Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
I hit the Autostrada del Sol just south of Firenze early in the morning, bound for Roma.
I had no plans other than seeing Rome. I wanted to round a roundabout and stop for an es-
presso any old where. Things were easing up, what would later be known as manning up. The
world eased into friendly terms, and the adventure was hardly begun.
On a long straightaway in mid-afternoon, somewhere south of Baschi but north of Orte,
deep in the groove of life in movement, I heard a knock, knock, knocking but not on heaven's
door. I killed the engine because I knew what it was as it got louder and uglier, like hammers
on anvils, tearing cylinders asunder. It sounded too late. Life had rolled down an Italian high-
way to beautiful horizons till it clanged, banged and clattered to a stop.
Bummer. A surly little guy from Manchester who described himself as a BSA mechanic
had adjusted my tappets at the campground in Pamplona and then test-drove my motorcycle
at a hundred forty. I thought he was bullshitting but wound it out myself and thought he'd
done it right. Two weeks later it didn't matter. I found neutral to avoid seizing the tranny too,
then coasted to the shoulder on a rattle and shudder. I didn't have a degree yet but was already
thinking like a college graduate: I needed help.
It didn't take long. The Autostrada had help phones every mile or so, so it was a short hike
to the next box, where I picked it up and asked, “No speaka too gooda Italiano.
Parlez vous
,
humma humma?” On an earful of highspeed Italian I culled for a single syllable of English or
maybe French. I found a few here and there and sought meaning. Then I took my only course
of action: hang out and wait. An hour later a flatbed pulled up with a ramp and tie downs.
I didn't get it. That wouldn't happen in the Land of the Free. I rode shotgun, and before too
long, somewhere south of Orte, we pulled into a rest stop.
This too was different than your average interstate relief station. Instead of a parking lot,
bathrooms and many children, this place was an olive grove with a terrace café overlooking a
lake. The driver explained something in Italian and led the way to a table in the café, where
he introduced an old man who sat there. he old man told me to sit and ordered a round
of
Fernet-Branca
. The driver drifted of. Who knew? Into that beautiful setting the drinks ar-
rived.
Fernet- Branca
is a liqueur, black and thick as roofing tar with a dash of mud and sugar,
served in a fine, thin jigger with a lemon twist.
Well, it'd been a long goddamn day, so I put it down the hatch. The old man watched to
see if I'd drop dead. When I didn't, he ordered another round. We talked, kind of. In sparse
French he said he spent his days there in the café—
toujours dans le café
—but it wasn't always
like that. He'd been in the
guerre
, WWII. “Ah,” I nodded. “
Tu est un fascist.
”
“No!” he bellowed, winding up to swat me. But then he laughed and ordered us one more
round. In an hour the driver came back out and we were on our way. I was not allowed to
pay. What a day. What an old soldier. What a gut bomb, but never mind; what hospitality and
peace of mind.
Back on the Autostrada, the driver asked many questions.
