X.ix. Babylon

"In Italy, the bicycle belongs to the national art heritage in the same way as the Mona Lisa by Leonardo, the dome of St. Peter's or the Divine Comedy. It is surprising that it has not been invented by Botticelli, Michelangelo, or Raphael. Should it happen to you, that you mention in Italy that the bicycle was not invented by an Italian you will see: All miens turn sullen, a veil of grief falls over all faces. Oh, when you say in Italy, when you say loudly and distinctly in a café or on the street that the bicycle- like the horse, the dog, the eagle, the flowers, the trees, the clouds- has not been invented by an Italian (for it were the Italians that invented the horse, the dog, the eagle, the flowers, the trees, the clouds) then a long shudder will run down the peninsula's spine, from the Alps to mount Etna."
- Curzio Malaparte

Verona, gateway to the northern world, is where I was left alone again. This sort of occasion was almost becoming routine, a necessary product of visitors and weekend excursions. Leaving Lissone and the generously lent apartment of a friend, the two of us arrived in the city on a Sunday morning, while it was still relatively quiet, in that treasured gentle silence of timely arrival.
    Apart from a few lonely sacristans and senile priests, we speak to very few people on our travels. Alone, I am forced to be rather more verbose, chewing the fat with barmen, trying sometimes vainly to decipher the various accents Italy's regions can concoct. With a companion, things change. Things had changed quite decisively in past year or so, actually, quite unrelated to being abroad; Italy was just a happy coincidence, the final flourish in a long sought apotheosis.
    But saint Cecilia would chastise me for my hyperbole, god-like or not, and so I'll return to those topics that are more mundane, less self-aggrandizing: bicycles, for example.
    Quite Austrian in its demeanour, if not its glorious, garden-hung architecture, Verona is a well-organized city. It goes so far as to offer free bicycle rentals for tourists, provided these are returned the same day before three o'clock in the afternoon. Perhaps this requirement is due to the looming Dolomites casting unusually early evening shadows upon the city, but it is nevertheless symptomatic of the sort of scheduling problems one can face here or anywhere in Italy. Certain attractions do not close for lunch, but consequently close by three or four in the afternoon, while others that do close for lunch only reopen at about this time. Add to this a mix of late closings, early openings, holidays, and workers' strikes, and organizing a day of traveling, or anything else for that matter, quickly becomes nightmarish. In the end, I left some identification with the bicycle renter, promised to return the two vehicles by mid-afternoon, and set out with my travel companion to do precisely the opposite.
    The most beautiful northern Italian city after Venice, Verona became awash with visitors as the morning ended, progressively crowding the verandas of the Listòn, a landlocked equivalent of the Venetian Riva. Bicycles, then, are essential for reaching the city's lesser-known parts, away from the crowds that mingle strangely between the enormous mock-Egyptian sets for Aida that were temporarily set out in front of the roman amphitheatre, one of Europe's premiere opera venues.
    Verona's monuments are definitely in the class of those which inspire inadequacy. From a strictly artistic point of view, perhaps only from an artistic point of view, most of northern Italy feels this way, civilized enough to throw one's own civility into doubt. It charms you, it wins you over in ways the opulence of Paris or the grandeur of New York cannot. It is the land of merciless captivation.

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    Surrendering my companion to the neat German train that sped out of sight at six in the evening, I pondered my options. I still had the keys to the bicycles, but lacked any sort of motivation to prolong my day, as well as the driver's license I had surrendered earlier as collateral. I would eventually need that document back, and I began to doubt whether keeping the bicycles for three hours beyond the closure of the rental office was really worth having to apply for a new permit. I made up a package containing an apologetic note, a self-addressed stamped envelope, and the keys to the bicycles, forced it through the opening at the darkened office door, and hoped for the best.
    Three days later I got my driver's license back in the mail.