Welcome to Lost Diaries. My series called Sketches features fleeting exercises in curiosity and observation, this time from central and southern Italy. For deeper reads, you might prefer my Travel Journal.
It is morning, and a pair of shutters fling wide. Inside, a woman is singing along to a stately tune from Handel’s ‘Water Music’ – an appropriately sunny melody, but culturally peculiar in this remote setting. Her neighbour’s dog is large and loud, so I puff on up the steps between the wiggle of medieval apartments (many are in various states of ruin) into the cool depths of Pretoro.
Soon I regain the road and, in the elbow of a hairpin bend, find the Italian flag fluttering above a war memorial. A bronze sculpture of a soldier planting a flagpole, or perhaps leaning on it from exhaustion, stands on an unadorned pedestal. Around its base is a chain supported by four artillery shells posing as bollards, pointy end skyward. The garish colours of a children's play area flank the small monument on either side; a red plastic climbing frame, an orange slide, a ludicrous grinning donkey – as if solemnity were now superfluous. I feel like someone trying to grieve a friend while being handed a celebratory cake.
Two benches, instead of inviting me to come into the enclosure and sit, have been dragged across the entrance, barring the way.
Heading out of town with Alfie, I hear a scurrying sound behind us, and as I turn, a small dog flinches and briefly turns back. He could be dangerous so I waft my hand at him, but when you love dogs and know that even in their most dangerous moments they remain invariably guiltless, it breaks something inside you to reject them too harshly. I try to sound firmer than I feel and say “Go home, go on. Go.” He’s uninterested in the suggestion, but doesn’t trust me either. I waft again and he looks away, skips a little circle, then continues to follow.
A kilometre ahead as we reach the car, he’s still with us, staying 10 paces behind and coyly relaxing his pace whenever he sees me turn around to check on him. I’ve learned his little ways. Tail up, ears forward – he’s just curious. Perhaps a bit suspicious of us too, but that’s ok.
I am in an underground carpark. It’s dark, and I have been crawling the town’s busy streets for over half an hour looking for parking. Here, finally, I can squeeze in, but something about the sketchy glances of the proprietor put me on edge. Leather jacket, shiny jeans, an agile step for a man of his age... how did I get so judgemental? But perhaps my sixth sense is on the right lines.
“25 Euros per night, and you give me keys. For security.”
I hesitate. Then, out of desperation, agree. Then hesitate... and decline. I’ve never left my keys with a stranger, and I don’t plan to now.
“Scusa, no. Scusa. Vado.”
I inwardly flinch, expecting frustration, but it doesn’t come. Only a friendly “No problem, it’s fine,” and a casual Italian shrug. An hour later I’m still nursing a shadowy feeling of guilt.
I’m woken at 4am by banging on the car window, engines running and a rabble of voices outside, immediately answered by a suitably raucous “WHAT THE BLOODY HELL?!” from Alfie, transformed from soppy flophound to infuriated guardian. Multiple torches are beaming into my face, held by fists at shoulder height. Normal people never hold torches like this, only law enforcement. It’s the Carabinieri.
I’ve slept in a lot of laybys and never come to any harm, but I do occasionally receive visits from the police. Usually they’re checking I’m not up to mischief (especially when drove a white Transit van) or dying (when it’s cold and I’m in the middle of nowhere). On this occasion they’re concerned for my safety.
A lot of loud conversation is going on, until eventually one says “No stay here. Dangerous. Dangerous!”
The warning is given in English, but for some reason it’s the Italian word pericoloso that sticks in my mind, as if I’d parked next to a warning sign whose message was percolating into my brain as I slept.
The deliberations continue and soon the two cars motor off, blue lights still flashing.
I’m spooked. When we’re on our home turf, we develop specific knowledge about where is safe and where isn’t, and a feel for what kind of places might be too risky to linger in. In an unknown landscape, we have to rely on more generalised knowledge and listen to our gut. Some neighbourhoods might look smarter than others, but that doesn’t necessarily mean they’re safer. And when you’re out in the sticks you have less information to go on. You could be vulnerable on a remote mountain road that won’t see another car during the hours of darkness, but if the locals are friendly or they won’t spot you anyway, you’re fine. On the other hand, parked next to a main road (if you don’t mind the noise) you have the comfort of knowing that other drivers could come to your aid if trouble arises… but one of these drivers might be an opportunist with a knife.
I had taken my chances and felt safe enough, parked next to a field in the flat, non-descript outskirts of the port town of Brindisi (awaiting a ferry the next day) but these Carabinieri knew the place and I didn’t, so I did the sensible thing and drove on to the ferry terminal.
Then it occured to me: perhaps someone had seen my car parked in a strange place and called the police. Why else would so many Carabinieri have turned up with lights flashing?
Maybe the most threatening thing on that dark country lane was the only person who didn’t belong there – me.
It was a shame that my last night in Italy ended with feelings of insecurity, after two weeks of meeting only kind and welcoming people. From the petrol pump attendants who waive the customary service charge for no apparent reason other than your obvious ‘foreignness’, to the grocery sellers who throw extra vegetables into your bag after you’ve paid (as they seem to do for everyone) or round down the price to a more convenient number, and the vet who spent over two generous hours examining Alfie and didn’t inflate his modest bill, the guides and hosts and café owners and all the cast of randomly-met faces who now, in my memory, contribute to my overall picture of “what the Italians are like”. Categorising a person’s character according to their national identity (or any identity, for that matter) is an exercise in small thinking, but… if you’re Italian, that’s all good with me.
Next stop: Greece 🇬🇷
💪 Safe travels on the other side!