CS Broadcasting Highlights of the Year 2008

Again, bright sunshine, blues skies and a warm wind. The clouds are trailing up the lake instead of down it, moving south-to-north rather than the more usual north-to-south.

Traditionally in the UK at Christmas time, there's plenty of tv-watching going on. The Brits have several excuses for slobbing out in front of the box at what they know should be a supremely social time of year. Perhaps the weather is awful and a walk doesn't seem too inviting. Or maybe you've eaten too much and can't get off the sofa. Or, better still, you want to avoid a deep and meaningless conversation with champion trainspotter Uncle Reg on the one hand and the more-than-slightly-overweight-and-nuts-to-boot Cousin Dottie on the other.

Much of what gets shown on tv at Christmas is either old stuff that everybody seems to like (Only Fools and Horses, James Bond with Sean Connery, or Cartoon Time with Roy Hudd and Emu) or content that's already been shown at least once in the year, repackaged to look like something different. An example of this is the 'Best of...' or 'Worst of...' or, more entertainingly, 'Out-takes from...'. Let's face it, this last option is cheap, and it's already been road-tested so it can't flop.

There's no tv in the House on the Hill, and given that I'm about as busy as the Boys from the Beeb at this time of year, I thought I'd do my own highlights of the year from CSB Carmine Superiore Broadcasting.


The Funniest Post of the Year (in me own 'umble opinion) : Breakfast time in Carmine Superiore is a time of virtuoso versatility amid a whirlwind of frenzied activity. A time during which Mama wears many hats...

The Most Heartfelt Post of the Year : This year, we lost too many friends and loved-ones. Such life-changing moments tend to put all other human preoccupations into perspective, and in the midst of our grief, it was the children who kept us moving in the right direction - always towards the future.

The Most Read Post of the Year : This post, a personal guide to Carmine Superiore and Lago Maggiore, drew more than 300 views and 60 comments.

My Favourite Picture of the Year : I can't decide. First, are the flowers after the rain, and second are the camellias that I caught doing arty-farty things in the fontana one Sunday afternoon. And then there was this image of the strangest mist I've seen in my few years here in Carmine, and one of the prettiest of the frescoes in the church. Click on the image to see larger versions; it's worth it.

Best Book of the Year : Again, I can't make up my mind. I can't decide between The Bad Girl on the one hand and Runemarks on the other. Or perhaps the best was The Enchantress of Florence, or maybe it was Neverwhere. Oh dammit! You choose.

Best Carmine Quote of the Year : This came from my neighbour, KK, who is well-known for his dry, quick and clever one-liners.

This Year's Greatest Personal Achievement : I know thousands of people do it every day but it meant a lot to me...

This Year's Largest House-Renovation Project : It was finished in time for winter...

This Year's Greatest Leap Forward in the Italian Vocab Stakes : Sadly, it was on the subject of allergies...

And finally... The Most Sickeningly Self-Satisfied Post of the Year : It has to be this one!

Happy Reading!

Copyright © Louise Bostock 2007, 2008. All rights reserved. Please ask first.

One last driving story : A is for Autostrada

Warmish and overcast this morning. Damp after yesterday's rain and threatening more.

It was warmish and overcast as I trotted the dotties down the hill at 8:45, and it was still warmish and overcast as I loaded them into the car and spread out a succession of food, drinks, treats and last-ditch bribes on the passenger seat beside me.

It was warmish and overcast driving along the lake road through Cannero Riviera and on to Verbania. It was warmish and overcast as I whizzed past the train station at Fondotoce, the outer limit of my solo driving experience.

It was warmish and overcast as I filtered onto the A26 heading towards Milan.

I passed through the familiar litany of tunnels - Mottarone Secondo, Mottarone Primo, Mottavinea, Massino Visconti - and as I took a ticket at the toll gate it was warmish and overcast. Two more tunnels followed - Dorbie and Melissa - and then off to pay the toll and onwards on the SS33/SS36 through Vergiate, Somma Lombardo and Case Nuove.

At Malpensa arrivals, warmish and overcast weather watched over me as I negotiated my first multi-storey car park. I would like to say that a ray of sunshine fell on me as, flush with the excitement of still being in one piece, I hurried to greet my husband, AJ at my side, B in my arms. But it didn't. It was still warmish and overcast.

Then it was : Case Nuove, Somma Lombardo, Vergiate, Melissa, Dorbie, Massino Visconti, Mottavinea, Mottarone Primo, Mottarone Secondo, Fondotoce, Verbania, Cannero and ... home.

Where it was bucketing it down.

Baptism by carabinieri

Twenty-four degrees at 11am. Cloudy and windy.

Yesterday, while driving the two dotties to the festa dei palloncini, I was with some relief entering the Cannobio 50-clicks-an-hour-zone, when, Whammo!, out jumps a boy in blue with his red palletta and waves me over to a stopping place. I narrowly miss taking him out (and I don't mean on a date).

He approaches the window, unaware of his recent brush with the everlasting. His chum has what seems to me to be a rather threatening sub-machine gun held at the ready, and they're both wearing bullet-proof vests over their jackets (just so you know they're ready for the rough stuff).

"Buongiorno signora. Licence please." I jump for my purse and flourish my shiny new licence in his face. I see a fleeting sadistic grin as he notes the date on the licence and the enormous P signs in the front and rear windscreens. A greenhorn.

"Libretto della macchina."

"Erm, sorry?"

"Car registration documents."

I scrabble about among the wine guides, the maps of Burgundy and Alsace and the used baby wipes. Is this it? No. Is that it? No. Could it be tucked in the back of the sun visor. No.

"Perhaps I should ask the audience." Joke.

My subliminal vision spots a slightly menacing shift in the angle of the sub-machine gun.

"May I call my husband?"

AJ farts.

"Sure."

Five minutes later, AJ's smelliest still hasn't dispersed, but at least Italy's finest has checked my credentials and found I'm not yet listed as one of Europe's most wanted, even though I might be driving the world's most battered. I'm ordered to have a nice day and left to negotiate getting out of the stopping place, which is thoroughly blocked by what would once have been Britain's greatest - a Land Rover Defender. Having executed a deft 8-point turn, I head towards the road, and momentarily forget which side of it I'm supposed to be driving on.

The sub-machine gun quivers with suppressed laughter.

I don't care. I drive off, not humiliated but exhilarated. Now I know for sure I'm a real, bona fide, baptised-by-carabinieri, autista.




The start of the story :
Learning to drive in Italy : No. 1
Learning to drive in Italy : No. 2
Learning to drive : denouement


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Copyright © Louise Bostock 2007, 2008. All rights reserved. Please ask first.

Another milestone

Thirty-two degrees in the sun at midday. The sky is blue, and the lake is a-flutter with yachts and windsurfers. The woods are full of people in search of wild asparagus.

Today we're planting leeks, basil, peppers, an impulse-bought cranberry bush, and more lettuce.

Yet another driving milestone today : Mama left everyone at home and drove alone to Cannobio for a spot of shopping. Alone in the car for the very first time. I know you drivers don't understand why this is such a big thing, but after 27 years as a non-driver, the freedom is nothing less than intoxicating.

At the bus stop

This morning, in Verbania Intra's central market place, three hapless and pale figures waited at a rainy bus stop. Shivering in the wind. Bus after bus passed them by. No-one raised a listless hand to flag one down. Each took his turn wandering to the end of the street and back, then standing on one spot for five minutes before wandering off again. Vans stopped in the bus bay and the three looked askance at one another, then back at the bay, calculating mentally whether it would be possible to draw in a car behind or in front. All let out a sigh of relief when each vehicle moved on.

Eventually, a small Peugeot drew up carefully. The three watchers at the bus stop snapped to attention. A gay figure stepped out of the driver's seat and bobbed off down the street, seemingly in buoyant mood. The man in the front passenger seat beckoned to one of those waiting and he reluctantly climbed into the driver's seat, looking as if he were on the way to the scaffold.

Twenty minutes later the scene was repeated. More gay bobbing from the erstwhile driver, as if delivered from a fate worse than death. More shivering from the watchers at the bus stop.

Twenty minutes after that it was my turn to take my driving test.

And twenty minutes later, as I pulled back into the bus stop, the shadowy figure wedged into the back seat of the car - the man with the craggy jawline, the clip board and the stiff neck - leaned into the front, and handed me my Italian driver's licence before expelling me into the rain.

I bobbed off to catch a bus for Cannobio to make what I hope to be my last kindergarten-run on public transport.



Recommended : Autoscuola Ceno, Cannobio and Verbania. Thanks to Laura for the coaching for the theory test (and putting up with two screaming children in the car all the way back from Domodossola), and to Romano for allowing me to do the hill start the English way (i.e., using the handbrake). Whatever I may have written to make you laugh about my novice driving exploits, these guys are the most professional and most talented driving educators I could have asked for (and I've been through a few). And we never broke the law or endangered anyone's life...your honour.

Also recommended : chill pills containing a near-miraculous mixture of valerian, melissa and hops.


The rest of the story :

Learning to drive in Italy : No. 1
Learning to drive in Italy : No. 2
Learning to drive : epilogue


Home

Copyright © Louise Bostock 2007, 2008. All rights reserved. Please ask first.

Doing the Theory

Cold and dreary. The air is full of unrained rain, weighing heavy like unshed tears.

Today's small success at the Italian Ministry of Transport in Domodossola has been overshadowed by this week's very bad news. No cremant de Bourgogne for me tonight. Just a cup of tea and bed after a very long day towing two fractious children almost to the Simplon Pass and back.

Still, I just want to describe the scene of this morning's driving theory exam. B is in the waiting room 'reading' Il Mio Primo Dizionario Illustrato to a group of adoring office workers and driving instructors. Mama is in the examination room with the examiner, an ebullient woman in black velvet much given to laughing, a black Brazilian with peroxide corn-rows and an almost impossible-to-decipher accent (also taking the exam), and AJ sitting quiet as a mouse behind me with a single teardrop on his cheek to betray the fact that he screamed the place down when I tried to step into the examination room without him.

The exam itself ranks as possibly the best exam experience I've ever had. Not so much an exam as an animated conversation in pidgin Italian about various signs and what to do in various road-related situations, punctuated by as much laughter as you can get into 15 minutes in the absence of Willie Rushton and Humphrey Littleton.

AJ seems to think it was all good fun. Tomorrow, he says, he would like to take an exam. So that he can fly a helicopter, heroically putting out forest fires and rescuing hapless walkers in the mountains, before flying home for pizza and Fireman Sam.

His version of life sounds good to me.

A milestone for Mama

Twenty degrees at 10am, sunny with patchy clouds and a bit of a wind.

Carmine is fuller today than it was before the weekend, with people arriving for the Easter break, and we are starting to see more day visitors tramping through the woods and hiking up the hill. It's nice to see a little more human life up here.

Today I drove the children to kindergarten, with a large P showing in the rear windscreen and M. riding a rather nervous shotgun.

It may not sound like much to you, but for me it's a milestone.

Basta freni

Nine degrees at 8am - am I right in thinking that average temperatures have risen quite a lot recently? Mixed blue skies and cloud with sunshine at present.

This week I'm taking an hour's driving instruction every day. The children are once more with their German grandparents and I'm on my honour to make use of every moment of child-free time to "forward this project" as they might say in big business.

My instructor and I are having a blast. Well, actually, he's having a blast. For the princely sum of €28 an hour he sits in the passenger seat wearing Gadaffi-effect mirrored sunglasses and blasts me. He doesn't stop blasting me for a moment. If I hear "Basta frenare ... basta freni ... basta... basta ... BASTA!" one more time, I'll die laughing. Basta frenare means 'get off the brake'. It's a cultural thing you know - in England I was taught to brake for junctions and roundabouts, here it's, well, different.

For 60 fun-filled minutes we pootle along at something more than the local speed limit of 50 klicks an hour, waving at policemen, tooting his friends and laughing about the pedestrians I've just narrowly missed in the tiny, winding, cobbled streets of Intra's vecchio borgo.

In the last few weeks on the road and in the classroom at the scuola guida, I've come to understand far more profoundly than ever before that driving habits are cultural. For example, English tourists driving hire cars with Italian plates instantly give their nationality away simply by indicating when leaving a roundabout. Other nationalities might, to give another example, slow down as they approach an amber light, but if Italian blood pulses hotly in your veins you will speed up to get through before the change to red.

Here, this desperation to beat the lights has been formalised into something called the onda verde, or green wave (a bit like a Mexican wave but with greater practical application). Signs appear on the side of the road giving the speed at which you have to be travelling to get through the tedious series of traffic lights ahead of you. Without stopping. Sometimes you have to be going scarily fast, and the existence of this advice (do 80klicks+ and the traffic lights will be with you) is faintly worrying.

It reminds me of very late nights on the Marylebone Road - a huge inner city dual carriageway in London - where silly young people who thought they were immortal would try to drive the whole length of the road in a battered Triumph Herald without hitting a single red or amber. If you wanted synchronised green all along, you had to be doing a thoroughly illegal and very stupid 90-100 miles an hour. I have to say though, that this was (omigod) 25 years ago, and there was nothing but us on the Marylebone Road at oh-God hundred hours - today the Marylebone Road is gridlocked 24/7.

Back to the subject. I'm told by my antacid-popping instructor that if you're going straight backwards, there's no need to stop for traffic coming up behind you. They'll stop if they can't get around you .... Oh, and you're a disgrace if you use the handbrake EVER, unless you're parked somewhere dark and quiet and don't want your tryst to be interrupted by a runaway car.

Here's a quick vocabulary roundup for would-be learner drivers in Italy:

Divieto di sosta = no parking (except when there's an R in the name of the month, the Pope's on the tv and/or Italy is without effective government)

Divieto di fermata = no stopping (except when there's an R in the name of the month, the Pope's on tv, Italy is without effective government and/or you've just seen a gorgeous girl you want to get to know better)

Limite massimo di velocita' = speed limit : 50 in towns, 90 on main roads, 110 on dual carriageways and 130 on motorways, double it for males aged between 18 and 26 in red cars with the sun roof open, especially if the gorgeous girl is now in the passenger seat

Dare la precedenza a destra = give way to the right and confuse the hell out of Louise who can't tell her destra from her sinistra even on a high-progesterone day

Senso vietato = no entry (one way street), unless the street happens to have your favourite bar in it, in which case entering it in reverse gear is fine as long as you resist the urge to check out of the back window while you're doing it

Fermarsi e dare precedenza = Stop and give way, unless you're doing 50km/h in third and have forgotten to brake/change down because you were busy checking your lipstick. In which case, lean on the clacson and go for broke (that's broke, not brake).

Happy driving!




The other parts of the story :

Learning to drive in Italy No. 1
Learning to drive : denouement
Learning to drive : epilogue

Home

Copyright © Louise Bostock 2007, 2008. All rights reserved. Please ask first.

Foglio rosa

Five degrees at 8:30am. Hazy sunshine.

Yesterday evening I received a foglio rosa (liberally translates as, 'pink card'). This does not mean I'm a girl and I must get off the pitch. Nor does it mean that someone did send me a Valentine after all.

No. It's something quite scary. Actually, it's something very scary. Scary for me, but if you're using the roads in the vicinity of Verbania in the next few months, also scary for you.

My advice is : be afraid, be very afraid...

Yes, the foglio rosa is the Italian provisional driver's licence, and I now have one about my person, with my name on it. What did I do to get it? I paid the autoscuola €220 to register, and the doctor €32 for a stamp on a form, which had a €14.62 marca da bollo on it (acquired from the shifty little chap in the tobacconist).

Acquisition of said foglio rosa means I can get started on the practical lessons, and I can practice in any car with someone accompanying me (just as in the UK). The question of where I will find such a courageous hero remains for the moment unanswered. I can, however, take the kids along for the ride (definitely not as in the UK), so perhaps they'll do as chaperones (not really, Mum).

The following thought will be speeding me (if you'll excuse the allusion) towards my first lezione.

People are broad-minded. They'll accept the fact that a person can be an alcoholic, a dope fiend, a wife beater and even a newspaperman, but if a man doesn't drive, there's something wrong with him.

-- Art Buchwald (who he?)

A licence to ... drive in Italy

Four degrees at 9am. Overcast. Everything is grey, from the nearby trees to the lake and the foothills beyond.

If you think the title of this post sounds like a new year’s resolution, you’re right. But it's not this year’s. And not last year’s, but (it's painful to calculate this) the new year resolution from 1992...

I won’t bore you with the reasons why I’m one of those social misfits who don’t have a driving licence, or, indeed, with the chequered history of my trying to acquire one. Suffice it to say that in the UK I paid for many, many hours of driving instruction. I also paid for several sadistic driving examiners to ride with me, all of whom declined to give me my licence.

I blame my lack of a licence on lack of practice. There was only ever one person brave enough to accompany me while practising. Unhappily, he was brave enough to do it only once.

So here I am in Italy with two small children, prone as all children are to getting worryingly sick sometimes. A&E is 30 minutes away and the emergency doctor service was recently found to be unreassuringly unenthusiastic about the walk up the hill in the middle of the night while my son sat on the kitchen table turning blue. I imagine the children will also in time become prone to swimming lessons, meeting up with friends, and wanting to go clothes shopping on a large scale, and will at some point shun our little Carmine beach for the more glamorous lido at Cannero Riviera (and perhaps if I ever get my figure back, I’ll go with them).

In the past I’ve liked to think of not having held a driving licence for the last (gulp) 27 years as doing my bit to alleviate pollution. But now it’s my turn. I need that licence. And if you do too, the place to start is at the nearest driving school. You will need :

* Codice fiscale (like a National Insurance or Social Security number)
* Identity card or passport
* Permesso di soggiorno per stranieri (from the local police headquarters/questura) or, if you’re from the EU, a certificate from your Comune in Italy that you don’t need a permesso di soggiorno (don't get me started on how difficult it is to get your hands on either of these)
* A medical certificate (the driving school will probably arrange this)
* A marca da bollo, or stamp (as in stamp duty) for €14.62 (from some tobacconists)
* More passport photos (fototessera) than you ever thought possible.

Oh, and loads and loads of money – at first count about €600 to be paid in bits and pieces. But I’m sure the final count will approximate the cost of the 2012 Olympic Games.

Waiting for the designated medic to turn up and certify me sane (hah!) so that I can start learning how to drive on the wrong side of the road while at the same time repressing the very English urge to stop at pedestrian crossings and give way at roundabouts, I've started theory lessons. In some of the bigger cities I understand you can do all this in English (how crass, she thinks, wistfully), but out here in the Styx it's Italian or nothing. The only concession to linguistic inability (in my case on a major scale) is that you can opt to do the theory part of the test orally.

And if I don’t stop talking about it and start learning how to say ‘U-turns are prohibited on level crossings with half barriers when the lights are flashing’ in perfect Italian with appropriate hand gestures, the licence will not only cost the equivalent of the Olympic Games, it will also be 2012 before I take the test.



Read what happened next...
Learning to drive in Italy : No. 2
Learning to drive : denouement
Learning to drive : epilogue

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Copyright © Louise Bostock 2007, 2008. All rights reserved. Please ask first.