|
6 Traffic Signs Stairs were everywhere in Perugia. There were even outdoor escalators in some sections of town. We climbed a killer hill to centro near the Antiquarium. A long passageway leading into the dim interior looked right out of a dungeon movie. A maze of corridors meandered to market tables where vendors sold ancient books, paintings, trinkets, stamps, coins, collector cards of popes and other religious figures. Sharon found an entire room selling only antique bicycles and tricycles. The aged articles made what we considered antiques look new. Our antique loving Aunts would be in their glory. After admiring the high-arched brick ceilings, nooks and crannies, with careful precision I retraced my footsteps until I made it back out into the light. For a while, I was beginning to think I should have left a trail of bread crumbs. It would have been easy to get lost and wander around inside the underground galleries for days. I left Sharon guarding the bikes while I went in to buy our few simple items for lunch. It still amazed me how long it took to accomplish that. While I was in the store Sharon met a girl from Switzerland. She was going to the university in Perugia, one of the oldest in Europe. Her brother was cycling from San Francisco to Patagonia for a year and a half and reported the people were great. She also mentioned their mother was worried--another of those universal truisms. Two other cyclists, Ivo and Anke, came along. They had cycled in Italy on their spring break and were taking the train back to Austria that afternoon. Just before noon, we arrived at the square where the fountain of Maggiore with its carvings of saints surrounding the fountain's base was being restored. Workers in lab coats were enclosed in a giant smoke-coloured Plexiglas bubble scrubbing the carvings to their original pure white. The square was jam-packed with people milling about in every direction. Confused tourists studied maps and consulted guide books. School children with colourful backpacks talked boisterously amongst themselves. Business people in suits ambled about looking out of place. Two stoned dudes wanted to buy my Canadian flag. I told them I still needed it. A few minutes later I noticed the police had them in the alley frisking them and making them empty their pockets. The police didn't do it right out in the open so as not to scare the tourists or create a commotion. But police were highly visible in the towns, always watching. A school sight-seeing group ate onion sandwiches on the church steps. We leaned our bikes on the quiet side of the church and joined the lunchoneers. The pigeons took an interest in us, coming to steal scraps we had dropped. Every once in a while, on some invisible command, they would do a group fly, circling the plaza a few times with amazing aerial ability. When the flock landed, amazingly enough they didn't hit anyone. Within the hour the busy square became deserted. The shops were closed. The workers in the Plexiglas bubble had disappeared. The laughing school children were nowhere to be seen. Where did everyone go? Besides us, the only remaining soul was an old codger stretched out on the Senate steps drinking wine from a bag. The architecture in Perugia was enthralling. I wished I knew more so I could appreciate it. I went into a building where the entire ceiling and walls were painted with scenes of hunting and mythical human-animal forms.On a steep hill out of town I headed swiftly for a downhill bend in the road. Growing nearer at high speed, I realized I couldn't see around the corner, and realizing it was sharper than I had anticipated, I braked hard- much too hard. The rear tire skidded, throwing the bike sideways. I quickly let off the brakes and somehow managed to get my mount semi under control as I sailed around the corner. Luckily for me there were no oncoming cars as I caromed through both lanes. Italy didn't post speed limits on corners and sometimes I misjudging how much I needed to slow down. After scaring myself a few times, a fairly reliable system had evolved. Approaching a corner I counted the number of black skid marks. The more rubber there was on the roadway the more I slowed down. One skid mark meant: No problem. Don't even have to brake. Two skids meant: Lean, baby, lean. Three skids: Brake, then lean. Four or more skids meant: Hammer the brakes hard or go over the cliff! The one I had just came around was definitely a four skidder. Unfortunately, it was freshly paved and had yet to receive its telltale driver's signature road marking warnings. |
|
|
Book Info