Of Handlebars and Wheels

Pedestrian Only (HA!)

"Get a bicycle. You will not 

regret it if you live."
~ Mark Twain

I'm thinking that if I make it out of Bologna without getting run over by a scooter or bicycle, I've had a successful trip.  Seriously. Buses and cars do not scare me half as much as the scooters, and those don't scare me as much as the bikes.

You can see a bus or car coming down the street more easily than you can see a scooter or bike.  That said, some drivers don't pay attention to lights and signs, so they can be dangerous, too. Just last night, a bus driver decided to run a red light and turn while I was legally crossing the street. Feeling that little wind a bit too close to my leg was not pleasant, and I'm sure the bus driver realized I wasn't happy by the string of words I threw his way as he completed the turn.

But, I digress. What makes the bikes the most dangerous is that there are no real laws governing them, although the cyclists are supposed to follow the traffic laws.  (Please excuse me for choking at that one.)  They are supposed to stop for lights, signal turns, ride in bike lanes, and stop at crosswalks.  Most importantly, they are not supposed to ride in the pedestrian lanes (top photo) or under the porticoes (photo below),

 I've invented a new game and hope to market it my next trip to Bologna:  Dodge the Cyclists.  I play it everyday, and it's very easy.  You can play it solo or in teams if you travel in groups. The basic rules are that you walk through a piazza or down a street in Bologna and see how close a cyclist can get to you without running you over.  If the cyclist is eating, smoking, checking his/her watch, or talking on the phone, you get an extra point. If the cyclist is doing two of the above, you get five extra points.

I'm not against cycling at all, by the way.  I think it's great that so many Europeans cycle.  In 2009, the Italian government offered incentives for Italians to hop on cycles and give up their wheels. So many did, that bike—not scooter—sales outpaced car sales here for two or three years.  Given the cost of gas (upwards of 2 euro/liter), insurance, and upkeep, it's really not a surprise.

 In Bologna, 20% of the people use bikes daily to commute to work, school, shops, etc.  Compared to Copenhagen (55%), Amsterdam (40%), and even Ferrara (34%), that might not seem like a lot, but compared to the US where less than 1% regularly commute via bike, that's huge.

 I think that about 95% of those Bologna bikers have whizzed by me at one time or another over the past six weeks. The scariest thing is walking through a piazza and having two simultaneously pass you going in opposite directions. No, wait. The scariest thing is walking down a sidewalk and moving to avoid something only to have a bike swerve to miss the same thing and almost hit you.  No, wait. The scariest thing is crossing a street on a "Walk" signal and having a cyclist ignore his/her stop and almost plow into you.  No, wait.... Well,  you get my drift.
 
I'm thinking that the Italian government might consider requiring cyclists to take a road test and get a license to ride.

 Of course, if the government did that, I'd have to rethink my game.

Knock. Knock.

 "Bologna is a lot of things, my friend.

It's always been the center of free thought

 and intellectual activity in Italy. . . "

~ From The Broker by John Grisham

I have one more full day in Italy, and by this time tomorrow, Mike will be here with me.  I sent him a photo so he'll be able to recognize me with my melon-head. I'm only joking. I'm not quite over the shock of having so much hair cut, but it's growing on me.  It helps that people like it.

"Cristina, ciao!" Massimo #341 greeted me this morning. "Your new hair looks very Italian."   And, he's probably right.  While I had cappuccino this morning, I watched Italian women walk through the market area, and most of them had very short hair or longer hair.  Nothing in between here. So, I'll skip the hat for now.

 I've noticed over the past few weeks that I am finally thinking in Italian more often and not thinking of what I want to say in English, translating it into Italian, and then screwing it up when I say it. I've cut out the middle man and just think in Italian and make mistakes as I go. Luckily, most of my friends come to my aid and correct me or give me the word I need.  Speaking Spanish has also become less of a problem as now when I try to talk to my friend, Cesare, in Spanish, I end up speaking more Italian than I do Spanish.

"You have learned a lot fast, my friend," he told me.

"I try."

 

 This morning I met a woman walking a wire-haired dachshund, and I had to pet him, of course.

"My mother used to have a bassotto," I mentioned.  "His name was Oscar."

"This one is called Pedro," she told me half in Spanish and half in Italian.  I am NOT the only one.

"Do you speak Spanish?" It was obvious that she did, but I had to ask.

"I speak a little Spanish, a little English, and now because I live in Spain, a little Italian," she sighed.


"So you are from here but living in Spain? Why?"  She told me that her son was a doctor in Sevilla and that she was living with him.

"I miss Bologna," she told me. "And I'm forgetting Italian and mixing my words."

"I say I speak Italo-Span-Glish,"I laughed.

"That's exactly it for me, too."

We parted a few minutes later, and I went to Sala Borsa to write for a bit.  On the way back to the apartment, I took the long way and just looked at doors as I do all the time.  I think I've mentioned this before, but I always wonder what is behind the door...who lives there...how they got there...

When you walk past the door to this apartment, you would not know that there is a very long hall with one apartment at the far end (mine).  Between my door and the front door are two staircases that lead to the upstairs apartments, an elevator, the door to one of my terraces, and two or three other doors that shops on the street use for storage.  Behind the door owned by the butcher who also sells cooked dishes, is a staircase that leads downstairs to an entire kitchen. For six weeks I was wondering why I smelled such wonderful aromas every morning (and why I was hearing banging and clanging of pots and pans around 5:30 am).

Sometimes I stare at the keyholes and knockers on doors.  Most doors, by the way, are double doors, so they have knockers or keyholes (one doesn't work) on both sides. They fascinate me, and I wonder how long they've been there and if they symbolize something.  Last night, I walked into a very old store that sells knockers, keyholes, keys, chandeliers, and a variety of kitchen gadgets (odd, odd place), and I overheard an American woman asking about a particular keyhole.

"I like this one," she said to the owner. "It's very beautiful." The one she was pointing to was about the size of a business card, brass, and filigree.  "How much is it?"

The owner took it off the wall and handed it to her.  "It's very heavy, signora," he said, "brass, and very unique. It's handmade by an artisan here in Bologna, so it costs about 60 euro."  (Side note: $80 US)  The lady almost dropped it.

"I can't afford something like that," she snapped.  "I need two of them."

"Perhaps you want to look at the machine-made keyholes," he told her.

"They're not as beautiful," she whined.  I rolled my eyes.

"Of course not, signora," he said. "This one is handmade."  I walked out before I said something snarky to her, which I could have done because she was American and I could have used English.

 (Of course, I talk tough, but I'm a wuss at heart...usually.)

I take photos of the keyholes and knockers a lot, so I'm sharing a few tonight.  My favorites from this group are the one at the top which is on a door to a farmacia, and the one just below this paragraph.  I see a number of keyholes that look like a human yawning or screaming or something.There's a different one a few photos above this, too.

I'm going to get up very early tomorrow and walk around Bologna before the few tourists that are here come out. Mike will be on his way over the Atlantic, and Riley will be waiting for Mary to spoil him again.

And then, I'll just wait.

Maybe I Should Buy A Hat

The hair after I fixed it.

". . .My hair came out looking like I was shot 

out of a cannon, and I had just gotten out of bed."

~Kelly Cutrone

I called Mike as soon as Skype told me he was awake.

"I can't see you," he announced. "It looks like you're in the dark.

"I positioned the computer this way on purpose," I replied. "I'm hiding."

"Why?" he asked, and then he remembered. "Today was haircut day. How did it go? Not good?"

"Well, it's short," I said. "It's a lot shorter than I've ever worn it."

"Let me see."  He was quiet a second. 'Yep, it's short. It'll grow."

"It'll take six months." I was a bit bereft.  "She styled it wrong. I had to come back and re-do it so I had bangs. I look like I have a watermelon head on my neck."

"It doesn't look bad, just different. And, think of how easy it will be to take care of now."  My husband is ever positive, but he doesn't understand that it takes me a lot longer to deal with short hair than with long.

My idea of a little was the width of a pen.

If you remember when I had my hair cut in Sulmona last year, I mentioned that I hate my hair. It's so fine and fly-away, and humidity glues it to my head so quickly.  The color adds a little body, but even that doesn't do much good when one doesn't know how to deal with a cut.  At any rate, the cut last year turned out great because, even though I had a hard time communicating, my few words and sign language worked. This year I was more positive since I can actually communicate.

I arrived for my appointment a little early today, but I was the only one there, so she took me right away.

"You said you wanted color and cut, right?" she asked me.

"Yes," I replied.  "I just want it cut a little." I held up my  thumb and finger to indicate a little (photo above).

"No problem," she told me.  "It will be easy."    She started doing the color, and she asked me a bunch of questions, starting with, "Where are you from?"

"Las Vegas," I told her.

"Ah, Las Vegas." She nodded. "Las Vegas.  Really?"  I took out my phone and showed her photos from home.  "Las Vegas."

For some reason, every time someone asks me where I live and I tell them "Las Vegas," they say, "Ah, Las Vegas." The first day of Italian class, the entire group 'oohed and ahhed' over it.  All of my new friends in Bologna always introduce me to others saying, "She lives in Las Vegas." Three people came into the salon while I was there, and what was the first thing Angela said to them after they finished whatever business they had? "The signora is from Las Vegas."

One of her other clients, Paolina, mentioned that she'd been to Las Vegas three times.  "The first time, I slept at the the place with the big sign like this." She used her hands to shape what used to be the Dunes sign.

"The Dunes?" I asked.

Angela's idea of a little was anything less than a foot.

"Yes. Yes," she said.  "Then, I slept at the pyramid. The last time, I slept at the place that supposed to be like Venice.  What's it called?"  I told her Venetian, and she continued, "That's it. I like the machines a lot."  Apparently Paolina travels a lot because she's been all over the States, and there isn't one place that she doesn't like.  "Miami is just okay, though," she told me.  "It's too hot and crowded."


 Right after Paolina left, Massimo (I swear I've met about 500 men named Massimo this year.) came in to fix something in the shop, and Angela told him I was from Las Vegas.

"Ah, Las Vegas. How can you live there?" he wanted to know.  I got the impression that he thought that everyone in Las Vegas lives in a hotel.  I explained that I lived about 15 kilometers from the Strip and that I hardly ever went down there.  "Is it expensive?" I was doing pretty well until he asked me that question, but I had no idea how to explain cost of living in Italian.  I shook my head and said it was just like living anywhere.

At that point, Angela had washed my hair and was ready to cut it.

"Remember," I said, "only cut a little."  I again held up my thumb and finger. She turned the chair away from the mirror and started cutting.

I have a theory about why many hairdressers turn the client away from the mirror while they're cutting hair: They don't want us to see that they're doing what they want and not what we want until it's too late.  When she turned me back toward the mirror, I caught my breath.

"It's beautiful," she exclaimed.  "It is the Italian haircut for you."  I just smiled.  What was I going to do? Ask her to glue it all back on?  I paid, and she hugged and kissed me. "When you come to live here next year, you will come back to me, I hope."

McDonald's "Walk-Up"

I walked back home and re-did my style so I have bangs...short bangs.  Afterwards, I walked in a stupor to the centro with every intention of breaking my vow not to eat anything fattening today. I decided that since today was my six-week anniversary and my hair was too short, I would get a hamburger and fries.  I wouldn't go to McDonald's (There's story behind my not going there.), but I will admit I thought about going to Burger King. There were so many people at BK that the line went into the street.  (Side note: I passed McD's on the way to BK and noticed they had opened their "walk-up window" on the sidewalk (photo above). Good grief.)

My fries and burger with globs of mayo

 I ended up at Gamberini, a Bologna tradition since 1907, according to their sign.  I got my hamburger and fries (photo above). For some reason, hamburgers just do not taste the same outside of the US. I'm sorry to those who think burgers are burgers, but they're not.  This one was dry, but it was okay after I took the glob of mayonnaise off of it. (Good grief. I just now thought that I didn't ask if it was a beef hamburger. They do eat horse meat here, and it doesn't have a lot of fat which makes it drier.)  The fries also had a side of mayo, a more popular condiment than ketchup here obviously.

Dinner

I did resist the temptation to stop and buy a gallon of gelato on the way home, but for dinner I had a cappuccino (photo above) and cookie.  

Tomorrow I'll stay away from the fattening stuff.  Maybe.

Eat! Eat!

A shop in the market area

 “Watching Italians eat. . .is a form of tourism 

the books don't tell you about. They close their 

eyes, raise their eyebrows into accent marks, 

and make sounds of acute appreciation."

~Barbara Kingsolver

 I've had one of those days where I feel as though I've accomplished nothing. After yesterday's five-hour marathon walk around Venezia, my ankles were the size and texture of throw pillows by the time I went to bed last night. It was probably best that I didn't do anything. Still, I feel blobby. I usually walk 3-5 miles each day, so not doing much has taken its toll.

Cappuccino and brioche

In light of my very lazy day, I thought that I'd talk food tonight, if you don't mind.  I haven't touched on it much except to show the occasional cappuccino here and there. Truth of the matter is, though, that I really don't eat out except at breakfast.  I can make a horrible cappuccino (below) in the apartment with the Bialetti machine that's here, but I can barely stand it. Besides, colazione (breakfast) is social hour for me, so I like eating it out.

Homemade cappuccino a la Bialetti machine

 Everywhere you turn in Bologna, there are "bars." I know I've probably explained this before, but bars are basically coffee bars that have liquor.  When I walk out of my apartment building, there are literally four bars within a 30-second walk. I only go to one, Bar Santo Stefano, because the owner was my first friend in Bologna.  Between my apartment and the Piazza Santo Stefano, there are an additional four of which I'm aware.  Other than BSS, the only other one I really like is Bar 44 which is at 44 Via Santo STefano.  The owner there is also very nice and has become a friend.

 One thing that drives me batty—but it is the way they do things—is that some bars charge a different amount if you sit at a table rather than stand at the bar.  Ok, you probably think, they're charging for table service.  In most cases, you have to carry your own drink/pastry to your seat. For that privilege, you get to pay at least double.  The worst I ever saw was in Venice when Mike and I were there in 2010.  We went to a bar, ordered the cappuccino and pastry, and sat down.  When we went to pay, what would have cost us 5 euro had we stood at the bar, cost us 18 euro because we sat. 

Honking big espresso machine

In the late afternoon, most bars offer appetizers with drinks.  Many have little buffets set out, and other give you a platter or bowl of something like chips, nuts, olives, etc.  Sunday afternoon, I decided I wanted to sit and watch people, so I sat down at an outside cafe.  They brought me my prosecco and a bowl of chips (below) for 4 euro.  The  prosecco was good, but the chips? Probably leftovers from the night before.

(Side note: There is no law requiring bars or restaurants to throw out bread or chips or whatever they've taken from your table. I've seen waiters take a basket of bread that people have eaten from and place it on another table. I skip bread and such at restaurants.)

Working tableside

When I was in Italian class, I did go for lunch with my friends from the school. Most of the places we went were okay, but I was getting sick of pasta.  I know that anyone who knows me will probably fall over reading that, but I seriously was sick of tagliatelle bolognese.  My goodness. Make something else, people.

Caramelle prosciutto e asparagi

  Probably the best pasta I had out was at a little place, Trattoria dal Bissanott, on a side street away from the tourist area. I ordered Caramelle prosciutto e asparagi (above), a handmade pasta filled with cheese. It had a very light cream sauce with prosciutto and asparagus pieces in it. It gets its name (caramelle) from the fact that they fill the dough and twist it to look like little caramels.  It was delightful.

Plain, good salad

 I also had a good salad one afternoon when I just didn't want pasta anymore.  The mixed greens (above) had a light dressing of just oil and balsamic vinegar (They do not have a million different dressings in Italy. If you don't like oil and vinegar, I'm not sure what you do.).  Topped with aged parmigiano and pancetta (Italian bacon), it was wonderful.

True Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese wheels

 Speaking of parmigiano, I was walking by the market area of Bologna the other day when one of the shops received a shipment of parmigiano cheese (above). The shop received two pallets, each containing five wheels of cheese.  They cut the 85-pound wheels and sell it in much smaller packages (below).

Different cheese cut

To make true Parmigiano-Reggiano (Parmesan to Americans), the cheesemakers have strict formulas. The two basic ingredients are whey and salt, and the cheese ages about 12-24 months (and, you can tell a difference).  Once it reaches maturity, a master "grader" tests it, and if it passes, the cheese gets a seal.

 Interestingly, only cheese made in this specific region of Italy is actually Parmigiano-Reggiano, and the name is trademarked and protected by both the Italian and European Union governing bodies.  Any imitation cheese made elsewhere may not use the name.  In other words, if a store anywhere in the EU sells what we call Kraft Parmesan Cheese, the label here reads, Parmello.

Tiramisu

 In Italian class last month, one of the exercises we had to do was tell what our favorite Italian pastry is. A lot of people said they love tiramisu (above) or cannoli (below).  In case you don't know, tiramisu consists of lady fingers dipped in espresso, mascarpone cheese (whipped with eggs and sugar), Marsala wine, rum and cocoa powder. Cannoli are a fried pastry shell filled with a creamy center that usually contains ricotta.  I'm not wild about either, although I will eat them on occasion.

Cannoli

 My absolute favorite Italian pastry, though, is a good crostata or crostatina (below). They are basically an Italian version of a pie. The crust, though, is more of a shortbread, and the filling adds just the right amount of sweetness to it.  I personally love the apricot, although the amarena (sour cherry) and Nutella (of course) are right up there.

Crostatine

 Of course, I wouldn't turn down gelato or anything that had Nutella (below) in it, either.

Venice, Take II

Grand Canal from Rialto Bridge

 "It is the city of mirrors, the city of mirages, 

at once solid and liquid, at once air and stone." 

~Erica Jong on Venice

"I think I'll go to Venice on Monday," I said to Mike over the weekend.

"I thought we didn't like Venice," he said, adding, "and weren't you just there a few weeks ago?"

 "I don't not like Venice," I told him, "I don't like the crowds. When I went last month, I spent most of my time on the stupid water bus and Burano. This time I'm going to stay in Venice itself."

And, I did.  I decided before I left this morning (at 6:30 am), that I was not going to take the water bus anywhere. I was going to walk everywhere. And, I also did that. For five hours. For five hot and humid hours. For five hot, humid, and interesting hours. 

Santa Lucia train station (back) & water bus stop (front)

I loved it. At times I walked alone down tiny streets so narrow that I couldn't stretch my arms across them, and so dark that even the bright sun couldn't sneak in.  Other times I stood on bridges and watched people and boats and gondolas and just listened. Except for the very touristy areas near the Rialto Bridge and St. Mark's Square, everything seemed peaceful.  It was so interesting to head one way and suddenly find myself in a tiny "campo," or courtyard that faced either a church or a small hotel or cafe.

Show me the way to go...

I got lost more than once, but I always was able to find my way eventually because I not only had the map I bought and didn't use last month, but also because the Venetians actually put signs up directing tourists (and probably locals) to major destinations (above).

In addition to discovering I could walk for five straight hours without collapsing, I discovered a number of other things about Venice today.  (Side note—especially to my husband: I also discovered that I am not going to be crazy enough to try to walk five straight hours again.)

St Mark's Square from water bus (last month)

St. Mark's Square, or Piazza San Marco, is probably the biggest attraction in the city.  Most people recognize the campanile (bell tower) and Doge's Palace. In the photo above, they are left and right respectively.  Basilica San Marco (below) sits behind the Doge's Palace.

Part of Basilica San Marco

Because it's on the water, Venice experiences high and low tide like every other water-based city or town. Some of the bricks in St. Mark's have "hole" in them so that the water rises and drains through them.  There was water still in some areas of the square at noon today, and tourists were taking their shoes and socks off and playing in it. Some parents were even letting their little children sit and splash in it.  When I see something like that, I have to wonder if some people have gray matter between their ears.

High tide in St. Mark's

Please allow me to explain.

From the late 40s through the late 80s, the city did not clean the canals as they had in the past, so Venice literally smelled awful. They now clean the canals every 10 years or so, which is about what they should do.  That said, 90% of all human waste produced in the city flows out of the city through those canals. In addition, industrial waste finds its way in the water. And, don't get me started on the darn pigeons, their feathers, and, well,  you know.

More high tide

UGH.

As I was walking by trying to stay as far away from the pooled water as possible, some kid was splashing and dad was laughing.

"Holy crap!" I exclaimed. "Don't splash that water in my direction. Good grief!" I have no idea if they understood English, but the kid stopped, and he and his dad stared at me. Darn spoil sport American woman.

The water flowing into St. Mark's directly from the canal

 There are only 400 licensed gondoliers in Venice, and the city only awards three or four new licenses every year to replace those who retire.  In order to qualify, the applicants train, apprentice, and take an exam which includes both handling of the gondola as well as history, culture, landmark, and foreign language competencies.

Gondola

Most of the gondoliers wear the typical uniform—black pants and stripped shirt.  Some wear the boat hat. The rides last anywhere from 25-40 minutes, from what I've read. Mike and I didn't take one when we were in Venice together because I'm cheap and didn't want to pluck down 85 euro. I heard that the price is now 100 euro with a 20 euro surcharge after 6 or 7pm.

Traghetto

 A less expensive way to experience a gondola ride is to take a traghetto (photo above) from one side of the Grand Canal to the other. The ride lasts about three or four minutes, and it costs 2 euro. Most Venetians (who pay 70 cents) use the traghetto to cross the canal for work or business.  Venetians typically stand during the crossing, and most tourists sit (probably out of fear of tumbling into the water).  The other differences are that there are two "drivers" to the traghetto, and they don't sing.

One of the old bridges

The city of Venice is actually 18 islands connected by the canals and about 440 bridges. Many of the bridges are hundreds of years old, although a few renovations have occurred over the years.  I read somewhere that many of the "new" bridges are falling apart more rapidly than those built ages ago.

One thing that bothers me about Venice—and every other city—is the amount of graffiti on the buildings. I know I sound like a broken record on that, but good grief. If you look at the photo above, you can see the crap some idiot with nothing better to do left on a century-old bridge and the surrounding buildings.  I just want to smack the crap out of people who do deface property like that.

A bridge over part of the lagoon

 One thing that breaks my heart is the fact that Venice has become so expensive for locals that most of them have moved out and now live in Mestre or other surrounding areas. After World War II, the city had about 175,000 residents.  Today, the number is just below 60,000.  The fact that the city is slowly sinking due to the acqua alta (high water flooding) has a lot to do with it, but the economy also makes it difficult for anyone to live on the islands. The biggest threat to residents, though, is tourism. The tourist board estimates that 50,000 tourists visit Venice daily. 

The bell tower in St. Mark's

 Today, I was one of them. I don't think I did much damage, though...unless you consider the psyche of the kid I yelled at for splashing water.

Basta, Vito. Basta!

Vito, the bassotto.

"Dogs are the leaders of the planet. If you see two life forms,

one of them's making a poop, and the other one's carrying it for him, 

who would you assume is in charge?"

~Jerry Seinfeld

I was trying to take a "selfie" in Piazza d'Nettuno this afternoon when I heard a woman scolding someone.

"No, Vito. Enough," she said. "No, Vito. No." I wondered who Vito was and what he was doing to the poor woman in such a public place. I snapped my photo and looked in the direction from whence came the voice.  A portly dachshund was lying on the pavement to the dismay the tiny woman on the other end of his leash (photo above).

"Vito, get up," she implored.  He ignored. I started laughing and couldn't stop.  "Vito, enough. Let's go." Vito was having none of it.  She tugged on his leash, but he just stayed put.  I walked over to her.

"He's tired," I laughed.

"He's not tired," she sighed. "He's hardheaded.  He likes to stay in the piazza and watch people.. He can't do that at home."  I looked at Vito, and sure enough, he was watching people. I patted him on the head.

"How old is he?" I asked.

Vito is *not* going home.

"Five," she replied, "but he's one in the head."  We both started laughing.

"My mother had a, how do you say it? Dachshund?"

"Bassotto," she told me.  "Was her bassotto hardheaded, too?"

I nodded.  "Aren't all dogs? My dog, Riley, certainly is."

"How old is Ri-lay?" she asked me.

"Five, also," I laughed, "and also one in the head."

"Do you live here? Where are you from?" I told her that I was from Las Vegas, that I was here for six weeks, and that my grandparents were from Abruzzo. "But you chose Bologna?" I explained why I chose Bologna and mentioned language school and such.  

I could tell she was happy to hear that I liked her birthplace. "And, the Bolognese are different from people in other larger cities," she said. "They are friendly."

"Yes, and there are a lot of dogs and not a lot of tourists," I added.  She laughed.

Vito is one strong little dude.

"We are more of a university town. People who come here are interested in education, I think." She thought a moment. "And people here love dogs. Dogs are all over the center."

"Does Vito have dog friends?" I asked her.

"Vito is friends with everyone," she assured me, "people and dogs. He has even been on TV."  Audra—we'd introduced ourselves—explained that a news station had been doing a story in the piazza some time back and saw Vito.  "He flopped over on his back, and they recorded him and put him on the news. It went to his head. I think he wants to be on TV again and is always looking when we come here."

We talked about 15-20 minutes during which time Vito just watched the worlds of Nettuno and Maggiore go by.

"It's been such a pleasure talking to you," I told her as we said our good-byes. "And I think Vito appreciated being able to watch people a little longer."  We shook hands, and I patted Vito on the head.  "Ciao, Audra,  Ciao, Vito.  Time to go home now"

"Ciao, Cristina. It was a pleasure," she said and started to walk away.  Vito had other ideas and resisted (second photo above). "No, Vito. No. Enough. Enough."  She looked at me. I started laughing again and walked back over to her.

"Come on, Vito," I urged him.  "Let's go." We walked about 10 steps, and Vito stopped and plopped down again.  Audra again tried to get him to move, and Vito just rolled over on his back.

"Vito, enough. Let's go." Audra pulled his leash, and Vito just turned his head the other way (photo above). I could not stop laughing. "Vito! Enough. Let's go." Vito was having none of it.

Audra has to carry Vito home.

I apologized for laughing and started to walk away.

"Vito! Enough. Let's go." Audra was anxious to get home.  Vito wasn't. "Mamma mia, VIto. Enough."  I glanced over one last time and saw Audra stoop to pick up Vito.  I watched as she carried him across the piazza. Vito is a little hefty, though, so she had to put him down again. As soon as she did, he dropped to his stomach.

I'm not sure how far away she lives from Piazza Maggiore, but it's been about 4 hours since I saw them. I hope they've made it home by now. At the rate Vito was moving, it could have taken all day.