This morning, I left my Italian apartment early, headed to the old Roman bridge just outside of town to get pictures of Cagli from a distance. I passed several Cagliese, offering my Georgia-affected Buongiorno! as greeting to the dog walkers and garbage disposal men and bakers I passed along the walk.
The old bridge rests in the shade of the new one. |
I maneuvered the bridge carefully, as Italian drivers seem to be less sensitive to the rights of the pedestrian than American drivers are. Before I reached the end of the “new” bridge and turned the corner onto the Roman bridge (circa 8 A.D., I’ve been told), I heard a truck slowing to my right and turned to press myself into the rail as much as possible to avoid losing limbs on a Cagliese bridge.
The truck, a service vehicle of some sort, was full of rowdy young Italian men who began barking and yelling at me in rapid, unintelligible Italian.
I wanted to react, but several things were going on: first, I was taken aback by their calls. This doesn’t happen to me in the states – certainly not in the proximity that I was experiencing then. They couldn’t have been more than three feet from me. Secondly, I was unsure whether I was being insulted or propositioned, and there is a very specific and unique reaction for each circumstance.
Instead of “tsking” the men or smiling in appreciation, I stood there, dumbfounded. Somehow, even though I’d made it to my destination, I’d ended up lost after all – lost in a language and a cultural situation I didn’t understand.
I did get the pictures of the city, though, and, like this interaction, my picture was just a snapshot among all of those I’ll bring home to the states nearly two weeks from now. Wish me buona fortuna!
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