Directions, Italian Style Part II

Another scam?

It's a scam as old as Rome itself.  Unsuspecting visitors to the city (aka Pam and Charley) are walking along the Tiber when a car pulls up.  The driver is dressed in a white shirt with rolled up sleeves, a tie, and long pants.  Pointing to a city map, he asks for directions in broken English. 

He explains he is Italian but unfamiliar with the city, becauses he works for a well-known clothing designer in Paris.  At this point he pulls out a catalogue of clothing by the afore-named designer.

I actually know where we are and where he wants to go.  Being a do-gooder, I give instructions in a couple of  English sentences mixed with Italian.  On the sidewalk Charley is tugging at my sleeve to get going.

"Grazie, grazie," the man says.  "Here, a leather bag from my designer with thanks.  No charge!"  With this, he thrusts a bag into Charley's arms.   Red lights are flashing in my brain and Charley's.  Charley thrusts the bag back into the man's lap.

"Non, non, per favore, please take."  The bag passes back into Charley's arms.  "In return, a little money for gas?"   Charley heaves the bag through the car window onto the passenger seat and yanks me along the sidewalk.

It must have been the same con artist our friends met along the Tiber.  There was an added twist to their story.  After the guy thrust a "freebie" into their hands and asked for gas money, a second official-looking black Mercedes pulled up behind.  The crook took off and a burly 6'5" agent-type jumped out of the Mercedes.  "Documentazione, per favore," he said, asking our friends for their identification.  They produced drivers' licenses and were instructed not to pay anyone who stopped in a car.  Including him?  After all, he was the one holding their drivers' licenses.  Was he part of the scam?  Moral of story:  keep walking.

One last story about Italians and their directions.  On a trip to Lake Como, we inquired in our hotel if there were a walking trail around the Lake. 

"Certo, signora!  Follow the garden path behind the hotel.  There are stone steps up the hillside and they will lead you along the top with beautiful views."

We found the gardens and the path.  We even found the stone steps.  They should have been our first clue.  They were crumbling and in many areas there were no steps at all.  Just like the nonexistent guard rails along hairpin turns on the Amalfi Drive. 

We continued climbing vertically in our trusty cross-trainers, intent on getting some exercise after all the pasta.  At the top, we walked several hundred yards and had magnificent views.  We had left any trace of a trail behind. 

"Let's turn back,"  Charley said.

Since he has absolutely no sense of direction, I'm usually the navigator.  "I think if we continue along we'll see the next little town below us," I said.

An hour more and we had no clue where we were.  In desperation we took the first steps downward and hoped for the best.  There was no "good" or "better," let alone "best."  There were no steps after the first ten.  I slid in mud down the hillside on my butt.  We ended up in someone's backyard garden and crept back to our hotel along the road.  Within twenty-four hours I was covered in poison ivy.

                                                                      

    

Directions, Italian Style Part I

     It's not the Italians' fault.  Their DNA is missing the gene.  Here's a quote from The Rise of Rome by Anthony Everitt, page 291:  "Go uphill past the arcade by the market, straight along the road.  Rattle your way down that.  Next there's a little shrine on this side, and there's an alleyway thereabouts...there's also a big fig tree.  But you can't get through that alleyway..."  From sometime in the middle of the second century!

     Take this trip, for example.  We began in Rome and spent one morning walking through Trastevere.  Then decided we wanted to cross the Tiber to walk through the Roman Portico of Octavia and the Jewish ghetto before lunch in Campo dei Fiori.  We knew the trolley tracks crossed the Tiber, and approached a uniformed poliziatype for directions to the bridge.  (Note:  there are different kinds of "polizia" en Italia, so you have to know that "carbinieri" are a notch above the "polizia" and won't answer if you ask for directions.  The "constabulari" fit in there somewhere, so consult your guidebook before asking directions in Italy.)

     "Dove (where is) il Ponte Cestio?" I asked.  I was always complimented for my pronunciation in the Italian classes I took. 

     Expecting him to say, "Diretto," meaning "straight along the trolley line," I was surprised when he said, "Come?" ( "What?").

     I tried again.  And got the same response.  "Come?"

     I repeated "Ponte Cestio" again.  This time I added "Dove?" at the end and changed the accent.

    That made all the difference.  "Diretto," I heard.

     The hotel made a dinner reservation for us at a local trattoria.  The splintered-toothed concierge told us, "Just ten meters down this street, then left at La Fontana Barberini.  Very easy!"  We walked as we were told but at the Fountain, five roads collided.  In the center on a pedestal stood a polizio?, carbiniero?, beekeeper? directing traffic.  From the back with his white gloves moving rapidly, his white jacket, and his white helmet flapping down his back, he looked as though he were swatting bees away.  Of course he was unapproachable.  We took a hard left.  Wrong!  Back to the la fontana to try the middle left.  Wrong again!  Last try down the soft left.  Finally, ecco la!  Thirty minutes late for a reservation en Italia means nothing.  Your friends will still be waiting for you, after their first bottle of wine.

     At our hotel in Trieste I asked to use the guests' computer.  "Certo, signora," I heard.  "Behind the marble columns next to the bar is a hall.  Go down the hall, take the second left, and the computer will be there.  You will not need a password,  it is free."

     I found the bar ok, and the columns.  There were two closed doors behind, and in front of the doors was a sign that read, "Non Ingresso"  ("no entrance"). I was always good at following orders (Charley would not confirm that!), so turned around and looked for another hall.  Nothing.  Back to the front desk.  "It's the hall where there are two doors," I heard.

     I opened the doors marked, "No Entrance," and found the computer room down on the left side.  The computer was sleeping.  I did what I do at home to wake my laptop up.  This Italian was stubborn. Back to the front desk.

     The bellhop came and reached down to the floor to switch on a button someone never mentioned.  Non problema!

     All of this probably explains why the ANTIMAFIA DEPARTMENT in a blocklong building on the Tiber can't rid the country of its gangsters!

     TO BE CONTINUED....