From: "Andrea B. Previtera" <>
Newsgroups: talk.bizarre
Subject: FTSD: Rome-Geneva and back
Date: Wed, 02 Dec 1998 00:32:45 +0100
Organization: Clear Weather
Message-ID: <>
X-Mailer: Mozilla 4.04 [en] (Win95; I)
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I was 15 years old, my father still lived with us.
Since my father's family moved from Sicily to Geneva when he
was still a 4 years old boy, he grew up as a Sampdorian supporter
(sampdoria is one of the two Geneva's soccer teams).
He did instillate year after year Sampdorian passion even into my
veins, and I could do nothing to avoid it.
Well, I was 15 years old, my father still lived with us, and
there was an important match in geneva : Sampdoria-Milan.
We obtained the expensive tickets through thousands of unofficial
and more or less illegal passageways, and we headed for Geneva
by car.

Rome-Geneva is 600 km and 7 hours of hellish italian autoroute.
At the 250th km, in a small tuscany city named "Grosseto", our
white "uno" began coughing. Minutes after all the spies went 
red, and in a last cry of pain it collapsed at all.
Luckily, a mechanic was just a hundred meters from us, and 
painfully pushing the car under the a sun that seemed to follow us,
we reached it.

The mechanic has a eye bigger than the other and just ONE hand.
My father didn't even speak a single word, when the bizarre
creature shouted with a raaaspy voice "I see ! I see, yes, yes,
I see, I see, yes, I see, your car is broken. Broken, I mean,
broke. Let's see. Let's see the baby. Let's see. Broke. See."
He dismaunted it. A hour quarting our poor car piece after piece
under our terrified eyes.
Then the sentence :- " It's a fusible ! I don't have one here, wait."
And in a while he jumped on a old rusty bycicle and disappeared
into the horizon.
Another hour after he went back, plugged in the fusible, and re-mounted
our car. But she was no more "Carolina" as my father used to call her,
she was ... well, I saw tears in my father eyes, and a lawyer in his
enraged mind.

With the walking-carcass-carolina we reached Geneva at 17:00.
The match was the day after, and we were going to meet our parents,
on holiday (it was July) in a small town on the mountains around
I could perfectly remember my uncle saying "yes, come to visit us
in Montoggio", but no way : my father was sure it was "montemaggio"
and following absurdely narrow mountain streets at the speed of
an undead snail, we reached a point in which any sign of a path
disappeared into woods, and I mean woods, the woods in which you won't
wonder to see little red riding hood, or robin hood, or anything
hood-related. Scattered houses here and there, and a bunch of
old mans staring at us as if we were creatures from another world.
The lesser decrepit approached at us with wide open eyes.
My father decided to anticipate him : "Good evening, we are looking
for Montoggio. My brother told me about a stone chapel and..."
"Oh, yes. What's your brother's name ?"
"Giuseppe, but we call him Pippo"
"Ah, I see, does he go hunting for boars ?"
My fater was about to cry or laugh, I never understood.
Consider my uncle : a 100 kg guy glued to his couch and italian
channel zapping champion.
Irony flashed in my father's eyes.
"No, but he goes for mushrooms, sometimes"
"Ah, no, it's not a good season for mushrooms..." solemnly proclaimed
the old one, "not a good season, no, no, not a good one, not a..."
"OK" halted my father "is this Montoggio or not ?"
"No" said the old one.
"It could be near Acquafredda, where the FILTERS are..." added a 
oooold woman wrapped in black wool, mysteriously.
"Or on the street for Rosaspina, near the tv tower..." and another
old woman pointed his finger to an incredibly distant red light in
the far far far mountains, now dark green silhouettes in the night.
"Wait" said the old one in front of us "The stone chapel. It must
be..." and he gave us some indications.

Following even narrower streets on undocumented areas of the Geneva
mountains, we reached a place even more surreal.
It was sort of an abandoned town, with old stone houses with evident
signs from the 2nd world war. Just a few houses were richly 
restructured...the stone chapel that the old man indicated us was
nothing more than sort of an altar with some flowers on it, the nameless
town was obviously not montoggio...
a telephonic cabin covered with dust and dirt stood up in the middle of
the nothingness, and we reached for it.
As we entered it, a dozen of siberian husky ran to us with bad
intentions. Never saw a siberian husky so angry, never saw so many
husky at the same time...surrealism in the surrealism.
We opened in great haste the telephonic guide, so old that it 
resembled parchment. Various insects emerged from it's pages, but
we preferred staying well closed in the cabin that running to the
furious husky pack.
The number ! We found it ! Giuseppe Previtera ! 
"What ? Montemaggio ?? No, I said MONTOGGIO !"
My father gave me his hand and said
"slap me with it".
Meanwhile two guys brought away the wild beasts, and we
ran to our car.
At deep night we were finally in Montoggio.

The day after, we wake up to descend to Geneva and reach
for the stadium. The sky was covered but it wasn't really
going to rain. No wind at all. The sun tried to make it's way
through the cloud, and maybe it would have been returned in
a hour or two. Just in time for the match.
We kissed and embraced with our parents, then we went to 
the car. Morning surprise ! One of the rear tires was
completely down !
I saw my father's face going dark purple. Grinning theeth.
"But, dad it's..."
And while we dangerously headed for the stadium, the little
clouds grew enormous, full raging elements, and with a powerful
thunder the storm was upon us. One of the biggest storms in
Italian history, one of which the television spoke then
for days and that is still remembered with fear.
Water entered into the car, my father smiling whispered
"Oh, I don't feel the brakes. Well, who cares."
I don't remember how we reached the cafè near the stadium,
but we entered it. It was completely silent, and a small
crowd of pale faces listened at an old radio.
" old building has fall to the rain,
two heavy wounded....crcrcr...the firemen are trying to....
....crcrc....the match is suspended.....crcrcrcccc...."
It resembled a Beirut bunker.
With the last news, my father drank his coffee in a single
gulp and went back to the car without saying a word.

Reaching the autoroute was nearly impossible :our car had
3 tires and a half, almost no brakes at all, and it's electronic
centraline was going nut. We couldn't see anything in the
liquid wall the rain was forming, and a mass histery spreaded
in the streets.
Fear. Rain. Bolts of light.
A last frame I will always remember :
Me and my father staring at the horizon, in the rain, outside
our car stucked up in the traffic, while the stereo played
"Stars" by Simply Red. 

At 5:00 am we were at home.
My father went to bed giving me the ticket and commanding
"eat it".
I didn't eat it, and two weeks later we used the same ticket
to watch the same, posticipated match.
Obviously, moving from Rome to Geneva again.
Obviously, by train.

	 - Andrea B. Previtera
		Nocturnal Migraine Mess(iah)