God Bless The Motorinos

I first started to think seriously about moving to Italy in March of 09 and as the notion percolated in my brain, the thought occurred that a motorcycle might be the ideal mode of transportation for the venture. Now this may not seem like that novel of a concept but you have to realize that at the time I think I had sat on a moving motorcycle twice in my life. Once, on the back of Bruce Farkas’ cruiser as we shuttled from one Cleveland bar to another and again on the back of a co-workers bike when he gave me a ride to pick up my car at the local tire center. (I probably shouldn’t even count the second time as it was one of those mammoth touring mothers with seats so big and roomy, you could host a talk show on one.) Still, a motorcycle seemed like a sensible notion. I figured they were relatively inexpensive (I actually had no idea how much a motorcycle cost), would alleviate any dependence on public transport, and perfect for the solo nature of the trip.
There was, of course, another aspect to the plan, the romantic notion of careening through the Italian countryside, leaning into turns on the winding Tuscan roads, rumbling up to some country cathedral just in time to hear the monks chant vespers and then motoring away. Pretty much your basic “Then Came Bronsoni.” Not altogether steeped in reality but not totally out of the realm of possibilities either.
I actually took a reasoned approach to this pipedream. I enrolled in a motorcycle safety course at a local community college (I was the only novice rider in the class…and it showed), got my license, and bought a reasonable “starter” bike, a 1987 Yamaha Virago 535. I took it out with some regularity and got reasonably proficient on it, although I never did work up the nerve to take in the interstate. It’s not a very big bike and I had visions of being bounced like a tumbleweed by the first semi that blew by me. I didn’t intend to ship the bike over here (here and back would cost more than the bike itself) but figured I’d pick up a used one with a little more heft if the price was right.
I landed in Rome on Wednesday and an old high school friend picked me up at the airport and took me to my apartment. I took a nap for a few hours and ventured out to walk the streets of my new hometown. By dinner I had arrived at a conclusion-“Not on your tintype.”

There aren’t all that many motorcycles over here but the streets are full of scooters. They call them Motorinos. You can pull up to a light and be sitting there, idling away, minding your own business, and as you wait for the light to change, you slowly but surely become surrounded by these things. It’s not unlike that scene in Hitchcock’s The Birds where the crows slowly fill up the Jungle Jim outside the school.
Car traffic may be insane over here but motorino traffic is an entirely different kind of crazy. In the states, motorcycles and such have to pretty much follow the same rules as cars, not so over here. At a light they weave their way around the standing cars and fill up the space between them. Motorinos act like cars when it suits them and pedestrians when that’s to their benefit. Yesterday I was showing some friends around the town and was headed over to Largo Argentina, where Caesar met up with his assassins. We turned a corner and just about joined him when a woman came barreling through on her little white Vespa. There was no acknowledgement that the sidewalk might not be the best place for her to be riding. Her logic was clear; it was a one way street and it would be absurd to expect her to go all the way around the block. (In her defense, she was impeccably dressed.)
Pedestrians seem to be on the lowest rung of the ladder over here, transport wise. (Bicyclists, subjected to scorn by motorists and walkers alike while having their fillings rattled loose by the cobblestones aren’t even on the ladder. There aren’t many of them.) While pedestrians do have the right of way at crosswalks, the actual crossing is an act of faith. I find it helpful to make eye-contact with the oncoming driver (It’s very disconcerting to be smack in the middle of the street when you realize that the oncoming driver is scanning the area for street signs or monuments but totally unaware of what or who is directly in front.)
Even with a connection with the driver and a slow but deliberate move into the crosswalk, there’s still a reasonable chance that some motorino rider is going to figure that the crosswalk rule doesn’t pertain to him or her and will swing ride to get around whatever the holdup is. Walkers quickly get used to feeling the wind of a passing scooter in their face or on their backside as some rider couldn’t be bothered to come to a stop. It doesn’t increase any sense of safety to realize that the guy barreling through the crosswalk is smoking a cigarette, which has to be tough on the eyebrows, and talking on the cell phone wedged into his helmet. (I assume this is an accessory but it could just be duct tape and chewing gum, either way the Bluetooth earpiece hasn’t made it over here.)

This jumping out of one’s lane to keep from stopping is a regular feature of motorino driving and, as a result, there’s a fair amount of fender benders that involve the scooters. But they’re just scooters and even a fender bender can have some pretty nasty consequences when you’re basically unprotected other than your helmet. It often seems that, at any given time, if you listen hard enough, you can hear a siren wailing in the distance. Now, it’s a little confusing because all the sirens sound identical but I suspect the majority are ambulances going to scoop up another fallen motorino rider, and every now and then, when the idea of 2 wheeled conveyances starts to sound good, I invariably round a corner and come across a motorino lying on its side with nobody else around. That can’t be a good sign.
So I’ll stick with my feet. That’s adventure enough. There’s a certain sense of satisfaction in bringing a metro bus to a complete halt although I’m careful about playing chicken with the cabbies. I’m pretty sure they would run me right over.
But the truth of the matter is it’s more than that. I love walking around this city and while I, in no way, shape, or form, see myself becoming an ex-pat and staying here past next summer, there are times, and a fair number of them at that, when I realize it will be hard to leave this place. It happened a couple of nights ago. I had done two tours and was bone tired. It’s getting dark early now and the evenings are chilly. I had headed into centro for a cup of hot chocolate (Italian hot chocolate, when it’s made right is a thing of beauty. This, alas, came out of a packet and wasn’t, but that’s another story.) Anyway, between me and home was Piazza Venezia, which is basically one really big and rowdy traffic circle.
It was rush hour and nobody was moving much. The cars were inching through the crosswalks while the motorinos were lurching and swerving through some Frogger game of their own design. I began to pick my way through the mess, armed with the knowledge that I had the right of way and the realization that didn’t necessarily protect me much but in the middle of the street I took a deep breath of the cold night air and had that elusive sense that I was where I was supposed to be. It’s a frantic, noisy, crowded city where most of the natives watch out for their own interests first and love to blow their horns, but it works, often beautifully.