta pass The Quiz. Gotta pass The Quiz. The joke is, what you gotta know will be DELETED soon after passing The Quiz. It’s why Italians are such terrible drivers.
I am resigned to know…
the other 12,000 types of Driver’s Licenses. Yes, I exaggerate. There are practically the same number as the number of fingers on my hands.
What motorcycle drivers can & cannot do… which no-one driving one ever obeys, in light of yesterday’s near collision with a helmeted teenage jerk-on-a-dirt-bike passing me and others in a curve. Bet that’s not on The Quiz.
Identify the many types of trucks, busses, motor-homes AND AGRICULTURAL VEHICLES!!!…Oh! and horse drawn carriages!!!… and their do’s & don’t’s. I guess I should be thrilled tanks, personnel & armoured carriers are not included.
And, the 5,323 other stuff less the above 3 subjects due to appear on The Quiz the day I’ll show-up to take it.
My head grows dizzy.
Again, to reiterate… all I want is to legally drive my 14 year old, dirty, Hyundai Galloper to the Lidl once a week without being further encumbered by the Carabinieri… handsome & hot though they may be to stare at in their tight britches and slim-fit Blue short-sleeved shirts holding a help manual and a tablet.
Is it too much to ask?
Musing upon the injustice of it all… after my storm. I should point a finger at the floor…
I am of the mind… The Italian State, harborer of the Ministry of Transport, who manages the roads, driving, and the cumbersome Rules & Regulations of the Road…
in fact, a new one was just issued last Monday, the 18th of October 2023. Fancy that!…
A) holds an insane mistrust of the Italian people; or B) HATES them with a vengeance; and/or C) believe they are totally devoid of Common Sense; and D) thinks the Italians are imbeciles.
My Dad used to say… Treat people like imbeciles and they will act like one.
Apparently, The Italian State cannot allow Personal, Individual Responsibility to reign. Nope. Only numb follow-ship to the State. And yet, Liberta’ IS mentioned in the country’s constitution. Too difficult to actually instruct people on how to safely & properly drive a vehicle. Tut-tut… of little concern, I am afraid. The Game is The Quiz.
Before I desist, there is a further act of annoyance: the menace… of stripping one’s mental gears… by insisting upon the use of The Official Terminology for The Quiz. I hazard to say, this sort of linguaggio dates back to when Italy was founded in 1861. Not even revised with the re-founding of the country after a protracted civil war following WWII and the subsequent Referendum of 1946. The King of 26 days was booted off his thrown. He went bye-bye to Portugal on a twin-engine Lockheed airplane and Italy got socked with a mean & nasty bureaucracy obsessed with Officialdom’s language. So, for instance, a turn signal in common Italian jargon is freccia. Quick, fast, easy. On The Quiz it is un segnale di direzione. Ponderous plus. GIVE ME A BREAK!!!
Let us not forget this bit of Truth: the Italian People love Rules & Regulations. Yes, they really love them. Need them, in fact. It’s a game to them. They look for holes through which they can drive right in between them. You cannot have holes without the other things, ie Rules & Regulations. The Italians have been conditioned by the bureaucracy of A) through D). Naked without. Unsafe too. And, uncertainty of who’s in charge? The R & R of the Road is akin to wearing velour exercise outfits to watch Italy’s Got Talent on TV in una poltrona, sipping boiled beef broth made by the nonna living on the floor below… the grandmother living below… or, calling their mamma 30 times a day. End of Rant
Baldo continues with i limiti di velocità’…
A mobile phone rings, startling we, the assembled. It’s Baldo’s. He picks it up and studies the illuminated screen, as if there might be Prophecy, while the thing screaches with a Golden Oldie tune…
Mamma. Si-si. Ma, nooo, Mamma. Siii. Si-si, certo. Lei ha detto che non si può. Va bene. Non preoccuparti. Si-si, va bene. Si, Mamma, si. Okayeee, Mamma. Cosa? No-no. Si, si. Ciao, Mamma. Ciao-ciao-ciao. Si-si-si-si-si…
She hung up on him?
I’m worn-out. I look at the clock on my iPhone. Still more to go.
Back to the speed limits. They are not posted. Nope. You have to know them. Mentioned previously, you are responsible for knowing, even if you don’t know you don’t know. Got that? That’s Italy. Inside out. However, if what you are supposed to know, you know, ie, the speed limits in any applicable area of city, country, planet, etc., not to fear, the Authorities do post any variations. Yippee? What a relief. Mostly at curves so, you won’t go flying off into the wild Verde-Bianco-Rosso-yonder you hadn’t expected to visit: crashing into a multi-family home, clearing out several Chinese stores fronts, off a hiiiiigh cliff.
Baldo is on the verge of explaining some subtlety of our day’s speed limit instruction…
Oh! My!! God!!! Who are these folk? A young family of three comes on through, like the place is a thorough-faire to a supermercato: a Mamma Bear, a Papa Bear and a little 3 year old Baby Bear, sucking on a ciuccio… a pacifier. A noisy entrance. Baldo stops to hug the pacifier sucker. Ends up hugging & kissing the other two. Then, the little one goes into his grasp, is put back down and runs all about the room. The young adults are massively, thickly, ornately tattooed. Now, if I had been at that tender age of 3 and my mother had thought it fit to emblazon herself with even one tattoo, much less to cover every portion of her 5’-4” body, I would have broken into a frightful BAWL to end all bawls, have wiggled FREE of her grasp and attempted to FLEE to Canada. Ciuccio in tow… for something to suck on in moments of distress. From where do parents under 25 get the money to spend hundreds and hundreds of €€€’s on such graphic and corporeal displays? They have a child!!! What about her college education? Then, head to the beach for a day of sun n‘ fun? Not cheap either. Accruing a deep, dark, enviable tan. They are Italians so, they do not burn & freckle like any Good Anglo-Saxon would. Hey! Don’t they see? Italians are classically myopic. The tan HIDES the message. KILLS the impact. Not to ignore, their legibility? After spending the equivalent of a Mercedes-Benz and on ink? Ain’t it a poison?
A couple of similar examples of tan & tattoos.
However, the little family reunion of Baldo’s niece… we discover by Public Announcement… her significant other of more than 9 months duration, I suppose… as I spied no rings… and child, a familial grouping ideal for a contemporary altar piece, have given me an idea to beat the qwtz! I am seriously contemplating tattooing the entire speeding section off the Italian Rules & Regulations of the Road manual. Both arms and legs and, maybe even my White-wine nourished tummy. That ought to do it. An added plus is the Italian Driving Theory test givers will never know. Nope. Never. Ever…
a word to the wise: Italians really only look at three things: one, which I can share with you, are the shoes you have on. Please take note.
Oh, Look! Our hour and a half are up. Gosh, golly. So much fun. So much information. Where’s the bar?