Wherefore art thou, Kinsley?

Denise (a.k.a. Kinsley), my eldest (24, except she couldn't be because do you know how old that would make me?) daughter, spent her junior year of high school in Italy. She lived in Guidizzolo, a small town about half way between Milano and Venice.

She's over here travelling with her main squeeze Jared Grogan and their friend Heidi Plotts. Susan, Mirella and I rented a car (we prefer the VW Passat over either Mercedes, for space, comfort and drivability), and headed over to the pretty town of Mantova, which Susan knows well. Meanwhile, Denise and crew were touring Rome, Florence, and, finally, Pisa (I suggested they check out the bell tower, an outstanding example of 15th, or whatever, century architecture). Denise announced that they would be arriving at Verona, the largest town in the area, at about eight Saturday night. I offered "Oh, fine, I'll just pick you guys up."

Here was my "thinking": Verona is about an hour from Guidizzolo. Somebody in Denise's host family took them to Verona earlier in the week, so I would be saving them two more hours of driving. Further, Susan, Mirella and I were staying in Mantova, which is only about 25 minutes from Vernoa by autostrada. And finally, the train arrived late enough that Susan and the baby would likely be in for the evening in any case.

The part I haven't mentioned yet is that I have never been to Verona in my life. Nor did I have, nor had I looked at, a map of the city. But you see, Italy has very good signage. In every town, even little ones, there is a target-shaped black and white icon for Centro, the Center, and the train station is always near the center, right? Although never exactly in the center, because the oldest part of the town is almost always now a "pedestrian area", where cars, at least most cars, are not allowed. (There are always enough cars to make you a little nervous and a little curious about who does get to drive there).

Traffic was heavy leaving Mantova, I was running a little late, but not bad. The gentleman who took my toll after leaving the autostrada was helpful. "Turn left after the (something or other that sounded to me like) "fairgrounds" (only with a capital "F"), then follow the signs. Ten minutes."

Well, I got to the center all right. On several occasions I saw signs for Statzione. Denise called me a few times and told me she could see a church from the steps. In Italy, this information isn't as helpful as it would be in, say, Novaya Zemlya, off the coast of Russia.

I overcame my healthy male aversion to asking strangers for directions. Several times. Each of the courteous Italians (actually, I think one was an American speaking Italian) said something to me that sounded like "The train station? Turn around, go to the second stop light (semaforo - I love that word!), turn right, then blahbedy blah blah on the right blah blah until blah blah the station." The point, of course, is that my Italian is now officially good enough to be dangerous.

Did I mention that I couldn't find my driver's license and had left my passport with Susan in Mantova? So, I had a strong aversion to attracting the attention of the local police, which can happen if the same car drives around the same several blocks for hours on end.

Verona has an excellently-preserved Roman ampitheater that was built in the first century A.D. This should suggest to you that the streets were not built using the grid system that we might find in Findlay, Ohio, say. Even more depressing was that I never (knowingly) even saw this structure, which I must assume is both large and distinctive.

Did I mention that it was nighttime? In an earlier posting I pointed out that a typical Italian roundabout might have 15 signs for the three or four or five possible exits (not counting the exit that you come in on, which might well be the right one). These are even more challenging at night, flying solo.

At one point, several hundred, I'm not making this up, Harleys and similar bikes, each ridden by a person (or more than one) dressed as Santa, roared and rumbled by. (Come to think of it, they were escorted by the police, which might explain my good luck in that regard.) It was depressing that Denise had not seen nor heard this procession when she next called. While she knew the names of the streets by the station, she couldn't "talk me in" because, like myself, she had no idea where I was either, although I was near a church.

Finally, don't ask me how, I found the large, train station-looking building ("Is it that yellowish color with a lot of big vertical windows?" "Yes!"). We were late for dinner, but Meri Ghisolfi, Denise's host mom, took care of business as she always does.

Lessons learned? Never blah blah blahbedy without first checking if blah blah, Roman ampitheater blah blah, and never, ever blah blah blah.

(And if you're curious, the statzione is in square F2, lower left, of the map. Now I look at a map!)