Viva Italia
- rnv178
- Jun 5, 2022
- 4 min read
Updated: Jun 10, 2022
I suppose to sit in a line of traffic waiting to enter the Mont Blanc Tunnel, the Tunel du Mont Blanc, is as good a place as any to spend a wedding anniversary, for that was where we were. It was 39 years after we walked the aisle. The 11.6-kilometre tunnel, which is buried up to three kilometres below ground, was opened in 1965. It now sees more than 3000 cars daily, nearly 2000 lorries, and at least 50 coaches. The place is busy - very busy - and in 1999 was the scene of a tragedy, when 39 people died thanks to a lorry that caught fire in the tunnel. A memorial to the dead, sombre viewing, stood by the side of the road as we wound our way up the mountain to join the traffic queuing for the tunnel. You do not forget the tunnel quickly.
Once the 20-minute tunnel passage was over, we burst into Italy, just above the ski town of Courmayeur, to head down the Aosta Valley. This is an autonomous region of Italy, the least populated part of the land, with a snow season that can last up to nine months added to a daily summer mist. Italy is different to France. It feels poorer, and certainly its GDP per capita is lower than its neighbour (US$44100/capita vs US$38200/capita in 2017), even if it owns the world’s third largest gold reserve. It is certainly more haphazard and relaxed, but that is the Italian way. Italians love a chat, which is fine for me, as I am told I can talk for England.
First stop was for some Italian petrol, which turned out to be roughly the same price as in France. This time there was an assistant to do the filling for us, something we had not seen earlier in our journey, and he also removed squidged bugs from our windscreen. We are seeing more insects now, which is good, although counting dead bodies on a windscreen does seem a cruel way of judging species survival. There was a loquat tree growing vigorously outside the garage, with fruit that was beginning to rot. I had not seen a loquat before - its Latin name is Eriobotrya japonica - but the species originally came from China. You can eat its fruit, drink its juice, make light wine from it, or even a liqueur called nespolino.
The countryside of northern Italy is greener, with smaller fields than France. The fields were separated largely by dykes - I do not mean the slang - and were often flooded, as this was the rice-growing area of the land. Nowhere could we see a dry-stone wall, so familiar to us in England. Italy has nearly 600,000 acres of paddy to produce 1.5 million metric tons of rice each year, which makes it easily the largest rice producer in the European Union. Rice was in full swing each side of us, as we headed towards the city of Lucca. Happily, there were fewer wind turbines, that huge blot on an otherwise scenic French landscape, but we could not escape the pylons. Why is it that mankind cannot bury its cables? Is there something I cannot understand?
I made a mess of a loo door today. Not a messy mess but I simply could not open it. It was creamy yellow, wooden, tight shut, and I was desperate. I pushed and pulled, kicked and thumped, and eventually yelled, screamed, and begged assistance from a nearby loo cleaner, a lady hard at work in the gents.
“It is open,” she declared, her arms waving as only Italians can do. Their language is both a verbal and physical experience.
“It is closed,” I replied in a reserved British tone, and no arm movements at all.
“Like this,” she continued, smiled broadly, leaned past me, and slid the door open with ease.
“A sliding door!” I exclaimed. “There is no sign to say so.”
“It is normal,” said the lady with a shrug, her palms facing upwards, and went back to cleaning loos. Meanwhile I did what men do in service stations while logging in my memory that Italian doors can slide.
Heading south began to be spooky as the temperature speedily rose. An hour north of our endpoint of Lucca and it hit 34.5°C. Early June, 34.5, did not make sense. The average early-June temperature for Tuscany, for that was where we now were, was 14-24°C. The day was more than ten degrees hotter. We may be seeing plenty of squidged insects, but our planet is behaving oddly. That much is obvious.
Lucca is a magical place, the birthplace of the composer Puccini and many famous names besides, but like so much of ancient Italy, it needs a facelift. There are some structures within it that date to the first century AD. Lucca does not like cars, which is to its credit, and there were signs on all its approach roads warning that vehicles were forbidden. By the time we reached its outskirts we were sure the police would be waiting, and we would spend the remainder of our journey in jail.
But no, we vibrated over its narrow and cobbled streets, turning left and right, and more than once nearly losing a bumper and both wing mirrors. Moments later, and astonishingly with a car still unscratched, we pulled up to our hotel, the Palazzo Dipinto. A local parade was drum-thumping nearby, accompanied by two men on stilts and plenty others throwing flags, as they headed to the city’s central square along the Via San Paolino. Welcome, we thought, to Lucca.
***
Stayed at:
Palazzo Dipinto
Piazza del Palazzo Dipinto
55100 Lucca
Tel: +39(0)583582873
Dinner at:
Madama Butterfly, Piazza Cittadella 9, 55100 Lucca
Tel: +39(0)583583503
Advice: Don’t rush to copy us
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