Friday 17 
can happen, of course. Lately, going a bit 'more often.
may happen that for once the weather there azzecchino. It may happen that your daughter to tell you, in the same tone he predicts Dustin Hoffman Rain Man "
Quantas?! Never fall! . You know?
One of those judgments with such complacency as to leave no room for doubt. My daughter had set out, "Dad, it snows tomorrow" (live in Rome, ed.) To my question, innocent, "Why?" ... I felt answer ... "he told Sky's the weather! Those are never wrong! ": Mai
sentence was correct.
Yesterday, Friday 17, when I was just outside Rome to enjoy doing the Santa Claus post-modern (not wearing the traditional costume, Reindeer, but not driving a Ford trivial, but fails to deliver gifts to the worst of passable wine to its customers) in Company of a friend, surprised us a snowstorm.
Now, my level of appreciation of the snow, since time does not suspect, is the pleasure that can lead to realize that he was captured by a camera. Simply can not stand. Not bear all the literature that revolves around us, from Rigoni Stern Massimo Boldi (forgive me the combination). Cinepanettoni hate, hate everything that has to do with the mountains that are not or hikes in the hills (which I drew for a long time). But do not tell me in snow, and its derivatives.
So all'accorgersi that the attempt to come out by a slight incline to the village where we had lunch (in a room worthy of penguins as far as air conditioning), I am reminded that, buried between two thousand and junk purely superstitious, I have chains .
We stopped in some way, and we begin to compulsive manual with installation instructions. After several minutes, and fruitless approaches subcompact. On board two women. One sees us and starts laughing. Of laughter contagious, groundless as absurd. Easy to follow her. Down a girl who would not look in a catalog of Panini wrestling champions. since the discipline was just a little 'more popular with us .. The girl with an authoritative look (I'm only suggest that you wear gloves that promptly I offer) even as we mount the chains to the Ferrari garage in one of the most inspiring days.
Moved, I thought to leave a couple of bottles of good champagne and take the nimble way home. Make the mistake to take the Cassia bis. A highway, with a paio di generose corsie per carreggiata. Quella che ci ospita, in direzione di Roma sembra piuttosto sgombra. Troviamo un benzinaio aperto, facciamo il pieno e proseguiamo. Alla prima salita la coda. Vediamo la sommità della salita, sgombra. Ci sono “solo” un paio di camion che evidentemente sprovvisti di qualcosa in grado di fargli superare il dislivello ( catene, ruote da neve, marce ridotte, diosolosacosa) impediscono agli altri disgraziati come noi di procedere.
Restiamo fermi due ore due. A mezzo metro per volta, la salita assume il valore del paradiso per un cattolico praticante. La mèta è la, la vedi, ciò nonostante ti industri per fare del bene, nel frattempo.
Alla radio sentiamo di tutto, le polemiche for the release of the protesters, Wikileaks, Inter, the draw of the Champions League, the advice to get better estimates of the body of festvità eat, the last love of pin-up guy. In short, I fall asleep. I sleep for a time that I can not be estimated. Finally, as darkness falls, god knows how, it opens a hole that allows a transition to sob a car at a time. Not without depriving us of the elegant exchange between a lady that has plagued us with the exhaust from a BMW X3 and the poor driver of the truck stop "Look, we have to go home, you know!" The grunts sull'incazzato one of them, and she, like a poisonous snake "But I have three children edge ": In two strokes the country's image.
proceed to thirty per hour. We reach the union that does not seem real. The road to that point and 'better. We decide to pull over on the hard shoulder inside a tunnel. We try the same operation of chains: do not believe, as complex as the Mt. Suddenly I understand the concept of "Wind Tunnel", which are subjected to tests to estimate the aerodynamics of the car (read, resistance to wind flow, thus hindering the penetration of air friction). A cold gust is in charge and continues to dress nicely all the time necessary to the operation of removal: that is' still a lot (a loving thought of the girl before, this is, in the meantime).
the transaction took place, we proceed, I almost moved from finding the way and open approach to speed worthy of the name. We stop for coffee and a generous pee connected in a motorway sfigatissimo populated by Eastern European whores and Dickensian characters.
But the punishment of 17 on Friday still has not exhausted the surprises for us in Serbia. At the junction with the motorway to Heathrow, forewarned by an anachronistic as ineffective LED billboard overlooking the three lanes, respectively, we warned that the queues are from there to the Prenestina (for the Romans, we speak of a thing is equivalent to 20 km, and at the same time that the weather conditions are "bad." I have always been curious about those who are appointed to compile these messages. I always asked what their level of education as their cultural background, what they are fed, such as books they have read, the movies that have appreciated and chatting amiably in front of them a cup of coffee at the bar with colleagues or in front all'omnipresente machine which also need to have in the control room, the room Docva suppose to type these messages mixed with spirits of literature ranging from standard to calibrate their fear, and false warnings care.
adverse weather conditions, but it should be? L? Italian and 'a fantastic language. An unintentional humor at times.
The Curse of the 17 it performs well giving us an hour and three quarters to take a little more 'than five kilometers. We assist as Tantalus, with a mix of admiration for their irresponsibility) that regardless of all the desperate pass at 150 km / h on the hard shoulder. Direct our insults to the occupants and their respective qualifications unmarked police car with flashing lights that dart to the right regardless of our torment. Smoking is not known how many cigarettes, I try to change the radio station, I go to un'insulsa Shakira medieval Vespers (that style, those of Radio 3). In short I give in, across the board and refer mentally, like a mantra, the names of the mayors of this city, the City's planning department, that have followed some thirty years here, cordially mandandondoli there. Sold
also the verve needed to get angry at the end of a passage and decide individual, at the cost of extending to more miles to get out of that circle of hell.
another twenty minutes time I'm home.
's over, I tell myself. It 's over.
