Saturday, January 31, 2015

Deranged Lover

I'm pretty sure some of you assume I pass the time adhered to my canvas ikea sofa, eating ragù and drinking chianti on weekday afternoons. and you know what? you're not even half wrong.

Today before my second dinner of chinese takeout, I made a loaf of bread with my bare hands, watched it rise for an hour, then watched it bake for another hour, and then spent three minutes gobbling half of it down after smothering it in black truffle pâté. I actually ate so much minced truffle that I considered this may be the source of the mild hallucinatory headache I am currently experiencing. That, or the MSG, nobody can say for sure.  





But there are other things I do. Like school. I do school. and at the moment that's driving school. Actually if I'm to be sincere, I'll admit I skipped school tonight in favor of fresh bread and truffles on my canvas ikea sofa, but it's Friday so I petition for charity. 

Hell hath frozen over.  I know this to be true because I have officiated the reincarnation of my 15 year old self, a life milestone I thought I left behind in the plastic chairs of Bakkers Driving School that made my butt itch whenever I wore lycra tights. The only difference is that this time I'm twice the age of my peers and don't understand a lick of what my 90 year-old, sass-throwing, bowtie-wearing, southern-italian-speaking instructor has to say.  I'm not exaggerating when I say that there are only two things he's ever muttered that I was capable of understanding. The first was the day I made my debut in the classroom:

Prof: "Ciao cara, da dove sei?" [Hi dear, where are you from?
Me: "California" 
Prof: "Che cazzo stai facendo qua?" [What the dick are you doing here?

The second underscores the only theoretical point in the last four weeks to have left his lips, entered my ear, and successfully wriggled its way into the folds of my cortex. It occurred when he proselytized last week in all seriousness that "periods of driving for 3 hours or more merit a pitstop for a leg stretch and a cigarette." Dogma, folks. I mean, I paid 500 euros for this kind of golden wisdom. 

I frequent the autoscuola because I have to. Because there's no reciprocity between each our great nations in spite of the fact that it's TWO THOUSAND BLOODY FIFTEEN and I've been taking the road more AND less traveled for over fifteen years. My American license is effectively no more valid than my diminishing sense of self worth. 

The exam consists of 40 questions, True or False, and I have to miss not more than four. It's not as easy as it sounds, thanks to a language barrier more formidable than those shields employed by the riot police on American college campuses these days. I do my practice questions online with two windows open- one dedicated to sample questions, the other to GoogleTranslate.




(Wot??????)



Umm.. False????????





Next time my vehicle catches fire actually I think I will throw a wet blanket and earth at it.



One of my favorites:




"If you see a wounded person in shock, you'll help him if you make him drink small amounts of liquor". 

(TRUTH. HEL-LO.) 

And this one:




"In the event of fog, it's better to leave your seatbelt unbuckled so that you're more ready to abandon the vehicle in the event of an accident."


Mmmhmmm. 


And a question that recapitulates and even substantiates the stereotype of driving in Italy:



"This sign indicates the MINIMUM speed limit"

(TRUE). I mean, these people park on the sidewalk, ride mopeds with four dining room chairs strapped to the back and one under the crux of each arm, and have limits on how SLOW they're allowed to go. 

So my theory exam is in precisely one week. I am having some some serious doubts about my preparedness considering on my last four practice exams I missed 12, 13, 18, and 14, questions, respectively. 

One evening while on a stroll with my Italian husband-to-be (who is the embodiment of why I am willing to suffer said annoyances) I brazenly asked if he would reward my perseverance with a beautiful new black painted tinted-windowed Range Rover (a deplorably environmentally unfriendly vehicle I will never admit to secretly adoring) once I pass  the tests for my driver's license. He responded by saying that he would get me one someday, only if I agreed to have the writing on the back changed from R A N G E R O V E R   to    D E R A N G E D L O V E R, a suggestion I think demeans his true genius, but he seems to think is great.  He also said that in the meantime he would get me something similar but more affordable. Something more like this: 




So, nobody's going anywhere in a hurry. 

4 comments:

The Schumanator said...

1. I adore your 15 year old self.
2. Maybe G could just bring his Colorado Subaru (with what I understand to be bumper stickers proclaiming the glory of nature) back to you?

Liv said...

I adore you too Schumanator. A lesbaru is a great idea!

Anonymous said...

Hang in there Baby! (Course fee already in your account.)

Of course there is always public transportation, which you have mastered by now.

Love,
A

Anonymous said...

Who knew that Italian driving school would be harder than Italian medical school?